Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 145

Triane's Son Learning

So, the challenge of breaking one giant epic story into chewable bits is something I'm not sure I've mastered yet.  As a romance writer, I tend to write long.  I've got three novellas out this year, and the shortest one, Going UP! had to be written as a fairy tale almost, because the lack of detail frightened me.  (I am easily frightened.  We know this by now.)  When I set out to write the Bitter Moon books, those of you who followed my blog at the time probably remember that I set out to write ONE book.  This was supposed to be ONE book.  But I couldn't just leap into one book-- I had to go into details.  And I had to add minor characters.  And they had to do things-- it got exhausting, I'm telling you-- and exhaustive.  

So that one book came out and it was 200 and something thousand words, and the next one came out at almost 240 something thousand words, and I thought two volumes, right?  Two volumes would do.

Uhm… no.

When it was time to dust this series off and spiff it up, it was suggested we break it into four parts.  I was good with that-- it meant I got more yummy covers, and I am, as you know, a shameless whore for cover art, so that worked out fine, but it also presented a challenge.

That I just sort of skipped right over.

For me, the real challenge was figuring out where to break the books, not how to break them.  I figured that if you didn't read the first book, you weren't going to catch up with a few paragraphs easing the way.  So Triane's Son Learning picks up right where the other one left off-- and, although it's probably not very accommodating of me, I'm fine with that.  

Seriously--when I was editing these books, the one thing that really struck me was that in spite of the length, there was no good place to break the first book.  The second book, yes-- that one was easy, and I'll talk about that when it comes out--but the first one?  No.  Nope nope nope nope nope.  


There was no good place to break.  It was continuous, like growing up, and I'm sort of proud of that with these books.  You not only get the action and the adventure, but you get the growing up too.  

Now I'm going to emphasize again that these books are epic fantasy--and that's important.  I've already gotten one disappointed and puzzled review because the reviewer was expecting Keeping Promise Rock--or, at the very least, Truth in the Dark.  But epic fantasy involves a cast of zillions, and Triane's Son Learning is the second quarter of a fantasy that involves a cast of zillions.  The central love story is not the central theme of the book and the people you think you leave behind in book two are going to be the people who save your ass in book four.  

This is something I've always loved about epic fantasy.  It's got that mimicry of real life in that the world is big and chaotic, and you never know when an old friend will come in and turn your day or chapter upside down.  

Anyway-- So it's out.  And I'm proud, and, as always, incredibly grateful to Dreamspinner Press and Harmony Ink for the chance to remake this old accomplishment.  I hope you all enjoy it too.

BLURB:



When Torrant Shadow fled his homeland of Clough, he hoped to leave its threats behind. He spent four years living with the Moons, making sure Yarri had a home; now it's time for Torrant and his foster brother, Aldam, to leave for the University of Triannon, where Torrant hopes to create a new life enmeshed in healing arts and politics. 

Torrant's new school friends Trieste and Aylan want to teach him about love as he settles in, and at first, Trieste's tenderness seems to make her the logical choice for an interim lover, while Torrant waits for Yarri to grow up. But Torrant has learned the hard way that nothing is simple when Clough still wields its influence over their lives. More and more, Torrant must call on the cold predator in himself, the part that Aylan most admires. The truth is, Torrant has certain gifts that give him an advantage of self-defense, but using them to protect the ones he cares for may destroy the part of him Trieste and Yarri love best. 

As the four schoolmates progress to life beyond education and the evil from Torrant’s homeland becomes too pernicious to be ignored, Torrant must choose his destiny: Will he be a healer or a hero? Only Triane's Son can be both. 

1st Edition published as Bitter Moon I: Triane's Son Ascending by iUniverse, 2008

EXCERPT:  --A Map Through a Cold Winter’s Night




SPENDING THE Samhain break at home in Eiran had been lovely. Painful and cathartic, but lovely. Torrant and Aldam remembered all over again why finding the Moon home after their exile from Clough had been the proof of Joy’s mercy. Returning to school at the end of the week was difficult, but not nearly as difficult as the first departure, and since their rush back to Triannon was so flurried in order to avoid the snow, Torrant and Aldam didn’t have time to dwell on the leaving.
Torrant kept safe the stiff card Yarri had stuffed in his pocket as he and Aldam had mounted their horses that cold winter morning. It was a picture of him, singing in the family room. The focus was on his eyes—hazel, a strange mix of brown, green, and gray, and shiny in the firelight.
“Remember that’s how I see you.” Yarri’s face had been serious and sober as she’d wrapped her arms around his neck. “Remember that I’m never sorry that you’re not Ellyot.”
He’d smiled gently. “Yarri—I’m never sorry that I got to grow up with you.”
But she hadn’t been fooled. “Say it.”
“I’m not fourteen anymore—”
“Say it.” She pursed her lips and narrowed her brow, and he was reminded, yet again, that she only looked like an angel.
“Yarri, it’s—”
“Say it!” she barked, and Torrant had flushed as the rest of the family looked their way with raised eyebrows.
Goddess, he loved them all.
“Fine!” he snapped, mortified but knowing at the same time that he had lost. “I’m not sorry that I lived and Ellyot didn’t. Are you happy now?”
“I’ll be happy when you believe it.” She’d burst into tears then, and he’d held her and comforted her, stroking her curling autumn-colored hair and whispering into her ears all the things she’d forced him to say, just to make her stop crying, just until he could believe it.
“You won’t forget?” she whispered. “It’s a long time until spring.” Odds were good they wouldn’t be coming back for the winter Solstice. Because of his heavier course load, he would still be finishing up finals, and the snows would make the trip difficult with the wagon. Lane promised them that for next year, he would make skids for the wagon so they could use it as a sled.
Roes and Aldam embraced quickly, bodies barely touching, and then the rest of the family was caught up in hugs as well. When Roes came to hug Torrant, she stepped on his foot to get his attention.
“He’ll follow you to the nadir and back, right?” She was not smiling in the least; she crunched her tanned, freckled face together at the brows in anxiety. “You need to lead him back to me.”
Torrant grinned. “Roes, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he could no more wander away from you than the moons could leave their orbits.” But to his dismay, this only made her cry.
“Don’t you understand, cousin? The Goddess moon doesn’t wander because she’s faithless. She wanders because she follows her brothers. You’re his brother, and he’ll wander away from me if you don’t send him back.” She dashed her hand across her eyes, and Torrant grimaced and hugged her close.
“Right, little rose, right. I’ll send him back when we’re done with our wandering, I promise. You just remember that he might want you to wander a little on your own.”
Roes sniffled against his shoulder in response, and then it was Stanny’s turn, and Cwyn’s and Starry’s and then Bethen’s, who sniffled too. “It won’t be Solstice without you two.”
“We’ll be back for Beltane,” Torrant reassured her and then nodded at Lane, who had already given his permission. “And we’ll bring friends, right?”
“Aylan can stay with me!” Stanny said excitedly—meeting someone from out of town had sounded very exotic to Stanny.
“And Trieste can stay with me,” Roes said sententiously. Bethen elbowed her and shook her head in warning. There were more hugs and kisses all around and then….
They were off, and Torrant was touching the card inside his cloak pocket as though it were his last link to everything he loved.




THE NIGHT Torrant and Aldam got back, Trieste greeted Torrant with such a fervent kiss that he found himself closing his eyes in odd moments just to savor her taste.
They continued kissing, learning the joys of bodies pressed close in corners, of the brief touch of lips in greeting and farewell, of cold hands on warm tummies and the squealing and laughter that ensued. He loved the way her eyes closed before he put his lips to hers, and the feel of her breath on his face just before that happened. He enjoyed the dark feeling of her fine hair as it spilled around his fingers, and the terrible sensitivity of his body, hard and full and aching under his clothes, as she pressed on top of him. One touch, he often thought in a delicious ecstasy of agony, one touch of her soft cool hand against his bare skin and his body would explode in a scorch of fireworks behind his eyes and in his pants and possibly even out his toes.
The anticipation was as wonderful as the smug knowledge that someday soon, it would happen, it would happen between them and he would feel her skin on his without interruption or excuse and the thing, the glorious warmth between them, would wash over his body like a velvet wave.
Aylan watched them with amusement, indulgence, and a certain amount of patient jealousy.
“Why don’t you just do it and get it over with!” he demanded one day in exasperation. Torrant and Trieste had met as Torrant was sprinting toward their fencing class—after a brief kiss and rolled eyes to indicate that it wasn’t enough, Torrant caught up with Aylan, and they walked shoulder to shoulder to the changing rooms.
“Maybe, Aylan,” Torrant said smugly, “it’s not just something you ‘do to get over with.’ Maybe it’s something special.”
Aylan grunted with disgust, and Torrant urged them faster. The fencing practice room could only be accessed from outside the building, and the snows had come. They were gentle and forgiving snows in the Triannon valley—not even comparable to Eiran’s sea-cold, and certainly nothing to Clough and Hammer pass—but the young men were outside with nothing but scholars’ robes and scarves to protect them from the cold.
“Besides,” Torrant continued when they were inside undressing, “it has to be her decision. She’s still at risk for getting her head lopped off in a public ceremony if she’s wrong about Alec of Otham.”
“I doubt it—Alec’s a nice enough sort, if you like benevolent rulers bent on changing backwards countries.” Aylan donned his fencing tights in record time and leaned back against the wall to enjoy watching Torrant struggle into his. Most noblemen were not as broad shouldered as Torrant, and their chests weren’t thick with the muscle gotten by wrestling and hauling crates in warehouses. Torrant may have lost a great deal of weight, as well as his self-consciousness around Aylan, but Torrant got the feeling that Aylan’s perusal of his body was still a treat.
Torrant noticed his regard and flushed, more so when his body began the stirrings of a response, something made obvious by the tight fencing clothes. “Knock it off—I thought we were over that shite.”
“I’ll never be over that shite,” Aylan returned seriously. “If you don’t want me to look, then go dress somewhere else, but don’t expect me to just turn the whole works off because you’re about to get a woman. My offer still stands, and probably always will. Just because I’m not stalking you anymore, Triane’s son, doesn’t mean I’d mind if you wandered into my room one night and dropped your drawers.”
Torrant grimaced at the crassness of the offer but looked seriously at Aylan because he respected that Aylan was serious. He also knew, now that Aylan had become a friend, that his friend’s heart was probably as engaged as his desire, and Torrant wouldn’t hurt him for all the world. “I appreciate that,” he murmured, “but now is not the time.” There was a quiet between the two and then Torrant came to himself to stand and pick up his mask. “What was that bit about ‘Triane’s son’?”
Aylan laughed and picked up his own gear. “You’re gifted, you’re a midwife and a healer, and you wouldn’t mind kissing another boy. If you’re not the son of the Goddess, I’ve got no idea who would be.”
“Get stuffed!” Torrant replied amiably and went off to beat Aylan soundly in three matches.




THEIR CLASSES grew busier, more intense, as everybody prepared for finals after the Samhain break. Finals came, and even though his schedule had calmed down, Torrant still grew so lean studying that Trieste, Aldam, and even Aylan took to bringing meat pies to their classes so they could urge him to eat. He rolled his eyes at them—“Not one of you looks like Auntie Beth!”—but he still ate the food. It was bad enough Professor Nica had started giving him food in the library—the room he loved most in the school, and the one place he was not supposed to be eating. Of course, he wasn’t supposed to be sleeping there either, but four nights out of five, one of the three would go fetch him from the stacks, where he was quietly snoring in the clutter of bound parchment.
And still he passed his finals—in all classes—with marks high enough to make Aylan sigh with disgust.
“I’ve been working this system my whole life, and I don’t get marks that good!” he complained at dinner when the term had ended.
“You’ve been interested in other things,” Trieste replied with so much dryness that he threw a roll at her. She ducked and stuck out her tongue, and Aldam tried to make the peace.
“If you’re going to throw food, throw some more at him. He’s still too thin, and I don’t think he’s slept in four days.” Instinctively all three of them looked over to Torrant to make sure he was eating. He wasn’t. His head was pillowed in his arms and around his stew, and gentle snoring issued from his slightly open mouth.
The three of them hung their heads and sighed. “Weren’t you two planning to leave tonight?” Aylan asked, grimacing as Torrant let out a particularly loud snore.
Aldam sighed so heavily that Trieste patted his back in sympathy. The snows had come late, and for a breath they thought they might have a chance to go home, but a big storm was rolling in from the west. The hard truth was, if they didn’t leave in an hour or so, they wouldn’t get another chance to see home until spring.
“He can’t go like this,” Aldam said fretfully. Another five months before they could return home. Another five months without seeing Roes. He swallowed hard, and Torrant suddenly jerked awake.
“Goddess, Aldam—we’ve got to leave!” he said clearly, focusing his eyes, and Aylan and Trieste both looked at Aldam questioningly. Aldam winked at them.
“Certainly. Is all our gear upstairs?”
Torrant had to think about that; it was clear the effort was painful. “Except for what I sent last week.” They had sent their gifts ahead of time with the militia messenger, in case the snows got there before they were allowed to leave. He nodded decisively. “I’ll go upstairs and look.”
He still wasn’t quite awake. In fact, he stumbled a bit and bumped his knee on the bench as he stood to leave. Aldam turned toward Aylan and Trieste and gave them a small nod to follow. When they got to their room, Torrant bent over to get his duffel off his bed, and Aldam put his hand on the back of his neck and whispered, “Sleep” in his ear. Torrant’s weight carried him all the way over, and Aylan deftly pulled the duffel bag out of his way before he hit the bed.
“I did well in my finals too,” Aldam said with a certain amount of pride, and Trieste and Aylan nodded in bemusement. Aldam bent and started stripping Torrant of his shoes and his sweater so he could sleep more comfortably.
“But, Aldam…?” Trieste asked softly, folding the sweater and putting it on his desk chair. “Doesn’t this mean you can’t…?”
Aldam shrugged unconvincingly and looked outside, where the dark was beginning to fall and the snow was beginning to dump down in great drifts. “He would have ridden tonight until he fell off Hammer, and then he would have turned into the snowcat and finished the ride.”
“What are you doing?” Trieste asked Aylan sharply, and Aylan hushed her and continued to strip off Torrant’s breeches.
“I can’t sleep in them, and I’d bet he can’t either. Turn away if your maidenly modesty can’t take it.” The breeches came off to reveal two leanly muscled legs with a smattering of fine hair up the calves. His shirt came down to barely the tops of his thighs, teasing her eyes with what wonders lay beyond that Trieste, at the least, had never seen, and she made a little whistling sound in the place between her nose and her throat. A little slower than her usual movements, she covered him with a green-and-tan throw that was obviously well worn and hand knit.
“You enjoyed that!” she accused weakly, and Aylan rolled his eyes.
“And you didn’t?” With that—and a last, lingering look—he clapped Torrant’s brother on the back. “Aldam, my boy, are you aware that after the younger ones have gone to bed, during the breaks the kitchen serves hard cider?”
“I’ve never had a drink like that,” Aldam confessed shyly, and Trieste came beside him, wrapping a companionable arm around his waist.
“Well, it’s time we all did, isn’t it? And you know, the cider they serve pales in comparison to the store that Aylan has stashed in his room.”
“You know about that?” Aylan asked, closing the door quietly behind him with a pained expression.
“Oh, Aylan, even the professors know.”




LATER—MUCH later—Trieste tiptoed down the hallway in the dark between midnight and dawn. Her feet were exceedingly steady: she made sure of that. Yes, she had drunk more than usual—Aylan had, among other things, this very tasty almond liqueur she had never had before that packed a little bit of a kick—but she had stopped drinking as soon as the idea had possessed her.
She liked this idea, and she didn’t want to be drunk when she thought about it again.
So she’d sat and sipped water, and chatted idly with the blonde daughter of some Lord of Clough, and together they’d watched Aylan lose to Aldam on purpose through several games of backgammon and one painful game of chess. But Aldam was simple and not stupid. After the chess game, he looked reprovingly at Aylan and said, “I am not drunk enough to believe that.”
Aylan had apologized and proceeded to get Aldam just a little bit drunker.
When Trieste had slipped quietly out of Aylan’s room, Aldam was curled up in a well-sedated ball, whispering “Roes” to himself as he fell sadly asleep. Aylan had given her a little bow and a salute and had smiled at the lord’s daughter who was plump, not too bright, and obviously not leaving soon, and Trieste knew her time had come.
Apparently so did Aylan.
“Trieste?” he’d murmured as she opened the door.
“Hmm?”
“Let him lead.”
She’d flushed and shut the door, but she hugged that bit of advice close as she walked down the hall.
Now, before her courage could fail her, she turned her hand on the knob and whispered into Torrant’s darkened room. Triane loomed large through their window, so close that she could be seen even through the sheeting snow and frosted by the cold that made even the bowl valley frigid. Trieste said a little prayer to her namesake. Please, Goddess, just a little joy that I’ve chosen for my own before the life chosen for me begins. Just a little. Just let it be joy.
The Lady was so close that Trieste could swear she actually winked and then closed sleepy silver-cream eyes. That was a sign if Trieste had ever seen one.
Breathing in shallow hushes, she undid the button at the neck of her simple, blue wool dress and pulled it over her head, and then she pulled off her girdled stockings and her panties. She stood a moment, stark pale in the moonlight, and looked at Torrant, who was still asleep, the sharpness of his cheekbones casting shadows against his intriguingly sculpted mouth. He looked tense and intense, even in sleep. She wondered if she could ease a little of that, calm some of that drive, yet leave a little of that flame burning for later, so when Yarri came of age, he wasn’t yet all burned out.
She could try.




TORRANT WOKE up abruptly when Trieste’s cold and pointed nipples brushed up against his bare back. He said something witty, like “ergglapek?” and heard her soft laugh behind him just as her hands came up to his abdomen and pushed the front of his shirt up as well.
“My pants….” Because her cool legs entwined his from behind and then a soft kiss was planted directly between his bare shoulder blades.
“Believe it or not, Aylan took them off,” she murmured. “Right after Aldam willed you to sleep.”
“Why would he do tha-at?” He finished with a squeak because, of all things, her hand was on his stomach, and then it was not, it was lower, it was under his undergarments, and it was… cool… and firm… and stroking…. “Goddess…Trieste… don’t you have a betrothed king and a virginity law…?”
“It’s been repealed,” she breathed into his ear. “And right now”—stroke—“right here”—stroke—“you need rest”—stroke—“and you need to relax.”
“Ahhh-ahhhh….” He was not feeling relaxed, nor like resting, and he certainly did not feel like arguing. He didn’t want this moment to end quite as soon as Trieste was bent on ending it, either. “Ah gods.” He rolled over and over her, fitting his hips between hers and rubbing up against the juncture of her thighs, getting slick with her. He smiled into her grave eyes as she “Oohed” into the night.
“I don’t want to relax right now.” His movements were slow and controlled, but his jaw was clenched, and his teeth were gritted against the wildness that wanted to take him where they both wanted to go.
“Fine. Great. Good.” She gasped, arching up against him, her body pleading for the act between them that had no words.
“But first….” And he slid down her body, kissing, tasting, and looking at her curves in the moonlight, touching softly everything that looked like it might have nerve endings, tasting everything that made her hiss or pant.
Trieste had spent a great deal of her life in the school, where sex was spoken of in hushed tones, as gossip, or in the occasional, awkward class. Torrant had spent his life among the Moons, both in Clough and in Eiran, with unapologetic girls who would discuss frankly what it was a lover should do and with gleeful older brothers who would explain in graphic detail how that should be accomplished. Although technically a virgin, by the time Torrant slid his body up along Trieste’s and kissed her on the mouth, allowing her to taste herself with a wicked and sober little shiver, he made it clear he had studied the charts of this unfamiliar country, and he was definitely more qualified to lead their exploration therein.
“Are you sure?” he asked, poised at Triane’s gate.
“Are you mad to ask that question right now?” she groaned, wrapping her legs around his hips and doing her best to sheathe him inside her as he held himself steady.
“We could keep doing what we were doing….” But now he was teasing her, because he knew she was sure and because he knew she was ready and because now that he knew it was going to happen, he could linger a moment to watch her want him in the moonlight.
“Oh gods, Torrant!” she practically sobbed. “Please….”
And then there was no more talking because he was sliding, and it was heaven, and the gates were already stretched by his fingers and tongue and they parted as though they had been oiled by their desire. And then he was in, and she was biting his shoulder and urging him with her hips and her feet wrapped over his buttocks and he was moving and moving and moving, and the night spun away as they shuddered and moaned and spent.
And again.
And playing, touching fingertips to skin, murmuring, laughing softly, watching the moon set in the window, watching the window turn an opaque gray.
And again.
And sleep.




TORRANT WOKE up with the sun glancing in through his window, feeling as though a horse were sitting on his chest. He looked sideways, and Trieste was sleeping peacefully, but even as he stretched a tender finger to stroke her cheek, he fought for a panicked breath, and another, and he pulled back that tender finger to run his hands through his sweat-soaked hair and wonder what was wrong.
Instinctively, he looked to Aldam’s bed. The covers were pulled up neatly to the pillow, and the throw Roes had made him for their second Solstice (not as polished as the one Bethen had made, but by no means no less loved) was arranged squarely at the foot.
“Aldam?” Torrant breathed and felt him, on the edge of his gift, and Aldam was cold, and he was frightened.
“Trieste!” Torrant wrenched her name from his tortured lungs. “Where’s Aldam?”
He stood up, finding his breeches and pulling them on, while Trieste sat up, pulling the covers up to her chest and pushing her dark hair out of her focusing eyes.
“Torrant?”
“Aldam!” He could hear the desperation in his voice and couldn’t find words for where the desperation came from.
“Aylan’s room?” She shook her head muzzily and his bare feet thudded on the hardwood floor as he pounded down the hall to Aylan’s quarters and hammered on the door.
“Torrant? By Dueant’s balls, brother, show a little compassion!” Aylan’s eyes were bloodshot, his curly yellow hair was standing straight on end, and his breath could have knocked a sparrow out of her tree from a mile away, but all Torrant could see was the color of Aldam’s fear.
“Aldam?”
“He’s here… he fell asleep on my floo….” Aylan looked behind him to where the lord’s blonde daughter had rolled over in his bed, her breasts covered by his pillow. She met his eyes in a furtive, half-fleeing sort of glance, and Aylan blinked in puzzlement when his eyes scanned the pallet of blankets on the floor and realized Aldam was not there. “Gods! Where?”
But Torrant was sprinting back toward his room and the parchment on his table. When he got there, Trieste was dressed and looking unmistakably mussed, but Aylan didn’t even look at her ironically when he came pattering in, barechested and just as mussed as she was. “Aldam’s missing, and you’re writing him a letter?”
“Maps,” Torrant muttered. “We need a map.” With rude slashes of his pen and ink, Torrant drew a big square and labeled it “school” and then drew an “x” and labeled it “Aldam,” with another one in the school that represented himself. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Aldam… where are you?” Then he stumbled a little because his worry had shot an awful lot of will through the parchment, and the map he’d created was so detailed that the pictures on it raised themselves and formed geographical features on the paper. Trieste and Aylan gasped at the Goddess’s magic, but Torrant wasn’t even paying attention to the miracle he’d wrought with desperation.
“Torrant, it’s worked its way into the wood. It’s part of the desk now!”
“Here’s Aldam! Gods, he’s outside the bowl valley—what’s he doing there? And who are these….”
But the map was still forming as they watched, and even as he saw Aldam’s “x” turn into a tiny, pebble-sized figurine of Aldam himself, he watched other pebble-sized figures rise out of the map and turn into mounted horsemen. They were moving east, and they must have been outfitted for snow because they were moving quickly. The one in front had Rath’s teal-and-black banner.
“Rath!” Torrant’s voice shook, and Aylan and Trieste stepped back because it held an unmistakable yowl and growl in it. Torrant’s shirtless back was suddenly not smooth, brown-tinted skin anymore, but mottled white-and-black fur.
“Torrant?” Trieste was terrified, but she risked a touch on his back. “Torrant, sweetheart, you need to calm….”
“Rrowwrrll!” His howl shook the window, and before the echoes had died down he was fully a snowcat, hurtling down the halls of Triannon.
“Goddess!” Trieste breathed, trying to fight tears. “Aylan—what do we do?”
Before he answered, Aylan wheeled around and started pounding down the hall. “Get dressed, get Prof Gregor, and get me my clothes off the floor!” he ordered as his bare feet made panicked slapping sounds down the hall.
Trieste padded next to him, breathless because she didn’t fence like the boys did, but she did have just enough breath to ask a question. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go let him out of the damned school before he makes some poor teacher piss himself!” Aylan answered back, disappearing down the stairwell and leaping the steps four at a time. “Now move!”
And Trieste had no choice but to obey.

*bzzt* *bzzt* *bzzt*

That sound you're hearing is the sound of my brain shorting out.

TOO. MUCH. GOOD. STUFF.

Okay-- random order.  Totally random.  Let's see if I can remember any of it.

*  Chicken is designing characters for my Christmas short, Going UP!  This is Sean, a figurative Knight-in-Shining-Armor ;-)  He's awesomeness, even in rough draft form.

*  I was on Z.A.M.'s Sunday Brunch this weekend.  Josh Lanyon, ZAM, and a lot of readers had a blast talking about our deepest, darkest desire.

*  Mary is HERE on Amber Kell's Blog, writing a fun Birthday Bash story!  I was there earlier, visiting  Ian and Joel, (in case I forgot to put that here.)

*  Making Promises, the Italian Translation (Promisse Fatte) made it into Dreamspinner Press's top ten.  Dayum.  I am impressed with international appeal. Of course I shouldn't be.  I'm still trying to figure out how to launch the translation of Vulnerable that Mariachiara Cabrini and her friends have gifted me with-- but this only gives me more incentive to get on that.  It's too rich a gift not to share.










*  I added two more designs to my Cafe Press store.  Check in and see!

*  Someone posted this on Facebook Last Night.  I could watch it forever.  Because I am a little stoned on sleep deprivation and stress, yes, but watch it forever, still:



Go K-Mart.  Seriously.  That's all I've got to say.  Way to launch an ad campaign.  Brava!

*  Someone also showed me THIS.



Tom Hiddleston.  My hero.  And I've seen the end of Thor, so I know he's still a treacherous sonuvabitch, but, dudes.  A sexy bastard is still sexy.

That's my boy-- wearing a Turtle's
shirt to a King's game!*  As a family the last few days have looked like this:

-- Friday night: Zoomboy's birthday dinner, followed by a King's game for Zoomboy and Mate.

--Saturday: Squish and Zoomboy had their last soccer game.  Squish and I attended a baby shower-- I finished two hat/sock sets, and am proud.  (Okay.  I admit it.  I finished the second set of socks on Sunday-- but I did get them to Mom, so I'm calling it a win.)
(Steve can feel the love.)
-- Sunday night: Squish's soccer party at the roller rink.  Both kids fell down and hurt themselves and spent an hour crying.  I love soccer parties and skating.  So much.  I do. Can you FEEL THE LOVE???

Racing slot cars. One of these things
is not like the others-- guess which
one! -- Monday night: Zoomboy's soccer party at the slot car hobby place.  This was a big deal for Mate, because he's the coach, and he had to stand up and talk.  This year, Mate has a couple of AWESOME team moms (not. me.) who figured out how to fundraise and who provided a spectacular party-- pizza, cake, decorations, trophies, and all.  I've been to a bunch of these things, and this was maybe the best.  The slot car races went on a tad too long, but that's because they're geared to up to 12 people and we had 16.  But each kid got to race for 8 turns, and they gave out ribbons and everything.  Mate was proud-- it all came out amazingly.  He takes credit for none of it, but honestly?  Listening to parents?  They love the way he coaches, and that he's kind to their children. We've even started winning or tying a few games, and he couldn't be prouder of the kids.  So it was really his night, and I'm damned proud of him, and of Zoomboy, the team's space cadet.  (Coach's words!)

In this picture here?  If you look closely?  You can see Zoomboy having a staring contest with a bloodthirsty squirrel, who, in ZB's words, is threatening to rip his face off.  I think it's clear that the boy needs some down time, don't you?  It's a good thing that the kids have a week of minimum days and then a week off while I'm in the middle of NANOWRIMO and trying to write, isn't it?  THEY get LOTS of downtime!

So, erm, if you were wondering why no blog yesterday, well, there it is.  As for me?

I've edited four manuscripts this month, and am waiting for a fifth that has been pre-ordered, pre-publicized, and pre-bought.  I've been stressed over kids' health and my own health, and that was worse.  My old school district threatened to bring criminal charges against me when they pulled me out of my classroom-- and that was worse.  I've worked full time, outside the home, with four kids, two of them under four, when every part of my job gave me an ulcer, and that was worse.  But I have to remind myself of these times to calm myself down, and that's not a great place to be.

So today, when the skies were threatening rain, which we haven't seen in too long a time?

I celebrated by taking a nap.  Yeah, I didn't get any work done, but I feel a little less like killing people. And the inside of my head has stopped making that annoying sound!

Zoomboy and the Sign

Honestly, I've only ever seen a monologue from the play Zooman and the Sign by Charles Fuller, but the minute I started calling Thing 3 "Zoomboy", that title has been going through my head.

If you've been around awhile, you remember when we called Zoomboy, "The Cave Troll" instead.  See, when he was first born, Mate and I knew we were hopelessly outnumbered as it was.  And then Zoomboy started showing his rather peculiar type of manic intelligence, and suddenly this kid seemed like overkill.  Abruptly, we were Boromir and Aragorn in Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, and there was this tremendous force of nature about ready to squash us flat.

"They have a cave troll," Boromir said to Aragorn.

Aragorn's smile was correspondingly arch.  Overkill.  Madness.  They were going to die anyway, and the enemy has a cave troll?

Well, Boromir and Aragorn had to kill their cave troll.

We simply enacted a ten year campaign to make him one of us.

And he is!  He is the geekiest, brainiest Little Lane-ette we have ever turned out.  He loves Star Wars, Monkeys (primates!), Diary of a Wimpy Kid, reading almost anything, and Legos.  He never makes eye contact while he's absorbing information, doesn't say a lot when you ask his opinion, and is devastated if you don't get his jokes.  He refuses to declare whom he's crushing on (and I think he teases me about being gay because he knows he's my last best hope) and he's finally caught on that soccer is social hour, even if he's only partially sure what to do with the ball.  He does his homework every night, never turns it in, and, I'm sure, makes his teacher bug nuts crazy because he aces all his tests.

Every morning as he's getting out of the minivan, he gives me a hug and says, "I love you."  Then he turns to the dog and pats it.  "You, not so much."

It's his ritual, and I treasure it.

In spite of the fact that I drop him off on time, he is perpetually late for class.  His first grade teacher told me that she'd say he had an attention deficit, but that would imply he had any attention at all.  She also said she adored him, and wanted more of him.  I think she was kidding about that.

His second grade teacher said exactly what the first grade teacher said, but added (in an embarrassed whisper) that he seemed to play with himself a lot.  It seems this is a thing that ADHD kids do-- they get bored, and, well, it's portable, it's easy to play with, and it can be a hell of a lot of fun.

We got him on his meds, and his third grade teacher repeated what the first two teachers said, but Thank God, he'd stopped playing with himself.

His fourth grade teacher said he was awesome, and he got lots of great certificates.

His fifth grade teacher can't believe he's not turning in his homework.  I can't believe she thinks he would.

And the entire time, his entire academic career, not one teacher has doubted that he's going to do great things.

When he was born, he spent an extra five days in the hospital after we left, because his blood sugar dropped and he almost died. It feels as though I have spent his entire life feeling my feet on a rocking boat, making sure I never take his persnickety, particular, ADHD presence for granted.  He's not your usual boy, our Zoomboy.  He's not average, or easy, or laid back.  He's intense and wall-bouncy and brilliant.

And kind, and funny,



And mine.  
Happy Birthday, Zoomboy.  It's been ten rollicking, unpredictable, amazing years.  You're still overkill.  We still love you.  We can't wait to see who you become.  



And this pic is for my knitters out there (Roxie, Donna Lee, Knittech, and Samurai) I thought I'd show you that I haven't forgotten you, and that I still keep the faith and knit, and that I treasure every comment you make, even if I don't show up on your pages as much as I'd like to.  This is a pair of worsted weight baby socks, that go with a matching hat-- that I'm going to have to finish up tonight, as well as another pair to go with a contrasting hat, to go to a mom from ZB's soccer team who is having twins.  












And this sort of stoked my fire-- that's the RT Book Reviews magazine that features the article about the Riptide Christmas Bundle.  So, yes.  I'm in there!  And there it is on the shelf of Barnes & Noble. And yes.  I bought a copy.  Seriously-- wouldn't you?  

And then I crashed the cart...

The day at the zoo was really awesome.  We learned about Aye-Ayes (so sad!) and saw the lemurs groom and watched a hippo-po-tom-atus completely lose his shit.  I shall give you pictures and captions, a-cause I have a fourth edit (there will be between five and six this November, if anyone wonders why my pace on NANOWRIMO is a wee bit sluggish) and a blog tour to write, in addition to more Jeremy Bunny who is, btw, breaking my frickin' heart.  
But anyway… I thought first I'd tell you what a wonderful daughter I have.  
Chicken is awesome.  She and I get along very well pop-culturally, and she sends me things like THIS.   In particular, she sends me stuff like THIS while I am IN THE GROCERY STORE.  
And while I was gawping at THIS (and geawd, it just does not GET any less pretty, does it?) a nice man drove his little cart by, saying, "Are you looking at your grocery list on your phone?"
"Nnunoooo…"  I stuttered.  "My daughter just sent me a picture of a very pretty boy, and I'm recovering."
The man rolled his eyes and snorted.  "Girls," he said.  "That's girls."
Well, yeah.  But I'm sure if someone sent a Playboy Bunny to flash across his windscreen, he'd crash his cart too.
  For the kids, the trip down to the zoo
 was as much fun as the Zoo itself.  
We called the black and white Lemurs "Steve lemurs for
obvious reasons.
Look at that!  Isn't it fascinating!  Trust me-- whatever it was,
it was all fascinating.
Mate said, "Look-- he's trying to hide!"  I thought that was
hysterical.
Multicolored mandrill butt.
Let the commentary commence.
Zoomboy was self-acknowledged
"King of the world!"
The thing about this series of pictures
is that they were taken sequentially.
This hippo was not only PISSED THE FUCK OFF, 
He was moving at "outtamywaybitch!" speed.
We're not sure if he wanted his food, or if he'd fucking had it
with all the frickin' people, or even if this was celebratory--
Maybe he was just in a good mood.
But somehow, we don't thinks so.  If you ever see a hippo
charging in the wild?  GET THE HELL OUTTA IT'S WAY! There is no way to take a bad picture of kids on the beach
at sunset.  It's all beautiful, ephemeral, and joyous.
Of course the funny part was, just before these pictures were taken, I said, "Okay kids, don't get too wet or too dirty, and we can go have a sit down dinner!"  Yeah.  We ate Taco Bell while they huddled naked and half naked in the backseat of the minivan, covered in sweaters.

I don't think they minded, do you?
And this was Zoomboy's souvenir.
We think he chose well.



And this is what I missed out on-- Bent Con, which, from all accounts, was a blast.  (*waves wildly to Little Vampires people*)  Sorry I missed it guys--but I think I was where I was supposed to be :-)

A VERY busy weekend

 So I had an offer to go to Bent-Con this weekend, which I sadly declined.  Even though the offer was over two months ago, I knew-- knew with instinct that the weekend was going to be insanely busy, so when I asked Mate, I let him know, honestly, that I understood if he needed me home.  Yeah, sure, playing with all my buddies in a comic book venue would have been awesome.  In fact, the Little Vampire people were there, and Elizabeth got a picture of them waving at me that broke my heart--but…

Well, let's just say my instincts were right on.

To begin with?  On Friday (while I was getting "Why aren't you here you silly bint!" texts ;-) I was one of the drivers at the Nimbus Dam Fish Hatchery.  In fact, I had to recruit Mate, because they still needed one more driver after I volunteered.

Anyway, it was fascinating-- but it was also kind of depressing.

I mean, at the beginning of the tour they gave a little tour, and there was a "Wheel of Survival" for the Chinook Salmon.  Folks, it didn't look good.  It was like, maybe 1/20th of the original batch of fish made it through the life cycle, from egg to fry to stream swimmer, to estuary of adolescence to adult sea resident and then back up into the river womb, where, after all of that surviving, the fish get to have their one jizz and die.

You heard me.  One jizz, and they die.

Except, you know, Folsom Lake took all but 7 miles of river in which to jizz and die, so the hatchery took over, to, you know, both expedite the process and improve it for volume.

So these fish make it all the way up the river, men put them in sorting stations, figure out who's pregnant or who''s ready to pop his wad, and then-- get this-- KILL THE FISH, FORCE THE JIZZ/EGGS OUT OF THEIR BODIES, and MIX IT ALL IN A BIG BUCKET.

I mean, I'm sure there are fish there getting sorted, flapping their tails going, "Yeah, motherfucker, I'm GONNA break your fucking nose!  Cut off my head before I jizz, will ya!  Assholes, take that!"

Or the fish who goes to the head chopper with tail fin extended.  "Eat shit and die, motherfuckers, you'll never take my ji--"

Because seriously.  That is just… I mean, really.

So sad.

Anyway-- we went and saw eggs, fish, dam and pretty lady Fish and Game Department ranger, who gave such a dynamite talk she had me pondering things like "adolescence is the estuary of humanity-- neither fish nor fry, neither fresh nor salt water, just stuck, being battered by the currents of all forces, seeing if the strong survive" and, you know, that poetic gem about fish jizz which I'm sure has you all diving for the brain bleach as you read.

We also fed the young fry, and yeah.  I am that adolescent.  "Lookie that, we're at a fish fry!"  Okay, even the fifth graders thought it was lame.

It was a good day-- and ZoomBoy was enthusiastic about how we had performed our service as visible parenting units--go mom!

And then there was today.

Squish had her game first, and then we drove to see her brother play.

My directions were to go down a road called "Walerga" and turn left on "PFE."  Now, PFE stands for Pacific Fruit Exchange, and it's a throwback to the days when the railroad went out there.  It is, essentially, acres upon acres of farmland, behind which hides cute little developed suburbs.

And somewhere is a big building that passes as a middle school.  And it dead ends in the world's teeniest continuation high school.

And I wasn't sure which one of these bizarre places in the middle of nowhere Mate and ZB's team was playing.  I finally picked the second one I stopped at, and hauled our shit across a parking lot and a tennis court to sit in the sun and watch our kid play.  Mate looked at me in askance as I trudged up-- I was a bit late.

"PFE Road?" I snarled.  "It was spelled wrong."

Yup.  Some one forgot the fucking "B".

Anyway-- so there was that, and on the way home, Mate took the kids (since he had to take one of his players home) and I headed to Mr. Pickles, the superior sandwich place.  Of course, on the way back I missed my turn and ended up in the land of Butt-Hurt Lost.  I followed my nose, though, and soon found myself in familiar territory again and… oh wait-- was that a Mr. Pickles I hadn't seen before?  It was a Mr. Pickles I hadn't seen before.  And it was charming.  And they employees rocked.  That place shall be my Mr. Pickles forever.  So, see, even wandering around in Butt-Hurt Lost can have positive consequences, right?

And after that, Squishy had a birthday party-- and the little girl's mom had told her mom that I was a knitter.  And lo and behold, she needed help.  So Squish ran around this backyard that could fit three of my houses in it and got her face painted (the turtle was a nice touch) and I spent a pleasant forty-five minutes teaching a very charming woman how to knit a pumpkin.  Seriously-- of all the places I'd expected my day to end?  That was not one.

And when we got home?  I'd forgotten, but Mate has Zoomboy at a King's Game.

And tomorrow?

Well, tomorrow is a reaction to the fact that next weekend-- Zoomboy's birthday weekend-- is going to be all soccer games and King's Games and end of the season pizza banquets, so this weekend?

We're going to the San Francisco Zoo with ZB's friend Sam, whom we haven't seen much of in the past few months.  (Sam switched schools, and his mom and I have both been minivans passing in the night. We miss the hell out of each other, though-- we have a craft date after Thanksgiving!)

I"m sort of excited.  I mean really excited. Especially since Zoomboy doesn't know about Sam-- he's going to be so surprised!  Anyway, after that the climax of my weekend is going to be bringing my car in on Monday for a much needed overhaul (we had the oil changed and it got a tune-up but it's still making noise.  I think it's something external and not too serious, but I want the noise to go away).  

So, yeah.  Phew.  You know?

It sounds like a blast, and I'm sorry I missed it, but with all that going on this weekend, I really think it's a good thing I didn't go to Bent-Con!

Strategic Sheep Purposes

So I've been thinking about my tribes.
It's taken me a while-- when I was in school, I was one of the few students who was married and working full time.  Mate and I were our own tribe, and, very honestly, including the kids, we've maintained our tiny tribalism, and that has been my touchstone.  
Beyond that, when I was teaching, every time I thought I'd found my tribe, they'd either move or have somehow had a life-changing experience that made us drift apart.
Sometimes, me and my tribe just experienced philosophical differences.  I favored paganism, and they were more inclined towards misogynistic douchefuckery.  
And sometimes, in spite of being related by blood, vocation, or time, I was simply the odd man out of the tribe.  The yarn, the movies, the stories, the approach to life-- it all sort of rendered me the laughing stock of the tribe.  The fuckup, and the member most likely to crack the wrong joke at the wrong time, or to have to explain where the humor came from, which then merely rendered it lame.
So today, a friend of mine was watching Teen Wolf, and it was the episode.  You guys know.  The One With the Pool.  
My friend liked this episode, for obvious hottie reasons.  She was going to watch it again. 
"For strategic sheep purposes?" I asked, and she laughed.   And then I tried to remember where I'd actually heard that line before.  
And it occurred to me.  It didn't matter where I'd heard that line before.  It didn't matter where she'd heard that line before.   She could have been thinking about any number of things--fiber, knitting, comedy. She could have thought it was a dirty joke and laughed.  She crochets--she could have been planning her next project.  She could have been laughing about the origin of the term "dyed in the wool".  The point is, it didn't matter.  The point is that she got it, and for any of the reasons I thought it was funny, she thought it was funny.   It may take completely different things to piss us off, but humor?  That is a thing we share. 
And that right there is maybe the hallmark of the found tribe.  
I thank Geoff, god of biscuits, whenever one of you out there laughs with me, and I know I've found mine :-)


(Oh yes-- don't forget to check out my new Amy's Lane article on going to conventions and conferences. Bibles full of truth my brethren, bibles full of truth!)

Halloween Stories and The Car is Blue

Long, long years ago (nearing on 30 years, actually)  I had this little Datsun-- yes, it was a Datsun, it was made before they were called Nissans--and I said it was blue.
The entire family said I was crazy, and the car was white.
I said, "No-- look at it, in the shadows-- it's very very light blue."
"Well, all we see is a little white car. You know you need glasses anyway. You must be colorblind."
Well, a few years ago, that color test started making the rounds-- one of those ones where you put the colors in order?  Apparently if you had a score of 20 or less, you had a really sensitive color sense. I got somewhere in the low teens.
ZB has no problem seeing the blue
 car.And so I say again, the car was blue.
And I resist the temptation to shake my ass and blow raspberries at my entire family and friend set from that period, because they told me I was crazy, I was color blind, I was too stupid to know blue from white.
But I am going to remember that moment, as my life gets stranger and stranger and more and more divergent from the life I thought I'd lead as a teenager.  My vision was true.  Just because the whole world did not see what I saw did not mean my vision was not true. It's been pretty much the story of my life.
***
So, with that thoughtful moment aside, Halloween was pretty much wackiness all around.
Speaking of DeathTo begin with, I made a quick trip to the market for little things, like cat food and toilet paper, and I passed a looming, deformed figure in black about three times.  The costume was great-- one of those ones where the skeleton head balances on the black shrouded real head, and there are arm extensions to make Death look more elongated and more macabre. 
The first time I waved-- and he waved solemnly back. 
 The second time I waved and laughed, feeling uncomfortable.  And he waved silently and solemnly back.
The third time I said, "It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it."
And he said, "It's not even a job.  This is my day off-- I just felt like dressing up."
And I almost shit my shorts. 
"So you like being Death?"
"Oh yeah-- I love Halloween.  Dressing up's a blast."
"Well good--because you're doing a bang up job of it, I almost died of fright."
*  
It has occurred to Mate and I that we have not bred the most aggressive of children.  This was made clear to us when we approached a house with an "honor bowl".  Our kids approached trepidatiously, and were looking at the choice, planning to make a judicious choice when…
They were overrun by half the neighborhood, who swarmed like locusts and ran away, leaving our kids staring at an empty bowl and rubbing the cleat marks off their backs.
"They didn't even let us get one!" Squish complained.
"That's okay," I told her, trying to make her feel better.  "We have at least six extra pounds of chocolate at home."
Which was about how much I shipped to Chicken in San Diego.  Happy Halloween, Chicken-- make sure you give most of it away, it's bad for you.
*
Darth Zoomboy would have
done the same.And I went full on Mama Bear on some poor student the other day.  Yes, yes, I usually take a savage anti-bitch stance on the minimum wage worker in a shitty job, but this person (who works the mail room of my daughter's apartment complex) basically refused to look for Chicken's actual name when looking for her packages.  So, my baby, tired from midterms and very homesick, had three packages, one from me, one from my mom, and one from herself, all dedicated to making her feel better, and these idiots couldn't look beyond the apartment number and look at her name. 
And they made my baby cry.
And suddenly I didn't give a shit about how much money they made in their jobs, I wanted them to do their jobs better.
So I yelled and they found her stuff.
"Geez, Mom-- you yelled at the sweetest guy in the front office."
"Tell him to be less sweet and more competent.  It's not like you have a name you find in every classroom twice." Yup.  Sometimes Queen-Bitch is the way to go.  (Give me a couple of weeks and I will feel guilty about this.  Right now I'm riding the empowerment… let it go.  It never lasts long enough.)
***
And Squish knew exactly what she wanted to be for  Christmas.  She wanted to be a Ninja Bunny.  We went with it-- you heard the story.  The Playboy Bunny ears and tail, the ninja costume, the sword.  And then we told Chicken what she was for Halloween. 
 And Chicken said, "That little shit.  She got that from me."
"You told her to dress up as a ninja bunny?"
"No!  But when I was there for my birthday I showed her THIS."  And she sent me the black and white picture to the left.   And I was even more impressed.  Because that was a joint effort between my girls and me and their father.  Best Halloween costume ever.  (And the fun part about it?  Nobody ever questioned it.  "Oh, you must be a ninja-bunny!"  "Yes.  Yes I am!")
**
And that's it-- Halloween Stories and the Car is Blue.  Oh-- and one more thing.
I think I've decided on my newest Cafe Press item.  It's going to be a T-shirt that reads, "Put the E-Reader down and walk away."  A number of book-a-holics have assured me that this will sell.

So What Am I Doing Next Year?

Okay-- so I wanted to post something adorable for Halloween, and what can I say?  There is NOTHING more adorable than the guys from Little Vampires.   And then I WENT THERE for the link to the site, and saw the post that Rebecca put up for Halloween.  GO!  GO NOW!  YOU WILL BE HOPELESSLY CUTED OUT!   Because even though Rebecca gave me permission to post one of her comics on my blog, I loved the picture SO MUCH that I want people to FLOCK THERE, wander around the store, read the web comics from beginning to end-- fall in love.  (I gave James and Rebecca mention in the book Shiny! which will be out in March sometime-- they're some of my favorite con-people EVER.  Go visit their site and find out why.)

Anyway, so I saw the above webcomic, and then this picture in my phone, and I had to wonder... who zapped THAT guy?

Seriously-- this whole "planning ahead next year" is blowing my mind.  I mean, I've always sort of had a knack for it.  I always felt like I was pulling a semester out of the seat of my pants, but the fact was, i always had a long term assessment in mind, and we were always working toward it.  But to sit down with Mary and say, "Okay, if I agree to do this one thing, where is it going to fit in?" and have her play with my writing queue so that I can write a story NEXT YEAR-- well that's sort of boggling.

I know that the industry has changed since my first go at it-- I submitted If I Must at the end of August and found out September 1st that I would be published on December 1st.  I submitted Keeping Promise Rock in mid-October, and it was out on January 19th.  Dreamspinner can't afford to do that anymore, and, honestly, they shouldn't try.  There's a lot to be said for an extended production time-- better quality product for another, and a chance to promote and get the word out as well.  But it's more than that-- it's that old Hollywood thing.  Mate and I used to see an actor from one venue in another venue or a commercial, or hear that they were on Broadway, and we'd say, "Hooray!  They're working!"  And since I've begun to make my own living with my art, I've come to really appreciate that idea.  Once your financial needs are met, the thing with writing (or acting or painting or singing, I suspect) is that working is really all you ever wanted to do in the first place.  The opportunity to work at this thing that you love-- that's huge.  So, well, yeah.  It's blowing my mind.

In a year I'll be working collaboratively on the current Riptide project, Bluewater Bay.  It feels sort of delicious, and I'll be excited to do it, but, folks, that's an outline for what I'll be doing in a year.  

From someone who can't tell you what she's having for dinner tonight.  Just the knowing that I'll be working in a year is pretty fucking delicious.

And speaking of delicious-- see that cover in RT Book Reviews?  Yup.  Riptide Gives Back- the charity bundle that includes Christmas Kitsch gets cover mention on RT.  I'm sort of doing the pee-pee dance about this.  I hope we raise a whole lot of money for homeless LGBT charities.  Rusty and Oliver are good spokesboys for how much kids really just need a hand up-- and love.


And speaking of love-- this sign here that Zoomboy is holding is an act of love.  That thing lived in our house for a year before Mate got it all together, but there it is, lighting up ARCO Arena.  Mate was so proud-- and honestly, I'm pretty proud too.  That there's my family, y'all, and if they have a love affair with the underdog, well, so do I.  We're well matched.  Go Kings!

And, uhm, *snicker*  This was making the rounds on the ethernet, and I thought it would give the Halloween Psycho Killer motif a nice little update.  Because, you know, there's never a swamp when you need one.

And the Rainbow Barf Gnome-- this is Chicken's universal signal for "Mom, you're grossing me out with all this talk of love and the way you have unconditional faith in me.  Stop it.  Say something snarky immediately."  Alas, I am poor at taking hints, so I get this a lot in my texting.

And that's it-- I know what I'll be doing next year, and I can definitely tell you what I'm doing tonight.

I'm going Trick-or-Treating with Darth Vader, a Ninja Bunny, and a Chiwhowhat in my shirt!

Yeah-- Not Surprised

Some things that don't surprise me-- 

*  That the cat NEEDS to sleep IN THE BOX.

*  That my friend Wendy would harass a poor clerk at Chipotle about a bit of unripe avocado until the poor woman offered her free guacamole for her next visit.






*  That Bruce Springsteen's "Into the Fire" can make even a shitty, cold, busy, sickish sort of day into an inspiration.



*  That my parents are part of an RV community that holds an EXCELLENT Halloween carnival the two weekends before Halloween.

*  That the drive down the Jackson Hwy on Friday was beautiful.
The Drive Down Jackson Hwy.
*  That Zoomboy came in second in a Halloween screaming contest.

*  That the kids had an awesome time at the carnival, even without me.

*  That I may have to postpone the holiday knitting so I can knit a sweater for the dog.

The hat that's GOING to Kentucky.*  That I managed to finish a hat for Mary's daughter that is not heavy enough for the cold Kentucky winters.


Some things that did surprise me that shouldn't have--

*  That the cat NEEDS to sleep in the box EVERY NIGHT.

*  That my crazy friend Wendy would respond to an offer of free guacamole with "Well, this isn't even my home store."

*  That I would need inspiration on a gray, foggy, frickin' COLD Monday morning.

*  That Squish came in first in a Halloween screaming contest.


*  That I would wish I could stay for the whole Halloween carnival.

The dog, keeping warm.*  That the dog would find a way to get warm without the hand- knit sweater.

*  That I could also finish a hat for Mary's daughter that will actually keep her head warm and not allow her to freeze.


Some things that amused the hell out of me, surprise or no--

*  That the cat will leave the box in order to molest me in the bathroom.
I'm not in the bathroom, but the
cat's in the box.
*  That my story about Wendy and Chipotle was a GRL favorite, and now two-hundred people she will never meet, know her by the name, "Avocado Wendy."

*  That Pandora understands my Bruce obsession and is now playing "Meet Me at Mary's Place" in order to facilitate my day.

Squish and Zoomboy,
not practicing for the
win.*  That when asked if she wanted to practice for the screaming contest, Squish gave a tiny burst of sound.

 Her grandmother said, "No-- it needs to be loud for longer."
 
She said, "Okay."

 Grandma said, "Don't you want to practice some more?"

"No.  I'm good."

And so she was.

*  That I'm sick, even without going to the Halloween carnival.

The hat NOT going to Kentucky.*  That the dog is not satisfied with sleeping "In my jacket" but will do a bizarre inverted flop from "between my jacket and shirt" to "between my shirt and my skin".  Little perv.

*  That knitting continues to be my holy grail in relaxation and part of the reason fall premiere season has been invented.

:-)

Hey, folks-- just a reminder, I put the Cafe Press link up in the corner of the blog, so you can visit there whenever you have a need for a Johnnies shirt or a dragon.  Also, I'm thinking of holding a monthly contest for Amy Lane quotes that should go on shirts in the store.  If you have an idea for one, post it in the comments at any time, and I'll try to include that in the voting.

Amy

And Dex and Kane introduce...

And here to introduce Amy's Cafe Press store (brought to you by the inimitable and awesome Rhys Ford) are Dex and Kane:

"Night bunny."

"G'night Unca Dex."

Dex kissed Frances on top of her downy little head and Kane hefted her into his arms and swept her off to bed.

Then Dex turned back to the computer where he was finishing work from the day.

A few minutes later Kane's noises returned accompanied by Kane's heat at Dex's back--and a sharp chin digging into Dex's shoulder.

"Whatcha doin'?" Kane's breath puffed in Dex's ear with every word, and Dex's groin ached. Sex. Yeah, they still needed to have it.

"Helping an artist design a logo for us," Dex said, hitting send on the modifications he'd asked for.

"A logo?"

"Yeah. Like, you know. To sell stuff."

"Yeah, I know what one is. Why do we need one?"

Dex turned his head to give a quick peck on the cheek, but he had to stop and linger for a moment. Kane's skin was... uhm....under his tongue, and then Kane turned his head and opened his mouth and the kiss got bigger. 

Dex's computer pinged right when he was about to shuck Kane's jeans, right there in the living room, because that marvelous uncut cock would be mouth level as Dex sat in the office chair.

With a grunt, Dex tore himself away and looked to see what the artist had sent back.

"Oh, nice," he murmured, and Kane nuzzled his ear. Oh... oh man. Dex clenched his stomach and his groin and even his ass against all of the things he wanted to do with Kane right the hell now and grunted to get Kane's attention. "Look," he said, and Kane pulled himself away from Dex's (sensitized, throbbing) ear long enough to grunt back in appreciation.

"Classy," he begrudged. 

"It should be-- it's the same artist who did the Sinner's Gin T-shirt you wear all the time."

Kane preened. "That's a good T-shirt-- can she introduce me to the band?"

Dex eyed him sourly. He suspected Kane had a secret crush on Damien, the lead guitarist. "No," he said, eyes narrow.

Kane ignored him and traced the stylized lines of the logo. "Too bad--but it's cool anyway. What're we gonna do with it."

"Put it on T-shirts, coffee cups, that sort of thing."

"So, like, people can see our porn company without knowing it's a porn company?" Kane asked blankly, and Dex wrinkled his nose.


"Well, it'll be like a secret club," Dex said reasonably. "Gay guys can wear it and they'll be like, 's'up', and--"

"Straight women can wear it and gay guys will know they're kinky," Kane chuckled and, well, Dex had slept with those girls too, and there was some truth in that. 

"Or that they're friendly," Dex added, because there was more truth there. Real Johnnies girls wouldn't mind that some of the guys were gay-- but they would appreciate the pretty. 

"Yeah, okay, fine," Kane said. He was rubbing at Dex's neck with his big, warm hand, and Dex's whole body was melting and about done with work. "How come it's got to be a secret? Why don't we just have a naked guy with a big cock on the front." Kane chuckled evilly. "Now that would sell some fuckin' porn!"

"Cause," Dex purred. Kane's hands felt so nice on both his shoulders now, that he didn't want to argue, he just wanted to okay the logo so they could go to the bedroom and have non-camera rockin' sex. 

"Cause why?" Kane's hands stopped moving.

"Cause," Dex let out a breath and sat up straighter. "Cause who's going on the front? I mean, a year ago you woulda done it, you cocky bastard."

Kane made a sound of displeasure. "Yeah, but, you know. Kids could see it." Sudden dawning realization. "Frances could see it! God-- you're not gonna do that are you?"

Dex typed, "Awesome, go with that!" into the computer and then hit send so Rhys would run with that design. Then he stood up and pulled the muscle-bound psycho with the giant freaking heart into his arms. "No, idiot. I'm going to put that on the shirt, and we can wear it, and Frances can see it, and all she'll know it says is 'Johnnies'."

Kane perked up, but then sobered. "You're going to have to turn the company over to someone else before she know what that means," he said seriously, and Dex grimaced. Yeah, it had occurred to him too. 

"I've got a plan for that," he said, because he did.

Kane grinned. "Good. Your plans always come through. You know what I've got a plan for, Dexter?"

Dex grinned back. "God, I hope it's us naked!"

"Straight up. You go get ready, I'll lock up."

Oh, thank God. Dex tore his T-shirt over his head as he ran, thinking that maybe he and Kane would have to order more than one before he got naked and ceased to think with anything that didn't want Kane's skin against his own.

Johnnies T-shirts, on sale now at Cafe Press

http://www.cafepress.com/amylane/10527356

Also available-- Angst and Pain Dragon T-shirts

http://www.cafepress.com/amylane/10527475





And a thousand thanks to Rhys Ford who set the WHOLE DAMNED THING up.