Diane Nelson's Blog, page 4

WARRIOR MINE: RETRIBUTIONS

I am pleased to present XOXO Publishing's newest paranormal series: Warrior Mine starring the former Chosen Warrior, Angelique Devereaux, and the Hunter, Asher Elliot—two beings of uncommon power and passion, drawn together in a world fraught with danger, their desires threatening to consume them.

Coming April 5th: 
WARRIOR MINE: RETRIBUTIONS
Second in the Series
Angelique Devereaux is a dark legend, once a Chosen Warrior of god, she betrayed her oaths to love one who was forbidden. Cast out, cursed and scarred, she continues her battle alone. Until a soul as tortured as her own stumbles across her path. Asher Elliot is lost in his own darkness when he first sees the tall warrior known to legend simply as The Slayer. Tortured by the deaths of his wife and children, this grieving warrior is nonetheless drawn to the timeless, cold being he witnesses at work. Like him, she deals in death and her justice is swift, sometimes messy, but always final. He follows her, watching, growing ever more captivated by her, until finally he must reach out to claim what his reawakened heart wants most…

Book Two in the exciting new series WARRIOR MINE: Retributions continues the passionate and ever-changing relationship that is building between Asher Elliot and Angelique Devereaux.

Asher's past has come back to haunt him in a way that threatens to open old wounds just as they've begun to heal. When he is contracted to do a job, he shuts "Angie" out and goes to exact his personal vengeance for the sins committed against those he loved.

Angelique has never been part of humanity, is still struggling to find her way in the midst of love and passion that is alien to her immortal soul. The ties of blood have revealed Asher's pain to her, and she will not allow anyone to hurt him if she is able to stop it.

As the two warriors each set out on the path of retribution, they are once again drawn back to each other. Face to face with Asher, Angelique wonders if he can forgive her, and her beloved male is trying hard to understand her fear of not being good enough for his love.

They have a long way to travel before true understanding will make them whole, will their love be strong enough to keep them together for their journey?

Excerpt:

Angelique stepped into the newest wing of her vast Armoury, the scent of new wood and humans assailing her senses for several minutes before she was able to block them. She shrugged off the feeling of being surrounded, and took a walk around the room. Tanith had dealt with the workers, as she always did when Angelique permitted anyone to come into her cavernous home. The small witch was the only family the Slayer had, and despite her unimposing stature, Tanith's power was immense.

The weapons that had arrived at her doors several months earlier, were all sent by a stranger. All she had known of him then was his name, Asher Elliot. His profession was similar to hers though; he too was a killer. While Angelique was bound to archaic ritual and ties, his purpose was somehow cleaner, and a great deal less messy. She knew those scant facts because of a note that he had sent with one of the weapons shipments. The implication had been clear; it was time for her to look at a more modern approach to her 'trade'.

Asher had since then become the light in her world. She loved him more with every breath she drew, and for the first time, because of him, she hoped for more than mere existence.

Smiling, she went to the racks and selected several of the new weapons that Asher had given her. She brought them to the firing range and placed them on a nearby table.

Still shaky from the tempest that had been unleashed with their passion the night before, she stood looking at the range, not seeing anything but the unaffected love that had shone from Asher's eyes when she had dared to turn to him after shedding an ocean of tears. He knew her shame now, and still he loved her. Damnation perhaps had finally been banished; because today she knew she had at last been Blessed. Someone other than Tanith cared that she walked the earth–and he knew so much more than her beloved little witch. He had seen the scars she carried, and he had touched them with reverence, not recoiled in disgust.

A flutter deep insider her warned her a moment before he came into the new room, and she turned, smiling, unable to do anything else when he arrived. She gestured to the weapons. "I thought perhaps you would instruct me in their use, Warrior."

He walked over to her, kissed her softly, and then removed his jacket. He began looking over the weapons, deciding where to start. He turned his attention to her and waved his hand over the small arsenal.

"What catches your eye here? I find it's best to start with what you find interesting." He smiled as he watched her eye the items and pick them up and return them to the table.

"The most interesting thing in this room right now is the weapons instructor, so I would ask that you choose what you feel will be the best starting point. These are all new to me, warrior. Blades I know, but these loud killers are alien to me."

Here is how it all started.
Book One of an exciting new series for paranormal fans. Told by two distinctive voices, one familiar, one new,
Asher Elliot is lost in his own darkness when he first sees the tall warrior known to legend simply as The Slayer. Tortured by the deaths of his wife and children, this grieving warrior is nonetheless drawn to the timeless, cold being he witnesses at work. Like him, she deals in death and her justice is swift, sometimes messy, but always final. He follows her, watching, growing ever more captivated by her, until finally he must reach out to claim what his reawakened heart wants most…


Excerpt:

Inside, the Keep was quiet as a tomb, the way Angelique liked it. The sound of her boots on the stone floors was near-silent, her step light and sure. The stealth wasn't necessary within these walls, but she'd learned the hard way that permitting herself to be too at ease anywhere was a huge mistake.

She keyed in a security code, darkly amused by the modern technology that was so out of place in this ancient castle. A soft beep and the heavy door swung open with a whoosh of displaced air. A wave of her hand and the vast room began to light, torches flaring to life, casting dancing shadows across the rough floor.

She walked to the far wall, steps steady, her eyes moving over the weapons wall with the affection of a lover. She had favourite tools of her trade, as all warriors did, but today she was inclined to challenge her patience by experimenting with some of the modern toys she had acquired through an unknown friend. Asher Elliot's gift had arrived with a note that told her clearly he was aware of her work and her archaic weapons. He had also assured her the new weapons would become part of her impressive arsenal and she

would find them useful if she allowed herself to become familiar with their efficiency. She should have asked him if he'd consider instructing her, she was a quick study.

Far above her, she sensed people in her home. It was still a strange awareness, to know she was not alone here, but it was a knowledge she was finding more and more pleasant. Tanith had arrived weeks earlier, and Angelique's welcome should have chased her away, instead the silly witch had laughed and made herself at home. Though she'd never admit it, the slayer was glad of the company, and their history was long. The Little One had clearly allowed some of the nearby villagers into the castle.

She reached out to lift a gun from the rack, then shook her head. Another time, perhaps when or if Asher was around. She had no fear, but she did prefer to know a weapon's capabilities before she began working with it. When he'd had the small arsenal delivered to her, she'd stored it here, but for now she'd dance with her own devices. She chose a long, slender blade and tested the balance - knowing it was perfect, but enjoying the smooth passes through the air that would loosen her muscles.

She practised alone for what was likely hours, until the air around her was suffocating, though whether it was the heavy dampness of the stone chamber, or the smouldering burn of rage, Angelique couldn't be certain. She had drawn in too much of the turmoil of others recently, felt their betrayals clawing into her flesh with poison-edged talons. No amount of meditation or internal discussion was calming the need to breathe without choking. There were only two cures for this amount of tension, and neither was available to her at the moment.

Spinning on her heel, Angelique approached the rack of weapons again, and took down the weapon she favoured over others, the perfectly balanced and weighted blade that had been forged for her a thousand years earlier, and sealed with binding magic. She walked to the centre of a circle visible only to her, and began the ritualistic flow of motion, her mind citing the familiar litany of ancient prayer that she offered before each battle. It didn't matter that this was not battle but therapeutic movement to calm the frenzies tormenting her soul.

The sword became an extension of her being, slicing the air in smooth, precise arcs of silvery radiance. She parried, thrust, dodged the strikes of an invisible adversary... She had no way of seeing herself through the eyes of her silent watcher, and was in fact oblivious to the presence that was part of the shadows. Few living beings could hide their presence from her keen senses, but this one did...

Review of
Angelique Devereaux, an ancient warrior, once one of the chosen and Asher Elliot, a hunter whose prey exist outside human understanding, defy destiny as they fall into a seduction so dangerous it threatens to damn them both for eternity.

Asher waits, hidden in shadows—a voyeur of Angelique's self-loathing and pain. The torture she suffers is well-earned, a judgment passed when her forbidden love for her prey betrays the vows she made. Her punishment casts her into darkness, one that only Asher can understand.

Drawn together, desire consumes them, erupting into a sensual explosion of passion too intense to be denied.

The language is lush and evocative, the characters powerful, seductive and compelling. When Asher claims his warrior, it is but the first step on a journey fraught with peril. The Claiming is a set piece, introducing us to a darkly indulgent world of unbridled passion.

This reviewer, for one, waits with bated breath for the next episode.—Nya Rawlyns

Willa Edwards: A Gal with a Passion

I am delighted to welcome Willa Edwards as a guest blogger today. Willa's going to talk about Romance, *capitalized, sigh-worthy* and why she - and the rest of us smitten readers - love and cherish this genre.

So without further ado [what? ... ya gotta have The Bard mentioned somewhere], take it away ... Willa!

Willa Edwards
Why I Love to Read Romances
Over the two years I've been a published romance author I've spoken a lot about why I write romance. There are many reasons why I love to write romances. Because I believe in love. Because I love getting to know two characters in and out (In my opinion there's no genre that focuses on the back story and motivations of the characters than romance. How else would you believe these characters are falling in love). And because I love happy endings.

But I've never written about why I love to read romance. I think every romance author was a romance reader beforehand. I don't think you could seriously enter into this genre without being an avid reader first. Due to the vast rules of how a romance can be structured (it has to have a happily ever after, a hero and heroine with their own journeys, vulnerability and obstacles) and also because there's far too many negative opinion and all out untruths out there about this genre to ever approach it, without first loving the genre. I know I had a lot of untrue preconceived notions before I started reading romance. That romance novels are easy to write (biggest lie in the industry), that all they were was sex (that's erotica, not romance or even erotic romance, though I enjoy well written erotica there's no denying romance and erotica are two completely different genres).

I stumbled across my first romance novel far before I realized I wanted to write romance, even though I'd been writing all my life, and looking back on those older works I see the strong romance themes in everyone of those stories. As I said before, you can't really think of being a romance writer until you've read several. I picked up my first romance novel by accident. Really. I thought it was a historical novel. But once I started reading I was hooked. I picked up few more, and soon was reading several a month.

Don't get me wrong I loved the stories, from medievals, to westerns, to paranormal regencies I was enraptured. The characters were real to me. They're a great escape from the hum drum of the every day. But that's not what actually made me love reading romances. It's the hope that's written into each romance novel that I love so much. Not only hope for true love and a happily ever after (and some great sex, if you're reading books like mine). It's the hope that everything will work out the way it's supposed to. When you accidently cross the street and almost get run over by a bus, it's going to be your dashing prince charming that will save you. When you lose your job, you're going to end up finding the job you really wanted and be much happier with the man of your dreams. Romance novels give us hope that all the obstacles we suffer through will move us towards the place we're meant to be. Romance novels give us hope that everything will end happily, and we'll all end up exactly where we want to be.

Though I know it's true that sometimes bad things just happen, and often there's no prince to save you and just have to do it yourself. I rather like hoping there's a happily ever after in my future. In a world of uncertainty, where people are losing their jobs and homes, I think a little hope is a good thing.  So I'll keep reading my romances, feel that hope for a little while longer.  I hope you all will too.

Here's a little snippet of my latest release, Snow Day. I hope you enjoy it.

Blurb

Michaela is thrilled to get home after the tense drive from work on the snow covered highway. And she may be just a little bitter that her boyfriend and teacher, Ben, spent all day in bed, on a snow day from school.

But she's relieved to be let out of work at least a few hours early. That is until she hears noises from her bedroom, that in no way resemble monster trucks or football announcements, and sound way too close another woman's moan.

Michaela can't help but investigate. She never could have guessed what she finds in her bedroom would be just as stimulating to her as it is for Ben. With a little bit of sexy help, Michaela plans to show Ben exactly who he belongs too, and make him wish every day could be a snow day.

Excerpt

Michaela dropped her purse on the small cherry entranceway table. Slamming the door shut behind her to keep out the fierce chilly winds, she let out an exasperated sigh, enveloped by the warm heat.

"God, it's good to be home," she whispered into the empty mudroom.

She shucked off her jacket and scarf, thick with the moisture of melted snow. Her nerves still jangled from the slow, slick drive home from the plant. Everyone moved at a crawl, each one increasingly afraid of what could be under the thick, fluffy, white layer. Could it be black ice? Or slush? Anything could send their cars careening off the side of the road into the imposing bank. It was enough to set anyone on edge.

The whole ride she'd been petrified of the same thing, sliding off the road, getting stuck in any of the number of ditches and sloped banks beside the twenty-three miles of highway she drove each day home from work. Most days, the long stretch of highway appeared benign, lulling her into a hypnotic state till she reached her door, but today it had been ugly, angry, hungry, and malcontent.

Lucky Ben got to stay home today. He didn't have to brave the roads at all, or worry about the possible risk of property, life, or limb. She should've listened to her mother and become a teacher. She could've been a good math teacher, found a school where Ben and she could both work, and spend their snow days at home, together.

They could have stood by the radio this morning, like kids, anxiously awaiting the name of their school to be called. Instead, she'd quickly slurped down her coffee, with no solid food to accompany it, and ran out the door, already late. They could've returned to bed together, as Ben no doubt had done after she left, instead of racing down the slick roads to arrive at her desk, before her boss noticed she'd appeared twenty minutes late.

"Ben, I'm home," she called up the stairs, only to be met by silence.

No, she had to rebel against her mother's advice. She'd gotten her engineering degree instead, and spent most of her days fighting the arrogant male chauvinists working next to her at the electricity company, instead of helping teenagers learn the quadratic equation.

She placed her thick winter jacket and scarf on the coat tree next to Ben's unused one, her lips turning up in a slight snarl. Even though she'd gone to work, and put in almost a full day, leaving two hours early due to the road conditions, Michaela knew Ben had spent his day sleeping and watching TV.

From the corner of her eye, she spied a used cereal bowl sitting on the living room coffee table, the spoon lying ajar across the lip. "At least he managed to get himself a bowl of Cocoa Peebles," she whispered sarcastically.

She slipped her snow-caked boots off her feet, placing them on the rubber, winter mat to prevent a large puddle from forming in her newly tiled entryway. She paused, debating throwing the snow she'd tracked in with her boots back outside to prevent too much from melting on the tiles. She should, to maintain her brand new slate floors, but she loathed opening the door and braving the harsh winds or whipping flakes again for a few snowballs.

Amidst her quandary, a soft foreign noise prickled her attention, emanating from up the stairs. A muted, feminine moan appeared to come from the region of her bedroom. Her entire body froze, colder with fear than the temperature outside. Her mind swirled, the possible reasons for the noise coming from her bedroom coiling in her stomach, tightening every nerve in her body.

Was there another woman in her house? In her bed? With her boyfriend? Michaela's body clamped down with rage, her hands balled in tight fists, all thoughts of slate tiles and snowballs vanished from her mind, and far scarier images took their place.

Ben and Michaela had been together for seven years, since their freshman year of college, and they'd never had any problems in the bedroom. Both of their creative and open attitudes led to many satisfying nights. But like all relationships, over the years those explosive crazy nights drifted further apart, a pleasing consistency taking its place.

She still enjoyed every moment with him, their lovemaking fulfilled Michaela to heart-pounding, earth-shattering pleasure, but what if Ben wasn't as satisfied? What if he'd grown tired of fucking the same woman every night?

Ben never seemed the type of guy to cheat. Steadfast and constant, Ben preferred the same routine, rather than the excitement of something new. Surely a guy who ordered the same turkey sandwich at work every day, couldn't be searching and desperate for something new?

Even if he wanted to leave her, which Michaela hadn't noticed, she was sure he'd tell her. He'd face the conflict with the same respect he did every aspect of his life, from the cable guy to the kids failing his class, and tell her the truth, instead of screwing around behind her back.

Except for the complication of this monstrous house they'd bought together, a house neither of them could afford on their own, especially with all the upgrades and renovations they'd done since buying it. With the housing market crash, they'd never get the same money out of it they'd put in. They'd never discussed what to do if their relationship ended when they'd started looking for a home or picked this house. At the time, it hadn't occurred to Michaela to have an exit strategy. She never thought she'd need one.

She hadn't been upset by the downturn, she'd planned on being here a long time, but she did remember Ben being bothered by it. Was it possible he'd been thinking of leaving her then? That he'd only stayed because they couldn't sell the house without ending up with a mountain of debt? Would Ben stay with her because he didn't have the money to start over?

In her stocking feet, Michaela slowly made her way up the stairs, trying not to step too hard on any tread and give away her presence. Her approach undetected, the soft moans and groans of another woman in her bedroom continued, uninterrupted.

She'd always wondered why women walked in on their lovers in the throes with another, why they seemed so intent to catch their man red-handed, or inside a redhead, whichever maybe the case. Now, actually in the situation, she understood. She had to witness it, had to see the evidence right in front of her face, to truly believe it.

Buy Link: http://www.whiskeycreekpress.com/torrid/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=2&products_id=645&zenid=ba0a5c366ffa26c3dab1b7c6087b956a

Find me Online: www.willaedwards.com

Or my Blog: www.willaedwards.com/blog

Find me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/#!/willa.edwards

Find me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/willaedwards

Sensual Romance: The Art of Restraint

I admit it … I prefer it —'it' being 'scenes of affection'—slow and sensuous, exquisite moments of torture, icy chills and simmering heat, the barest hint of a touch, a breath, then two, all senses engaged. I love the promise, delaying it with innuendo and control, until nothing else exists but one's object d'lust and passion.

One of my favorite scenes in a movie comes from Pride and Prejudice (the Keira Knightley/Matthew Macfadyen version), where Darcy assists Elizabeth into the carriage. She turns to look at him, perplexed, as he spins away, the camera focused on his hand, clenching and unclenching, the touch so electrifying it surely sears him to his soul. That single touch, a bare wisp of an embrace, left such a lasting impression, I think of it first and foremost when this, my most beloved of the Jane Austin adaptations, becomes the bone of contention: which P&P is the definitive P&P?

Sense & Sensibility is another tale where those unexpressed feelings/suppressed desires are cast as sensible, and ultimately desirable, character traits. Note I use the term 'suppressed' as against 'repressed'. 'Suppressed' never precludes one's ability to experience strong emotion, it simply allows one to balance that with subtlety and restraint. 'Repressed' forces denial, burying one's emotions so deeply in the subconscious that desire, or any other kind of pleasurable tendency, is thoroughly blocked. Elinor Dashwood's restraint, when finally breached, created a veritable explosion of emotion—joy, anguish, disbelief and ultimately love.

For a more modern treatment, perhaps the glove scene in A Streetcar named Desire where Terry reaches down and picks up Edie's glove, fondling it with such grace and passion you forget what he is and focus on what he could be. He needn't touch her, just the glove, and we feel his passion, we own it and revel in it.

To address my perverse nature, Dangerous Liaisons is intensely satisfying, a tale wherein every action, every thought is rife with unspoken seduction and out 'n out sexual aggression and warfare. Every utterance masks a lie and a half-truth, a calculated threat or pledge. It's a game where winning one's heart's desire weighs less than its denial to others. As a private performance or a public spectacle, love's denouement has surprising consequences, not all of them pleasant, yet nonetheless compelling.

Two movies come to mind when one wants to address strictly prurient interests, the erotic nature of love, that understanding that to fully engage all the senses, to imbue authenticity into the rules of engagement between consenting partners (or non as the case may be), requires not just the sexual act itself but also emotional content and commitment that might be difficult to define (it is: there are few specific definitions for 'sensual romance' but a fair number of analyses examining what constitutes 'erotic romance'—blog hop if you don't believe me).

Anyway, the two movies that will forever define eroticism, for me, are Blue Velvet and sex, lies and videotapes. James Spader, sitting on the couch, looking straight at the camera and talking about … erotic inhibitions, things outside my ken (I saw this as an adult, but still, sheesh), things for which I had no frame of reference until just that moment in time. It was eye-opening, life-affirming, titillating and still sends shivers to dark and private spaces even after all these years. This film is the epitome of control as it examines the erotic impulses and inhibitions of a group of people, and one reviewer says it harkens back to the days when speech was an 'erogenous zone' (Roger Ebert).

Blue Velvet was viciously pornographic in the best film noir style (it's David Lynch, so of course) and has been compared to Hitchcock's Psycho because of the thematic elements of evil masquerading as psychosis. It is raw, emotional, and ultimately flawed by clichés and sophomoric treatment of its characters. But at its core, its treatment of sexual bondage is in your face, harsh and unrelenting. Unlike sex, lies and videotape, Blue Velvet eschews restraint, yet compared to more modern films with violence for its own sake, this film never represses the raw sensuality of its acts of aggression and violence.

Whew, well, deep breath. From 'slow hand' to sensual violence may seem like quite the leap, in truth it's merely bridging differences in degree rather than differences in kind.

May I leave you with an image that speaks to me of elegant, sensuous and sensual restraint...

As always … your mileage may vary.



More Naughty After Dark Bloggers! Sandra Bunino
Lynda Frazier
Mary Abshire

My Favorite Xmas Cookies: Choco-Chip Pumpkin

While I'm recovering from emergency surgery (ruptured appendix), I thought I'd share a favorite recipe. These are great cookies for the Holiday, excellent 'keepers' and somehow always turn out 'perfect'.

Enjoy!
_  Chocolate chip pumpkin cookies

1/2 cup butter

1 1/2 cup sugar

1 egg

1 cup canned pumpkin

2 1/2 cups flour

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder

1 tsp vanilla

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp nutmeg

1-2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 cup nuts (walnuts, pecans)

1 cup chocolate chips

 

Cream butter and sugar until fluffy. Beat in egg, pumpkin and vanilla. Mix and sift dry ingredients, add to creamed mixture and mix well. Add nuts and chocolate chips. Drop by tsp onto well-greased cookie sheets. Bake at 350F for 15 minutes. Makes ~6 dozen cookies. Store in tin or air-tight container. Keep well.

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY: WiP The Shadow of This World

He'd danced with her psyche, the steps mimicking a macabre courtship—a sultry rumba to a background rhythm of fear, desire and intense curiosity. Such delicious enticements—she'd almost forgotten herself in the rush of temptation to explore. Her last encounter with a Council operative had been far less engaging, his brute force approach and unrelenting machismo had proven no match for her training … and very special gifts.

But her intruder had power, power and control, and perhaps something more… One thing she knew for certain: the man was unique, and dangerous. Not of her time, nor of this one.

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY

The stink got me retching again. You never got used to it. They used terms like coppery or B&N

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY

The man was mid-forties, single, lean and muscular in all the right places. Nobody other than Michael filled out tight jeans in quite the same way. Now, here he was, all blue-eyed intense and tongue-tied.

What the hell was he waiting for?

The ice cube wept over her super-heated flesh, leaving droplets to wander over the soft mounds. Andy's gaze remained riveted on her chest as he mindlessly rubbed his palms over sweat-soaked jeans.





RED SAGE
KINDLE
OMNILIT
B&N

Not My Finest Hour...

Not my finest hour…

...or afternoon.

The morning started off with a bang, 320 of 'em. Let me explain. I lift weights under the tutelage of 'Attila'. We have goals—well, he has goals, I just sweat and grunt. Anyway, I
was going for 280 lbs on the leg press but he tricked me into 320 lbs. I love it when the eye-candy gives me a thumbs up and a pat on the back. That was the first thing I did for my morning entertainment—that left 50 minutes of 'other challenges'. I staggered out into 90 deg heat and realized I hadn't eaten anything yet. Not smart.

So I go to RiteAid to get a prescription filled, the drive-through of course. I'm an American - it's my God-given right to use any and all drive-throughs. The thing is ... the truck has mirrors that extend out a ways so you never get very close to the little pneumatic device and the canister. I tried. I had to open the door to reach it.

I dropped it.

The damn thing rolled under the truck. I'm close enough to almost reach the device, but too close to open the door so I can get out. I had to either back up or move forward. I
couldn't see where the canister had gone. I backed up. Just enough to get out and search for the bit of plastic. It had gotten wedged partially under the tire but I wriggled it free. The little door thingee was sort of not right. So I fumbled with it but it wouldn't stay shut.

Oh yeah, the cash register lady was giving me the evil eye the whole time. She barked into the phone, "(expletive deleted) just put the bottle in and send it. Come back in an hour." Great, that gave me time to get a haircut and try to regain my dignity.

Wasn't happening.

The line at the oil change place was reasonable so I decided to do that since I was out and about. It's hot and getting hotter so I had the windows open. As the guy flagged me to come into bay 3, a jumbo sized hornet flew in the window and buzzed all around the dash, then disappeared into a crack.

Crap. I'm not allergic but I do swell and it's just not real pleasant dealing with those critters. So I'm inching forward and the beast from hell pops out of the crack, mosiearound and disappears again. I'm partway through the bay.

I can kind of see the guy gesticulating frantically GO LEFT GO LEFT GO LEFT but the hornet's making little
'I'm not happy' buzzing noises. Let's see: fall through the hole in the floor and crush the oil change jockey or pay attention to the hornet.

Life is all about choices.

The supervisor double-timed it to bay 3 to see why his guy is turning a nasty shade of puce and I screeched HORNET. He did the 'step out of the truck, Ma'am' and proceeded to
heroically trap the bugger in an oily rag. Then he let it loose to flit in the upper reaches of the building. I wanted to close the windows but they like a more interactive approach, making me flash lights, step on the brake and such. I was feeling a mite stressed at that point and hit the windshield wipers and the spray. The skinny guy up front said, without breaking the cadence, "Yep windshield wipers work," and went on.

Another pat on the back but this one was a tad on the condenscending side. Then we did the 'you need a better, four times more expensive grade of synthetic oil' dance - and yes I did. Even I could see the icky color and the pieces of engine block making their way into after-market part territory. Then there was a matter of the cracked belts.
They had the smaller one but not the larger so My Hero hotfooted it to the Napa auto parts store over by Redners.

The skinny guy trying to dig the belts from around whatever device was holding them said 'Ten minutes'.
At 15 I was getting hungry and bored and nothing much was happening on FB so I went next door to Wendy's and overindulged in a Baconator and their sea salt
fries. I considered the fruit parfait thingee for like a nanosecond but the evil Diane said #4, medium coke, though the good Diane said 'no' to the cheese. I took my snack back to the truck and watched two guys crowded under the hood jamming a bit of black rubber into the far reaches of the engine.

The yahoo working on the Mom-mobile in bay 2 kept up a running commentary on the time my two guys needed
for a '10 minute job'. I sucked down my coke while My Hero explained that it was a little more complicated than they expected, yadda yadda, wrote me up and suggested an engine flush for next time. Personally, I thought tearing down a Chevy truck engine and putting it back together in 36 minutes wasn't too shabby.

I wandered off to Rite Aid to get the prescription and pretended this was a different blue truck and 'that's not the redhead you're looking for'. Then off to Wegmans where I parked in Outer Mongolia. The Baconator was sitting a little heavy so walking it off seemed like a good idea. I had the usual stuff jump in my basket. I liberated a quart of Black Raspberry ice cream. By the time I got out it was 94 deg and climbing fast, blast furnace style. Hot enough to melt the ice cream.

Might be time for a little lay down after my exciting day. Fortunately I picked up one of Wegman's fully cooked BBQ whole chickens and a nice French baquette and a melon. Hmmm, now that I think about it, I don't remember where the melon got to...


 

That Pesky POV [Point of View]

The day I get POV right is the day I'll/you'll know I'm an author instead of a head-hopping voyeur, pseudo-psycho-wordsmith with commitment issues. I trip the lite-fantastic with annoying ease, leaving my editors cringing on the floor moaning, 'Pick one, just one, pul*ease' as they slog down B&Js Cherry Garcia.

Suzannah Burke, affectionately known as 'Soooz', with the number of o's a measure of how much she managed to tickle a funny bone or slap you upside the head with a classic pithy remark, had a little challenge/contest on her AOS webpage .  Here's the set-up, compliments of the miracle of Microsoft's cut 'n paste:

'This week, Soooz asks you the question…Who wrote these stories? A Male or a Female? 
I asked four authors to contribute to this weeks" Soooz" page, and they responded wholeheartedly…my thanks to all.
I set them a task. I asked them to respond in story form to the following question
"You have just received an invitation to your ex-spouses upcoming wedding! How does it feel? What will you do?"
Simple! Except I gave them the choice of writing these stories from either a male or female POV. I left the choice up to them.
What happens now?
Now YOU decide who wrote these stories a MALE or a FEMALE author.
Simple, yes? …Maybe.
I guess it all depends on observations of characters.'

****

And so the voting began. Most folks tagged me appropriately as 'FEMALE', two said "MALE', both sides unequivocal.

What would you think, Gentle Readers? Seeing's how I'm all, like, curious here … what made this piece decidedly 'written by a female despite being from a guy's POV'?

As Joan Wilder said to Jack T-for-Trustworthy Colton in Romancing the Stone, "I'd really like to know."


**********


Getting Even by Nya Rawlyns

Tholian Space: 2387, Separatist Quadrant

"Commander, what's our twenty?"

Jacques checked his chrono and frowned.

"Is there a problem?"

"Uh, sir, no sir. Maybe." The ComSpec adjusted his marks, muttering sub-vocal, his implant providing a direct link planet side.

Parsons paced the bridge, irritated at the delay. Not only were they losing time, they were in direct contravention of HQ's very specific orders to get their asses out of this quadrant, soonest. Plus the Counselor had made it perfectly clear they had outstayed their welcome. Probably thanks to the Captain.

Weapons Specialist Giles piped up, "Yeah, what's with the old man anyway?" He stood by Jacques and stared at the console. "How the fuck do you know what that data stream's supposed to mean?"

Jacques shrugged. His brain interpreted the base twelve numerical sequence easily enough. The hard part was back-translating into standard. Lucille was four gen out-of-date and he'd yet to program the encryption algorithm, let alone the transcript code. He spoke to Parsons, ignoring Giles.

"Lucille's giving me new co-ordinates now. We should make jump space at 0293.42." He swiveled in the tattered poly seat, "Gonna be close."

Giles piped up, "The old man ain't gonna like it."

Parsons barked, "Don't you have some incendiaries to play with, Giles?" The man grinned and sauntered away. Turning back to his ComSpec he muttered, "Is there any indication what the hell's going on down there?"

Jacques grimaced and shook his head no.

"All right, set the coordinates and let's get this scow prepared to leave town. I'm getting a bad feeling, the longer we hang out here."

"Sir?" This from the other side of the bridge. Girly girl, dripping with honey. Shit.

"Yeah, now what, Ensign?

"Um, Cap'n jess came on board. Y'all want I should send somebody down to help 'em?"

Parsons felt like flogging the woman. She'd been their penance for the cluster fuck on TexTan. All due to a 'little misinterpretation' by the space cowboys they'd had on for training. The two randiest had been sent to Barstow to the whorehouses. He still remembered the looks of delight, like they'd been handed the best promotion ever. He knew a thing they didn't. Confederate justice could take some strange twists and turns. He'd get them back at the end of term, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't want them after that.

Meantime the offended young lady, of gentile refinement and purity of spirit, had a word. Seemed her Daddy'd been delighted to foist the dumb as a post blonde on his all-male crew. She was signed up for a standard solar jahr and after nearly one-third in they'd each been subject to a "little bit of sugar" and a whole lot of brass from the Confederate brat. So far he'd avoided her special ministrations but he knew the odds were no longer in his favor. He'd have to take one for the crew sooner rather than later. His balls ached at the thought.

Resigned to having to engage in an exchange, he kept well clear of her station. The Confeds were all unusually tall, even the women. He was no shrimp, but even at six-foot-two she still had a good four inches on him. She used that height to make sure her assets had his full attention.

"I'll meet the Captain, Ensign McCory." He found it hard not to stare. The nipple rings were some weird oblong shape and pressed invitingly against the tight spandex. It pleased him no end to run interference for the captain. He had enough on his mind. He didn't need Ensign Slut to complicate his life.

Shrugging, she mouthed her best 'whatevah' and sidled over to Giles, already licking his lips and adjusting his trou. Apparently they'd have one less for draxon later on.

"Jacques, I'll take the lift. Give a yodel if we hear anything more." Jacques gave a wave to indicate he'd heard. Not for the first time, he wondered what it was like to live in a virtual la-la land. His cochleal implant was bad enough and half the time the damn thing didn't work. ComSpecs seldom lasted more than twenty-five or thirty standard jahrs. After that the Alliance retired them to companion duty on the Traxsis resort moon, a not altogether bad way to pass the time.

He entered the lift and coded for level three. He wasn't looking forward to this.

****

"Number One." Taggert nodded to his second-in-command. "I assume we have the co-ordinates from the Counselor's office?"

"Yessir. They'll take us outside the Raglan border colonies. Once we get to the intermediate jump point we can key on the friendlies. We should make Alliance space with another jump after that."

It wasn't an exact science. Some of the wormholes remained unstable after the Tholian-Alliance-Confederate mash-up. The PC-police on Cerius made sure than everyone on the home world thought of it as an 'intervention'. The Tholians tended to call a spade a spade. It had been a war, pure and simple. One that nobody'd won. The only outcome was the Tholian-Confed split that left the Cerius diplomats with a permanent hard-on and job security.

"When we get to Raglan, let me know."

"Uh, sir? This communiqué came via secure channels about two diurnals ago. You were out of com range." He handed the data-spool over. "I'll, uh … if you don't need me?" he turned to leave.

"Ted, wait. Stay. I could use your input. It was not the best negotiation I've ever had."

Parsons pulled a plasteel stool close to Taggert's miniscule desk. His captain was young, mid-forties, with dark brown hair shot through with silver. Unlike his peers he chose not to sculpt or engage in hair transplants. His widow's peak tended to soften an otherwise severe countenance, made even worse by personal events that only he, as number-one, was privy to. They'd been together since cadet days, sharing a dorm room and later a variety of postings to the back of beyond. Taggert had wanted the captainship more than he did. There was no competition despite the rumors.

"You want something to drink?"

Taggert's thin lips drew tight as he inserted the spool into the reader, his eyes turning dark with fury.

"Tag?"

"Uh, yeah. And make it a double." He sat on the stool and stared at the bulkhead. Parsons handed over a tumbler of amber liquid. Taggert took a long pull and nodded with satisfaction. He held the tumbler out for a refill. "Giles might be an asshole but he can shoot, and he makes damn good rotgut."

"So, what's the bad news now?" He chugged his own drink and shivered as the acid wash seared his throat. "Fucking hell, that's good."

The intercom spit a high-pitched whine. "Captain? We've been cleared to go."

"Okay, Jacques, best speed. Take us out of here." The intercom squawked once more then silence settled as the two men stared at each other. Taggert gave his friend a small smile.

"The Counselor had some interesting news for me." He grabbed the dataport and spun it around for Parsons to read.

Parson's eyebrows shot up. "You have got to be kidding me. They're sending her to seal the deal? What the fuck?" Now he understood why Taggert had been on such a tear lately. "I thought it'd been a trial separation." The captain huffed a 'that's what I thought too'. Parsons rubbed his chin and muttered, "I'm confused."

"Welcome to my world. We weren't a thousand klicks off Cerius when I got the word from her father that they'd decided to formalize the arrangement. You know how her clan is. Lawyers, the lot of them. Being the ruling junta gives them certain … privileges." He reached for the bottle and poured another two fingers.

The box chattered all systems go, jump jump jump, riding five-by-five, your cabin steward for this trip will be… Jacques' voice petered out, leaving Parsons to ruminate over the strange sequence of events that had brought them to Tholian space. They'd all assumed that Taggert had been selected to take point in the preliminary negotiations in the arms reduction deal because he'd been the co-hab of the Counselor's daughter—the very lovely, very ambitious Lady Swellyn, touted as the love of Tag's life.

The betting pool had put the odds at even that Taggert would retire into Tholian political service, an honorarium afforded only the most well-connected of alien species. Tag had married into virtually the most powerful family in Known Space. Then it had all gone to hell in a handbasket and nobody knew why. Taggert had been given the 'thanks for playing' speech and sent on his way. This trip had given his captain a glimmer of hope that maybe things had changed. Apparently they'd been wrong.

"So it's official. You're divorced." Parsons stared at his friend, unable to read his expression. There was more. He didn't have the complete story.

"Yes. And Elly is to be auctioned off to the Confed Ambassador, Patriarch Moses Jones." Taggert's voice slurred as he drained the tumbler. "And she couldn't be happier. And why not? Why stay married to a lowly captain of a broke-down second-class Mariner when you can enjoy the perks of the Court on TexTan?"

Parsons thought about Ensign McCory and wondered if there was another reason for her presence on the ship. His brain was too fuddled to figure it out. Taggert kept talking in a low monotone, clearly enjoying his pity party.

"So, Tag, why are we being hustled off so quick? We got the get-out-of-Dodge direct from HQ and the Tholian brass were acting like we have VD." Taggert only shrugged. "So why?"

"Because we are being sent to TexTan to attend the nuptials, on the QT." He handed his Number One the co-ordinates. "You'll want to give these to Jacques but not until we reach Raglan. Seems we're on the 'unofficial guest' roster. We get to be bodyguards for my wife so she can marry that sonofabitch…"

"Dammit, Tag, why didn't you just say no?" Parsons caught a glimmer of something in the man's eyes, something he didn't like. "You aren't thinking what I think you're…"

"Tell Giles we'll need a few upgrades on our supplies. Send him in on his next shift. I'll tell him what I want."

"Shit, Tag. This is not a good idea."

"Give me a better one."

"Let her go. You don't need her, you never did." What he left unsaid was 'she's the trophy you could parade around while keeping secrets buried.'

"You know why I need her. And I love her… in my own way." Parsons cringed and lowered his head. "Ted, don't…"

Taggert pushed away from the desk and walked unsteadily to the door and coded it sealed. He turned around and leaned against the smooth metal, his hooded eyes smoky blue in the dim light. Licking his lips, he smiled and motioned his friend to come over.

Parsons flushed and moved into Taggert's arms, eager to plunder the man's lips and mouth. The captain hesitated and pushed him away.

"You haven't been with Ensign Slut, have you?"

Parsons grinned at his lover's obvious twinge of jealousy. "No, and I won't if I can help it."

"Good. Don't. I'm all you'll ever need." Taggert led him to the bunk and whispered, "Love me now and then we'll talk about…"

Parsons laughed, "…blowing shit up."

The speaker squawked…

Czar 1 : Mom ...

My boys are headed south to Assateague National Seashore where they allow camping and riding horses prior to the tourist season. So my job today was to pack the food, fill the water tank and do grain. It's 51 deg. out there so I'm in a tee-shirt with a corduroy shirt over it, getting soaked as I fill tanks, no biggee.

I noticed young Czar still had his winter blanket on (it was cold this morning and he was clipped for Florida). So in the spirit of keeping the youngster comfy, I pulled a half bale of hay into the field with the sled - yes, it's still solid ice, with standing water on it. Very dicey. Miss Winnie and Mr Bob each chose a nice bat of alfalfa and were happily chowing down. I took the last bat to Czar who's giving me the evil eye (I'm carrying the lightweight quilted rug on my arm). I set the rug on the sled and proceed to unstrap him front to back ... yes, yes, I know what you're thinking. You could have said something earlier. Anyway, I've got the straps undone and I'm working on the tail latches. One to go. [I can feel the tension building] And no, there's no lead rope involved in this little CF of an operation.

He's fit, he's full of it and he takes off with the one leg strap still latched. Oh yeah, that was a sight. He dragged that mother through every bit of standing water, every fricking pile of manure, doing twenty laps while the other two are looking at him, going 'say what?' The blanket shark finally releases into a particularly fragrant pile. Sighing, I gather it up, gingerly, and fling it over the fence, thinking maybe it can just dry out. That was before I took a good look at it.

Now, while I'm trying to figure out if Kevin really needs to take *this* horse to Assateague, like maybe a half lame mare would work out just as well, 'cause I'm gonna kill the f**ker ... Well, you know. Naturally I can't let him get away with that. So I gather the quilted blanket shark and approach with confidence doing visualization techniques: he's going to stand quietly and eat his hay while I place this lovely clean blanket over his withers. Did you ever try that ... visualizing something? It don't work. He took off like a bat out of hell, doing the BIG ARAB TROT on solid ice.

There may have been a 'Whoa dammit' in there but mostly I practiced every combination and permutation of creative and colorful phrases in my very generous arsenal. To Bob's credit, he stood like a rock and didn't join in the general frivolity. Standing in one spot cursing the beast wasn't going to do it. *I* had to go on the ice, following him around, screeching like a banshee.  That didn't work out real well ... for me.

This went on for a loooong time and did nothing good for my blood pressure. I finally caught him, led him to his hay and managed to hang onto the halter while placing the blanket over his back. Latched and cosseted, he lowered his head and chowed down like nothing had happened.

Meantime, I'm a disgusting mess. I actually didn't realize how bad it was until I stripped in the garage - the neighbors are used to that - and took a good look at me and the blanket. Said horse clothing is in the washer on pre-soak, heavy duty, double rinse right now. I'm considering my second shower of the day.

Oh yeah, one other little thing. I figured ... hell, I'm a mess, so I might as well clean stalls, feed the chickens, get the eggs, etc. There were two eggs today, so I tucked them in my corduroy shirt pocket. I forgot they were there.

I liked that shirt ...