K.C. Kendricks's Blog, page 114
April 13, 2011
Lessons From the Cat
April 14, 2011
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 12 - L
When I was very young, we didn't have cats, and the reason we didn't was because my grandfather had hounds. Hunting hounds, not pets. No small animal was safe running loose around the old homestead. It wasn't until my parents had saved enough to buy their first house that I had a cat. And my first cat was a Siamese named Mugsy.
We came by Mugsy as a favor to our next-door neighbor. They built a new house along a busy highway and feared for Mugsy's life. I'm not sure why keeping him inside wasn't an option, but 1967 was a long time ago and it hardly matters now. The neighbors asked my mother if we'd take him since the neighborhood was his home and he knew us. Mom said yes.
Mugsy adjusted to eating his meals and sleeping at our home. Whether or not he still haunted his old yard, I don't remember. The yards backed up to each other so he probably did. What I do remember is Mugsy was quite the feline pugilist – or so he fancied himself.
Before he came to live with us, Mugsy was oblivious to the presence of another Siamese who lived across the road - Cocoa. We know this from Cocoa's owner who never saw Mugsy before he came to live with us. Apparently our yard was the neutral zone, much like the one between the Federation and the Romulans.
Younger, and apparently stronger and smarter, Cocoa never came calling. He simply sat in his driveway and taunted Mugsy. By doing nothing.
Okay, he was breathing, but we have to give him a pass on that.
Mugsy hated Cocoa just on general principle… who the hell knows why. It was a cat thing. The moment Mugsy saw Cocoa, hot cat rage seized him and across the road he'd sprint, tail in the air. Cocoa would merely sit there and wait until Mugsy tackled him, and then HE WOULD KICK MUGSY'S CHOCOLATE BROWN ASS.
It was pathetic in a gotta-take-the-idiot-for-stitches-again sort of way. My dad was not pleased and now that I'm older I understand why. Vets are expensive.
We didn't have Mugsy too many years. He was hit by a car on his way to do battle and we had to tell his original owners he died at home in the very manner they'd feared.
I don't remember if I cried or not, being maybe ten, but I suspect I did. My stoic father didn't protest when my mother declared we were getting a Siamese kitten at the earliest opportunity. I suppose that blunted the grief. I remember KiKi with love and fondness. He lived to the ripe old age of seventeen.
Mugsy never really joined our household. I think to him his real family deserted him and he never got over it. We cared for him, fed him, housed him and took him to the vet, but we were not his people.
And while I don't remember Mugsy with any great affection, he taught a young girl a valuable lesson – never start a fight you can't win .
KC Kendricks
Visit my website at: http://www.kckendricks.com
Follow me on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/kckendricks
Join my mailing list at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/betweenthekeys
Read my personal blog: http://www.kckendricks.blogspot.com
Find me on facebook - KC with the little butterfly
Check out the MySpace page: http://www.myspace.com/kckendricks
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 12 - L
When I was very young, we didn't have cats, and the reason we didn't was because my grandfather had hounds. Hunting hounds, not pets. No small animal was safe running loose around the old homestead. It wasn't until my parents had saved enough to buy their first house that I had a cat. And my first cat was a Siamese named Mugsy.
We came by Mugsy as a favor to our next-door neighbor. They built a new house along a busy highway and feared for Mugsy's life. I'm not sure why keeping him inside wasn't an option, but 1967 was a long time ago and it hardly matters now. The neighbors asked my mother if we'd take him since the neighborhood was his home and he knew us. Mom said yes.
Mugsy adjusted to eating his meals and sleeping at our home. Whether or not he still haunted his old yard, I don't remember. The yards backed up to each other so he probably did. What I do remember is Mugsy was quite the feline pugilist – or so he fancied himself.
Before he came to live with us, Mugsy was oblivious to the presence of another Siamese who lived across the road - Cocoa. We know this from Cocoa's owner who never saw Mugsy before he came to live with us. Apparently our yard was the neutral zone, much like the one between the Federation and the Romulans.
Younger, and apparently stronger and smarter, Cocoa never came calling. He simply sat in his driveway and taunted Mugsy. By doing nothing.
Okay, he was breathing, but we have to give him a pass on that.
Mugsy hated Cocoa just on general principle… who the hell knows why. It was a cat thing. The moment Mugsy saw Cocoa, hot cat rage seized him and across the road he'd sprint, tail in the air. Cocoa would merely sit there and wait until Mugsy tackled him, and then HE WOULD KICK MUGSY'S CHOCOLATE BROWN ASS.
It was pathetic in a gotta-take-the-idiot-for-stitches-again sort of way. My dad was not pleased and now that I'm older I understand why. Vets are expensive.
We didn't have Mugsy too many years. He was hit by a car on his way to do battle and we had to tell his original owners he died at home in the very manner they'd feared.
I don't remember if I cried or not, being maybe ten, but I suspect I did. My stoic father didn't protest when my mother declared we were getting a Siamese kitten at the earliest opportunity. I suppose that blunted the grief. I remember KiKi with love and fondness. He lived to the ripe old age of seventeen.
Mugsy never really joined our household. I think to him his real family deserted him and he never got over it. We cared for him, fed him, housed him and took him to the vet, but we were not his people.
And while I don't remember Mugsy with any great affection, he taught a young girl a valuable lesson – never start a fight you can't win .
KC Kendricks
Visit my website at: http://www.kckendricks.com
Follow me on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/kckendricks
Join my mailing list at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/betweenthekeys
Read my personal blog: http://www.kckendricks.blogspot.com
Find me on facebook - KC with the little butterfly
Check out the MySpace page: http://www.myspace.com/kckendricks
April 12, 2011
Karma to Kings
April 13, 2011
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 11 - K
When I signed up to do the Blogging from A-Z thing this month, I never imagined that 'K' would be the letter I'd stumble over. Well, here I am with nothing witty or profound to say about K. Since that is the case, I'll give you a warning right here and now. You're about to be subjected to a mish-mash of words and things that somehow, and occasionally, relate to K. Run now, or forever hold your opinion.
K – Karma. Let's all remember karma and be NICE to one another, dammit!
K – Kelly. The dog my parents owned when my dad died.
K – Kiss. A romance writer's secret weapon.
K – KISS. One of the best live shows I ever plunked down thirty bucks for. Bad grammar, yes.
K – K-cups. We got a k-cup coffee brewer in December and we love it. Every cup is fresh. We got the Cuisinart with the little basket so we can use our regular ground coffee as well as the little k-cups. So far we've tried about six different brands and we like Tully's Kona and Green Mountain Dark Magic the best.
K – Kona. It's a bad year for Kona lovers. The weather on the Big Island has led to a reduced crop. I'm hoarding the twelve Kona k-cups I have left for special mornings.
K – Kahlua. The smaller the drinking establishment you're visiting, the more important it is to ask if the "cream" they are mixing with your Kahlua has passed its expiration date.
K – Klingon. Either you're a Trekker or you're not.
K – Kinks. Thank you, Ray Davies, for introducing me to transvestites. Girls will be boys, and boys will be girls, it's a mixed up, muddled up shook up world except for Lola. Lo-lo-lolo-Lola.
K – King Leonidas. I confess. I saw the movie '300' on the big screen. Why you ask? I hate to admit this, being a writer and all, but there are times a picture is worth a thousand words. Do you see that man's thighs?
That's it for the letter K. I hope to have more cohesive thoughts on L tomorrow. Thanks for reading this far, and I hope you're checking out some of the other A-Z bloggers. We aim to entertain.
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 11 - K
When I signed up to do the Blogging from A-Z thing this month, I never imagined that 'K' would be the letter I'd stumble over. Well, here I am with nothing witty or profound to say about K. Since that is the case, I'll give you a warning right here and now. You're about to be subjected to a mish-mash of words and things that somehow, and occasionally, relate to K. Run now, or forever hold your opinion.
K – Karma. Let's all remember karma and be NICE to one another, dammit!
K – Kelly. The dog my parents owned when my dad died.
K – Kiss. A romance writer's secret weapon.
K – KISS. One of the best live shows I ever plunked down thirty bucks for. Bad grammar, yes.
K – K-cups. We got a k-cup coffee brewer in December and we love it. Every cup is fresh. We got the Cuisinart with the little basket so we can use our regular ground coffee as well as the little k-cups. So far we've tried about six different brands and we like Tully's Kona and Green Mountain Dark Magic the best.
K – Kona. It's a bad year for Kona lovers. The weather on the Big Island has led to a reduced crop. I'm hoarding the twelve Kona k-cups I have left for special mornings.
K – Kahlua. The smaller the drinking establishment you're visiting, the more important it is to ask if the "cream" they are mixing with your Kahlua has passed its expiration date.
K – Klingon. Either you're a Trekker or you're not.
K – Kinks. Thank you, Ray Davies, for introducing me to transvestites. Girls will be boys, and boys will be girls, it's a mixed up, muddled up shook up world except for Lola. Lo-lo-lolo-Lola.
K – King Leonidas. I confess. I saw the movie '300' on the big screen. Why you ask? I hate to admit this, being a writer and all, but there are times a picture is worth a thousand words. Do you see that man's thighs?
That's it for the letter K. I hope to have more cohesive thoughts on L tomorrow. Thanks for reading this far, and I hope you're checking out some of the other A-Z bloggers. We aim to entertain.
April 11, 2011
J is for JUNK
April 12, 2011
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 10 - J
Junk in the attic: Christmas decorations and wrap, artificial Christmas tree in the box, assorted glassware and boxed up knick-knacks, old tax returns, old picture frames, old silk flowers, an old steamer chest, old wicker baskets, and only God knows what else.
Junk in the basement: canning jars, two old coffee makers, paint in colors that will never grace my walls again, computer packaging and boxes, twelve coolers in whatever size you can imagine (we only use one of them), old kitchen canisters, old candles, bags of sawdust for on an icy driveway, a box fan, a desk fan, a ripped raincoat, and I don't want to even know what Himself has in his workshop. I don't go in there.
Junk in the shed: a broken shovel; a non-operational roto-tiller, garden pond supplies for a pond we no longer have, two non-functional weed-whackers, three non-operational chainsaws Himself swears he's using for spare parts, an old window air conditioner in case the central air goes out, birdhouses, decorative flags, a sled, one large dog crate, on small dog/cat carrier, a doll's bed, four bicycles (we only ride two), two bicycle racks (we just load the bikes into the bed of the Silverado), a grass seed spreader, a garden canopy, a tent, window screens, buckets, old flower pots, a box of ceramic tile, low-voltage lighting we took out when we got solar lights, and only God knows what else.
How did we get so much JUNK?
Call the Pickers. I'm ready to sell!
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 10 - J
Junk in the attic: Christmas decorations and wrap, artificial Christmas tree in the box, assorted glassware and boxed up knick-knacks, old tax returns, old picture frames, old silk flowers, an old steamer chest, old wicker baskets, and only God knows what else.
Junk in the basement: canning jars, two old coffee makers, paint in colors that will never grace my walls again, computer packaging and boxes, twelve coolers in whatever size you can imagine (we only use one of them), old kitchen canisters, old candles, bags of sawdust for on an icy driveway, a box fan, a desk fan, a ripped raincoat, and I don't want to even know what Himself has in his workshop. I don't go in there.
Junk in the shed: a broken shovel; a non-operational roto-tiller, garden pond supplies for a pond we no longer have, two non-functional weed-whackers, three non-operational chainsaws Himself swears he's using for spare parts, an old window air conditioner in case the central air goes out, birdhouses, decorative flags, a sled, one large dog crate, on small dog/cat carrier, a doll's bed, four bicycles (we only ride two), two bicycle racks (we just load the bikes into the bed of the Silverado), a grass seed spreader, a garden canopy, a tent, window screens, buckets, old flower pots, a box of ceramic tile, low-voltage lighting we took out when we got solar lights, and only God knows what else.
How did we get so much JUNK?
Call the Pickers. I'm ready to sell!
April 10, 2011
Individual Pursuit
April 11, 2011
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 9 - I
Of all things I've set my hands to, writing is the most solitary, the most individual pursuit I know. Yes, it falls short of the individual existence, that thing of spirit and skin we alone can experience, but our singular being is all that surpasses the pursuit of writing. Writing is pulling pure thought from the essence of self and committing it to the page.
I like to think writing is for introverts, perhaps because I am one. Years ago, an employer gave everyone in the company ye olde Myers-Briggs test, and I'm so far into being an ISTJ, the HR idiot thought I fudged some of my answers. I moved on from that company. Like Popeye, 'I yam who I yam'.
The long hours spent staring at a blank computer screen isn't for everyone. And hitting the delete key and dumping a thousand words one just wrangled into a coherent existence isn't for the faint of heart. Writing is not easy. Writing can be lonely. Writing will rip dreams and secrets out of you and splash them across the page for all to see. Fail to recognize what writing does to you, and you bleed for all to see.
And yet, every day, I never hesitate to place my fingers on the keys and type. Some nights it's a struggle to pull five hundred words out of the air. Some nights my fingers can't move fast enough. I never know until I begin what sort of evening it will be. I can't think of anything else I'd rather do.
There is much of the power of creation to writing. A single pure thought takes on life and light and becomes real. I coax the characters alive to share my mind and my days until their stories are told and then brutally cast them aside to embrace others. But they never completely leave because they are part of me. Scary, isn't it?
And it's wonderful. Have I regressed to my childhood with my imaginary friends? No. I share them with you, the reader, and allow you to see into myself – if you know where to look.
I practice my individual pursuit with great passion, and by doing so find that I am never lonely, and never truly alone.
KC
PS. The picture is of a mouse pad I got at a craft fair. The fellow has them for a variety of occupations and sports. I wish I still had his business card because his creations are unique and fun. If he's at the Mountain Heritage Festival in June, I'll get a new card and share his url with you.
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 9 - I
Of all things I've set my hands to, writing is the most solitary, the most individual pursuit I know. Yes, it falls short of the individual existence, that thing of spirit and skin we alone can experience, but our singular being is all that surpasses the pursuit of writing. Writing is pulling pure thought from the essence of self and committing it to the page.
I like to think writing is for introverts, perhaps because I am one. Years ago, an employer gave everyone in the company ye olde Myers-Briggs test, and I'm so far into being an ISTJ, the HR idiot thought I fudged some of my answers. I moved on from that company. Like Popeye, 'I yam who I yam'.
The long hours spent staring at a blank computer screen isn't for everyone. And hitting the delete key and dumping a thousand words one just wrangled into a coherent existence isn't for the faint of heart. Writing is not easy. Writing can be lonely. Writing will rip dreams and secrets out of you and splash them across the page for all to see. Fail to recognize what writing does to you, and you bleed for all to see.
And yet, every day, I never hesitate to place my fingers on the keys and type. Some nights it's a struggle to pull five hundred words out of the air. Some nights my fingers can't move fast enough. I never know until I begin what sort of evening it will be. I can't think of anything else I'd rather do.
There is much of the power of creation to writing. A single pure thought takes on life and light and becomes real. I coax the characters alive to share my mind and my days until their stories are told and then brutally cast them aside to embrace others. But they never completely leave because they are part of me. Scary, isn't it?
And it's wonderful. Have I regressed to my childhood with my imaginary friends? No. I share them with you, the reader, and allow you to see into myself – if you know where to look.
I practice my individual pursuit with great passion, and by doing so find that I am never lonely, and never truly alone.
KC
PS. The picture is of a mouse pad I got at a craft fair. The fellow has them for a variety of occupations and sports. I wish I still had his business card because his creations are unique and fun. If he's at the Mountain Heritage Festival in June, I'll get a new card and share his url with you.
April 8, 2011
Hemerocallis
April 9, 2011
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 8 - H
I come from a long line of gardeners, so it's hardly a surprise I enjoy getting down in the dirt to plant something green. I have clear memories of my great-grandmother, clothed in traditional "plain" dress and bonnet, working in her garden. Mary's garden was a mix of vegetables and flowers, as one would expect from someone born in 1889 and raised in those simpler days.
I'll tell you another time how amazing I think it is to have known someone born in the 1880s. I was around eleven when she died, and too young to fully understand how difficult her life had been, and how she triumphed over two world wars, a great depression, the death of young children and the discriminations a woman of her time endured.
Up until about two or three years before her death, every Saturday morning, my great-grandmother loaded up a truck with whatever she was taking to "city" market to sell. She engaged more in trade with other sellers than straight sales, but that was the way it worked. It was from market trading, a century or so ago, somewhere around 1910 when she first 'went to housekeeping,' she acquired the first hemerocallis fulva – the common orange daylily.
She planted her traded clump of daylily down by the creek, and there it thrived for almost a hundred years until very recently when a spring flood eroded the bank out from under the plants. I was sad to see this link to my great-grandmother break, but I have plenty of the old daylily planted around my yard. Everyone in the family has it in their yard. But you know what? A few young clumps are re-establishing themselves along the creek, downstream.
I will "rescue" them one dark night when the park rangers are sleeping and plant them back where they belong, along the stretch of the creek where Mary's great-great-great grandson plays. And I will tell him, when he is older, the importance of the orange daylily in his family lore.
Resilient in the face of what the universe throws at it, the daylily thrives. Flood or drought, it manages to flourish and prosper. Its roots spread beneath the surface, unseen, storing what it needs for difficult times. Its leaves shape themselves to catch the morning dew and channel the precious drops down to the roots. It displays it's finest blooms to the world, one day at a time.
And that's a life lesson we can all receive from the daylily, my favorite perennial.
KC
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 8 - H
I come from a long line of gardeners, so it's hardly a surprise I enjoy getting down in the dirt to plant something green. I have clear memories of my great-grandmother, clothed in traditional "plain" dress and bonnet, working in her garden. Mary's garden was a mix of vegetables and flowers, as one would expect from someone born in 1889 and raised in those simpler days.
I'll tell you another time how amazing I think it is to have known someone born in the 1880s. I was around eleven when she died, and too young to fully understand how difficult her life had been, and how she triumphed over two world wars, a great depression, the death of young children and the discriminations a woman of her time endured.
Up until about two or three years before her death, every Saturday morning, my great-grandmother loaded up a truck with whatever she was taking to "city" market to sell. She engaged more in trade with other sellers than straight sales, but that was the way it worked. It was from market trading, a century or so ago, somewhere around 1910 when she first 'went to housekeeping,' she acquired the first hemerocallis fulva – the common orange daylily.
She planted her traded clump of daylily down by the creek, and there it thrived for almost a hundred years until very recently when a spring flood eroded the bank out from under the plants. I was sad to see this link to my great-grandmother break, but I have plenty of the old daylily planted around my yard. Everyone in the family has it in their yard. But you know what? A few young clumps are re-establishing themselves along the creek, downstream.
I will "rescue" them one dark night when the park rangers are sleeping and plant them back where they belong, along the stretch of the creek where Mary's great-great-great grandson plays. And I will tell him, when he is older, the importance of the orange daylily in his family lore.
Resilient in the face of what the universe throws at it, the daylily thrives. Flood or drought, it manages to flourish and prosper. Its roots spread beneath the surface, unseen, storing what it needs for difficult times. Its leaves shape themselves to catch the morning dew and channel the precious drops down to the roots. It displays it's finest blooms to the world, one day at a time.
And that's a life lesson we can all receive from the daylily, my favorite perennial.
KC
April 7, 2011
Give Me One Night by KC Kendricks
Apirl 8, 2011
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 7 - G
Woo-hoo! The first week of the A to Z Blogging Challenge is 'in the can'. I can say it's all good. As in - it's a darn good thing I organized, organized, organized and had a game plan worked out. Without it, my brain would be mush. Seriously.
Pacing is important, so for the letter G, I've given myself a break. Not only am I doing a promo, I'm posting it just a tad early since tomorrow is Friday. So without further ado, here's a promo from an early best seller, Give Me One Night.
One night can change a life....
GIVE ME ONE NIGHT
Contemporary gay romance
http://amberquill.com/AmberAllure/GiveMeOneNight.html
When passion changes the rules, one more night can alter the future...
Brody O'Connor joins the revelry of the yearly pub crawl, hunting a like-minded man for a night of fun and frolic with no strings attached. When a mystery man in an emerald green shirt engages Brody's interest, it doesn't take long for the hunter to become the prey.
Well-matched with his mystery man, Brody regrets his "no strings" approach to a night of shared passion that leaves him hungry for more. The morning after, Evan is gone, as agreed. Brody knows it was a mistake to let him go, and vows to find him.
Evan also never expected to meet someone like Brody. Now Brody wants to change the rules, and Evan decides he'll give Brody one more night to convince him to stay...
EXCERPT: (from Brody's point of view)
My quarry stood at the bar, sipping what appeared to be a soda. I stepped into the whirling lights, planted my feet, squared my shoulders, put my hands on my hips, and waited for him to spot me. It didn't take long.
He looked me up and down, a slow, lazy appraisal that focused my attention on his face. Then he smiled and lowered his eyelids with a slight nod of his head.
In that instant I knew something about him there are no flowery or romantic words for – only gut instinct. He wanted me to fuck him.
My body responded to the knowledge. Arousal snapped through me, sending shivers down my spine. My nipples, sensitive as any girl's, tingled to the point that the fabric of my sweater rubbing against them became deliciously painful. My cock swelled to its full seven and three quarter inch glory in a single pounding heartbeat.
I'd fuck him until he was limp as a rag doll in less time than that if I could get my hands on him.
His chin lifted, the knowledge of the game joined in his eyes. I gestured for him to join me on the dance floor. He smiled and weaved his way through the crowd in my direction. A dancer whirled between us and I bolted for the door, no doubt in my mind he'd follow.
I made it to my car in time to see him step out the door, pause, and look around. He handed something to the bouncer cum doorman. His keys?
He allowed others to drive his Jaguar? The man held stunning, hidden possibilities.
Sure enough, the burly attendant loped across the street and out of my line of sight. Within a minute, the Jag whirled into view and Blue Eyes reclaimed his ride. When he pulled out into the center lane, I steered my car in behind him.
The next stop, according to the pub crawl itinerary, was Rumours, and that was good for me. Blue Eyes turned left onto Potomac Street and his turn signal stayed on. I made a sharp left into the alley and the Rumours private rear parking lot.
Rumours was part of my regular circuit. I breezed through the kitchen door like I owned the place, which I did. I held a very modest, and quiet, ten percent of the business and the real estate.
Several of the wait staff yelled friendly profanities at me – and made a few offers. I smiled and waved as I hustled my way through, exiting the kitchen beside the bar. A buddy had the barstool on the end and I shooed him off it with the promise of imminent entertainment.
Thank heavens the chair was right in front of an air vent and a breeze blew from it to cool the mob of revelers. I was sweaty, sticky, and not because the night was at all warm. The bartender handed me a glass of ice water with a lime twist and I gulped down a few swallows.
No more alcohol for me until I got Blue Eyes home.
And speaking of, there he was, just on the other side of the dance floor, smiling at me, one eyebrow cocked up and looking amused. He gestured to me to join him with the same palm up wave of the arm I'd used at Tully's.
I shook my head, lifting my glass to indicate I was thirsty. He clasped his hands over his chest and feigned heartbreak.
Right.
The dancer behind him was rubbing his butt, without any protest from Blue Eyes, so how crushed could he be? I finished my water and walked towards him, my gaze never leaving his. He stepped into the throng of dancers, meeting me halfway.
We moved easily to the music, our movements mirroring each other. I'd worry about the stupid grin on my face, but his expression matched mine. Our hips swayed closer. Our hands brushed. Blue Eyes turned, shaking his very well-shaped ass at me. I laughed in his ear, pulling him back against me. I was so achingly hard that my resolve to taunt him, to wear him down to a begging blob of gel, almost cracked. He grinned over his shoulder when I licked the rim of his ear.
"Are you going to tell me your name?"
I flashed my pearly whites at him. "Just before you come for the first time."
"Cocky bastard, aren't you?"
"You'll have to wait a while to find that out."
GIVE ME ONE NIGHT
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-490-7
http://amberquill.com/AmberAllure/GiveMeOneNight.html
KC Kendricks
Visit my website at: http://www.kckendricks.com
Follow me on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/kckendricks
Join my mailing list at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/betweenthekeys
Read my personal blog: http://www.kckendricks.blogspot.com
Find me on facebook - KC with the little butterfly
Check out the MySpace page: http://www.myspace.com/kckendricks
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 7 - G
Woo-hoo! The first week of the A to Z Blogging Challenge is 'in the can'. I can say it's all good. As in - it's a darn good thing I organized, organized, organized and had a game plan worked out. Without it, my brain would be mush. Seriously.
Pacing is important, so for the letter G, I've given myself a break. Not only am I doing a promo, I'm posting it just a tad early since tomorrow is Friday. So without further ado, here's a promo from an early best seller, Give Me One Night.
One night can change a life....
GIVE ME ONE NIGHT
Contemporary gay romance
http://amberquill.com/AmberAllure/GiveMeOneNight.html
When passion changes the rules, one more night can alter the future...
Brody O'Connor joins the revelry of the yearly pub crawl, hunting a like-minded man for a night of fun and frolic with no strings attached. When a mystery man in an emerald green shirt engages Brody's interest, it doesn't take long for the hunter to become the prey.
Well-matched with his mystery man, Brody regrets his "no strings" approach to a night of shared passion that leaves him hungry for more. The morning after, Evan is gone, as agreed. Brody knows it was a mistake to let him go, and vows to find him.
Evan also never expected to meet someone like Brody. Now Brody wants to change the rules, and Evan decides he'll give Brody one more night to convince him to stay...
EXCERPT: (from Brody's point of view)
My quarry stood at the bar, sipping what appeared to be a soda. I stepped into the whirling lights, planted my feet, squared my shoulders, put my hands on my hips, and waited for him to spot me. It didn't take long.
He looked me up and down, a slow, lazy appraisal that focused my attention on his face. Then he smiled and lowered his eyelids with a slight nod of his head.
In that instant I knew something about him there are no flowery or romantic words for – only gut instinct. He wanted me to fuck him.
My body responded to the knowledge. Arousal snapped through me, sending shivers down my spine. My nipples, sensitive as any girl's, tingled to the point that the fabric of my sweater rubbing against them became deliciously painful. My cock swelled to its full seven and three quarter inch glory in a single pounding heartbeat.
I'd fuck him until he was limp as a rag doll in less time than that if I could get my hands on him.
His chin lifted, the knowledge of the game joined in his eyes. I gestured for him to join me on the dance floor. He smiled and weaved his way through the crowd in my direction. A dancer whirled between us and I bolted for the door, no doubt in my mind he'd follow.
I made it to my car in time to see him step out the door, pause, and look around. He handed something to the bouncer cum doorman. His keys?
He allowed others to drive his Jaguar? The man held stunning, hidden possibilities.
Sure enough, the burly attendant loped across the street and out of my line of sight. Within a minute, the Jag whirled into view and Blue Eyes reclaimed his ride. When he pulled out into the center lane, I steered my car in behind him.
The next stop, according to the pub crawl itinerary, was Rumours, and that was good for me. Blue Eyes turned left onto Potomac Street and his turn signal stayed on. I made a sharp left into the alley and the Rumours private rear parking lot.
Rumours was part of my regular circuit. I breezed through the kitchen door like I owned the place, which I did. I held a very modest, and quiet, ten percent of the business and the real estate.
Several of the wait staff yelled friendly profanities at me – and made a few offers. I smiled and waved as I hustled my way through, exiting the kitchen beside the bar. A buddy had the barstool on the end and I shooed him off it with the promise of imminent entertainment.
Thank heavens the chair was right in front of an air vent and a breeze blew from it to cool the mob of revelers. I was sweaty, sticky, and not because the night was at all warm. The bartender handed me a glass of ice water with a lime twist and I gulped down a few swallows.
No more alcohol for me until I got Blue Eyes home.
And speaking of, there he was, just on the other side of the dance floor, smiling at me, one eyebrow cocked up and looking amused. He gestured to me to join him with the same palm up wave of the arm I'd used at Tully's.
I shook my head, lifting my glass to indicate I was thirsty. He clasped his hands over his chest and feigned heartbreak.
Right.
The dancer behind him was rubbing his butt, without any protest from Blue Eyes, so how crushed could he be? I finished my water and walked towards him, my gaze never leaving his. He stepped into the throng of dancers, meeting me halfway.
We moved easily to the music, our movements mirroring each other. I'd worry about the stupid grin on my face, but his expression matched mine. Our hips swayed closer. Our hands brushed. Blue Eyes turned, shaking his very well-shaped ass at me. I laughed in his ear, pulling him back against me. I was so achingly hard that my resolve to taunt him, to wear him down to a begging blob of gel, almost cracked. He grinned over his shoulder when I licked the rim of his ear.
"Are you going to tell me your name?"
I flashed my pearly whites at him. "Just before you come for the first time."
"Cocky bastard, aren't you?"
"You'll have to wait a while to find that out."
GIVE ME ONE NIGHT
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-490-7
http://amberquill.com/AmberAllure/GiveMeOneNight.html
KC Kendricks
Visit my website at: http://www.kckendricks.com
Follow me on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/kckendricks
Join my mailing list at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/betweenthekeys
Read my personal blog: http://www.kckendricks.blogspot.com
Find me on facebook - KC with the little butterfly
Check out the MySpace page: http://www.myspace.com/kckendricks
April 6, 2011
The F-Word
April 7, 2011
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 6 - F
****
When did "the F-word" become such a bad thing?
I'm a writer, and I like F-words. F-words are fundamental to my life, and I want to share my list with you today.
Fable – a story, a tale, a legend.
Faith – a belief or conviction
Farsighted – prescient, discerning, wise
Fascinate – captivate, enthrall, tempt, tantalize, charm, delight
Fellowship – friendship, comradeship
Fervent – passionate, ardent
Fiction – storytelling
Forbearance – endurance, self-control
Force – drive, wrest, extract
Fortitude- strength, firmness of purpose
Forward – onward, progressing
Foundation – bedrock, principles
Freedom – independence, liberty
Fulfillment – accomplishment, achievement, completion
Fundamental – elemental, intrinsic, essential, necessary
***
KC Kendricks
Visit my website at: http://www.kckendricks.com
Follow me on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/kckendricks
Join my mailing list at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/betweenthekeys
Find me on facebook - KC with the little butterfly
Check out the MySpace page: http://www.myspace.com/kckendricks
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 6 - F
****
When did "the F-word" become such a bad thing?
I'm a writer, and I like F-words. F-words are fundamental to my life, and I want to share my list with you today.
Fable – a story, a tale, a legend.
Faith – a belief or conviction
Farsighted – prescient, discerning, wise
Fascinate – captivate, enthrall, tempt, tantalize, charm, delight
Fellowship – friendship, comradeship
Fervent – passionate, ardent
Fiction – storytelling
Forbearance – endurance, self-control
Force – drive, wrest, extract
Fortitude- strength, firmness of purpose
Forward – onward, progressing
Foundation – bedrock, principles
Freedom – independence, liberty
Fulfillment – accomplishment, achievement, completion
Fundamental – elemental, intrinsic, essential, necessary
***
KC Kendricks
Visit my website at: http://www.kckendricks.com
Follow me on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/kckendricks
Join my mailing list at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/betweenthekeys
Find me on facebook - KC with the little butterfly
Check out the MySpace page: http://www.myspace.com/kckendricks
April 5, 2011
Elton John, the Soundtrack of My Life
April 6, 2011
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 5 - E
The first Elton John song I heard, that I knew the singer to be Elton, was Tiny Dancer. It was 1971, and AM radio still ruled the airwaves. I was ..younger… and on vacation with my parents. For the first time in my life I had a motel room all to myself, and as I lay on the bed, reveling in my new independence and watching the headlights zoom past, Tiny Dancer played on the radio. And so it began.
Madman Across the Water was followed by Honky Chateau in 1972. Rocket Man seized upon my imagination, and the lyrics to Mellow fed a young girl's budding sexual fantasies. Don't Shoot Me I'm Only the Piano Player fit into the old 8-track in the family car, the one I took my driver's license test in. (I passed the first time.) Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and Caribou laid down the rhythms to dating and my first car, a 1969 Camaro.
Then came Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy. It's hard to write about those days. No seventeen-year-old girl should have a gun put to her head by a stranger. I survived, but I'll never know who I might have been had fear had not become a part of my life. When I retreated to the safety of my room, Elton kept me company.
Rock of the Westies – the tour. July 1976. The very first rock concert I attended, and it was Elton. He opened the show with Grow Some Funk of Your Own. We sat toward the back side of the stage right at his piano. If I close my eyes, I can still see it. Seven more Elton concerts followed until in 1985, I finally became financially opposed to the cost of the tickets.
By this time I'd gotten the old albums – Empty Sky, 11-17-70, Elton John, Tumbleweed Connection, Friends. I have Elton on colored vinyl, and vinyl with the picture inside. There's Elton on cassette, 8-track, CD and now iPod. I've been to the backrooms at big music stores in the DC metropolitan area where bootlegs could be found, back in the day. The concert version of Rocket Man…R….O….C….K…E…T M-A-N! Oh. Yeah.
I could go on and on, but I don't want to crash the server. I think it's great Elton isn't afraid to do what he wants to do. There's a life lesson for ya, and it's not just that money makes life easy. Fame and fortune can't protect you from everything nasty.
Elton came out, married, divorced, married again. The world was his and yet he struggled, publicly, with a lot of demons. He didn't mince words with interviewers who asked the tough, personal questions, and he threw a tantrum or three thousand. Elton hobnobbed with royalty, mourned the loss of friends like John Lennon, and he went down in the trenches with a dying boy. His public grief, and subsequent triumph, all played out in the public eye. And through it all, he held fast to the music that laid down the soundtrack of my life.
E is for Elton. Always has been, and always will be.
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 5 - E
The first Elton John song I heard, that I knew the singer to be Elton, was Tiny Dancer. It was 1971, and AM radio still ruled the airwaves. I was ..younger… and on vacation with my parents. For the first time in my life I had a motel room all to myself, and as I lay on the bed, reveling in my new independence and watching the headlights zoom past, Tiny Dancer played on the radio. And so it began.
Madman Across the Water was followed by Honky Chateau in 1972. Rocket Man seized upon my imagination, and the lyrics to Mellow fed a young girl's budding sexual fantasies. Don't Shoot Me I'm Only the Piano Player fit into the old 8-track in the family car, the one I took my driver's license test in. (I passed the first time.) Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and Caribou laid down the rhythms to dating and my first car, a 1969 Camaro.
Then came Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy. It's hard to write about those days. No seventeen-year-old girl should have a gun put to her head by a stranger. I survived, but I'll never know who I might have been had fear had not become a part of my life. When I retreated to the safety of my room, Elton kept me company.
Rock of the Westies – the tour. July 1976. The very first rock concert I attended, and it was Elton. He opened the show with Grow Some Funk of Your Own. We sat toward the back side of the stage right at his piano. If I close my eyes, I can still see it. Seven more Elton concerts followed until in 1985, I finally became financially opposed to the cost of the tickets.
By this time I'd gotten the old albums – Empty Sky, 11-17-70, Elton John, Tumbleweed Connection, Friends. I have Elton on colored vinyl, and vinyl with the picture inside. There's Elton on cassette, 8-track, CD and now iPod. I've been to the backrooms at big music stores in the DC metropolitan area where bootlegs could be found, back in the day. The concert version of Rocket Man…R….O….C….K…E…T M-A-N! Oh. Yeah.
I could go on and on, but I don't want to crash the server. I think it's great Elton isn't afraid to do what he wants to do. There's a life lesson for ya, and it's not just that money makes life easy. Fame and fortune can't protect you from everything nasty.
Elton came out, married, divorced, married again. The world was his and yet he struggled, publicly, with a lot of demons. He didn't mince words with interviewers who asked the tough, personal questions, and he threw a tantrum or three thousand. Elton hobnobbed with royalty, mourned the loss of friends like John Lennon, and he went down in the trenches with a dying boy. His public grief, and subsequent triumph, all played out in the public eye. And through it all, he held fast to the music that laid down the soundtrack of my life.
E is for Elton. Always has been, and always will be.
Amber Allure March Top Ten Best Seller List
Thanks to everyone who bought a copy of Beneath Dark Stars and got it to #4 on the best seller list for March! Don't forget to check in here at Between the Keys tomorrow for E in the A to Z Blogging Challenge. - KC
AMBER ALLURE / March 2011
1. Why I Love Geeks - T. A. Chase (Gay / Contemporary)
2. Accidentally His - Shawn Lane (Gay / Contemporary)
3. Into The Woods - M. L. Rhodes (Gay / Shapeshifter)
4. Beneath Dark Stars - KC Kendricks (Gay / Shapeshifter)
5. Wrong Number, Right Guy - Mia Watts (Gay / Contemporary)
6. (Boys Of The Zodiac) Pisces: From Behind That Black Door - Pepper Espinoza (Gay / Contemporary)
7. Love Matters - Christiane France (Gay / Contemporary)
8. Mask Of Night - Helen Louise Caroll (Gay / Futuristic)
9. The Wild Bunch: Spark - Deirdre O'Dare (Gay / Contemporary)
10. A Favor For A Friend - Stevie Woods (Gay / Futuristic)
AMBER ALLURE / March 2011
1. Why I Love Geeks - T. A. Chase (Gay / Contemporary)
2. Accidentally His - Shawn Lane (Gay / Contemporary)
3. Into The Woods - M. L. Rhodes (Gay / Shapeshifter)
4. Beneath Dark Stars - KC Kendricks (Gay / Shapeshifter)
5. Wrong Number, Right Guy - Mia Watts (Gay / Contemporary)
6. (Boys Of The Zodiac) Pisces: From Behind That Black Door - Pepper Espinoza (Gay / Contemporary)
7. Love Matters - Christiane France (Gay / Contemporary)
8. Mask Of Night - Helen Louise Caroll (Gay / Futuristic)
9. The Wild Bunch: Spark - Deirdre O'Dare (Gay / Contemporary)
10. A Favor For A Friend - Stevie Woods (Gay / Futuristic)
April 4, 2011
D is for Dog
April 5, 2011
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 4 - D
While I didn't have a cat until I was eight or nine years old, I've always had dogs. In fact, my very first word was my version of the name of the dog.
I've had dogs, but it's the last two who've enriched my life beyond the others. Callahan and Jett. The only time in my life I've been without a dog was between Cal and Jett. When I had to have Callahan put down after he developed Cushings disease, I was too heartbroken to even think about getting another dog for two years.
Cal was a pointer/hound mix. He had a rich caramel brown saddle with a white chest and blaze, with even ticking. He was a handsome lad, but his best feature was his yellow eyes. No one – no one – messed with that dog. He was completely gentle, but at 90 pounds of pure muscle, he didn't look it. Cal was my constant companion for the seven years I lived alone. During that time a dog in the house, especially a BIG one was comforting. It was quite a relief when the dog liked the new man in my life and vice versa.
Taking him for that last drive was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but the dog had started to suffer. It was time. He was twelve, and the clock only goes forward. Then the man's health took a bad turn. There was surgery followed by chemotherapy and I didn't think much about getting a puppy.
A little over two years after Cal's death, I received a sign. I know lots of people don't believe in signs. I don't either when it comes to big, showy things. To me, a sign is something small only the individual recognizes. It could be a random thought sent by the subconscious, or a scent on the breeze that triggers a memory or decision. My sign it was time to get a puppy was something only I could receive – a dream. Within days I unexpectedly came by a black Lab pup.
Cal was an alpha dog. I'd arrive home from work and he was glad to see me, sure, but he didn't smother me with affection the way this Lab does. The Lab is a beta boy, eager to please, and yet he does display a mind of his own, firmly refusing to heed my warnings about sleeping on the sofa. Cal made it clear he accepted me as pack leader – of a pack of two. I like to think Jett would be a fine protector if I was ever threatened, but with Cal, I knew it in my gut.
Jett is past nine now, and showing his age. Those dozen or so white hairs on his chin that were so adorable on his puppy self have now spread in an alarming path to cover his muzzle, almost to his eyes. His clock has suddenly begun to tick faster, and I catch myself already mourning him. It's normal, I suppose, a way of preparing myself for the inevitable day.
My boys are very different, but each will always hold his own place in my heart. And if it's true that all dogs go to heaven, then Jett will walk beside me on the road while noble Callahan forges ahead, nose to the ground, to sit patiently waiting by the gate for us to catch up.
A to Z Blogging Challenge
Day 4 - D
While I didn't have a cat until I was eight or nine years old, I've always had dogs. In fact, my very first word was my version of the name of the dog.
I've had dogs, but it's the last two who've enriched my life beyond the others. Callahan and Jett. The only time in my life I've been without a dog was between Cal and Jett. When I had to have Callahan put down after he developed Cushings disease, I was too heartbroken to even think about getting another dog for two years.
Cal was a pointer/hound mix. He had a rich caramel brown saddle with a white chest and blaze, with even ticking. He was a handsome lad, but his best feature was his yellow eyes. No one – no one – messed with that dog. He was completely gentle, but at 90 pounds of pure muscle, he didn't look it. Cal was my constant companion for the seven years I lived alone. During that time a dog in the house, especially a BIG one was comforting. It was quite a relief when the dog liked the new man in my life and vice versa.
Taking him for that last drive was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but the dog had started to suffer. It was time. He was twelve, and the clock only goes forward. Then the man's health took a bad turn. There was surgery followed by chemotherapy and I didn't think much about getting a puppy.
A little over two years after Cal's death, I received a sign. I know lots of people don't believe in signs. I don't either when it comes to big, showy things. To me, a sign is something small only the individual recognizes. It could be a random thought sent by the subconscious, or a scent on the breeze that triggers a memory or decision. My sign it was time to get a puppy was something only I could receive – a dream. Within days I unexpectedly came by a black Lab pup.
Cal was an alpha dog. I'd arrive home from work and he was glad to see me, sure, but he didn't smother me with affection the way this Lab does. The Lab is a beta boy, eager to please, and yet he does display a mind of his own, firmly refusing to heed my warnings about sleeping on the sofa. Cal made it clear he accepted me as pack leader – of a pack of two. I like to think Jett would be a fine protector if I was ever threatened, but with Cal, I knew it in my gut.
Jett is past nine now, and showing his age. Those dozen or so white hairs on his chin that were so adorable on his puppy self have now spread in an alarming path to cover his muzzle, almost to his eyes. His clock has suddenly begun to tick faster, and I catch myself already mourning him. It's normal, I suppose, a way of preparing myself for the inevitable day.
My boys are very different, but each will always hold his own place in my heart. And if it's true that all dogs go to heaven, then Jett will walk beside me on the road while noble Callahan forges ahead, nose to the ground, to sit patiently waiting by the gate for us to catch up.
