Patrick Whitehurst's Blog, page 35

Barker Mysteries on the road to publication

Signed a contract with Renaissance E Books today for the Barker Mysteries! Very excited about this and will share more information: release date, cover design, etc., very soon. In the meantime; here is an excerpt from the book, from the chapter entitled 'Sharkness,' and a doodle inspired by the scene below.
'Thought you might show up.'The apartment had not been cleaned for quite a while. Dust and grime seemed to cover every inch of the small home, not to mention various stains from prior drinking binges. The coffee table, placed on the floor in front of a ratty, ripped orange couch, strained under the weight of old beer cans, fast food wrappers, and music CDs. An overall smell of dried vomit seemed to permeate the air. On the walls of the apartment, Barker noticed posters of various horror movies and concert advertisements.
"You're the guy, aren't you?" Veggie finally asked. "You went up to the park after the dog was shot and run over? That’s you, am I right?"
"Yes I am."
Barker took in the three men after his quick glance around the room while the man in the middle of the trio, the singer, continued to talk.
"We had a feeling you might show up here."   Barker noted his dress first. Wearing a pair of ripped-up blue jeans with sneakers, the man had on a green T-shirt that read, "Save a cow, eat grass. Vegetarians Are Us”. His frame was strong, like the other two, which hinted that besides music, they all worked out together too. "We've heard of you, you see. You're that bum who lives with all those dogs, right? There was a story in the paper, what was it a week or two ago? I don't know, but you saved a dogcatcher of all people from drowning out in P.G., right? Anyway, this article said that you’ve had a hand in at least one other small incident recently. You're a pretty nosy guy when you get a mind to be, aren't you?" The speaker’s mouth twisted into a cruel grin and his whole head, topped with auburn hair that looked like a mop, shook from side to side. "Nah," he continued. "We don't like that. I, for one, the name's Veggie in case you were wondering, was hoping you wouldn't show up."
"How did you know I was involved?" Barker asked.
"We went back later, after you'd gone up to the park, and spoke with this old hippy guy down at the bakery on the corner. He told us all about you, said you were pretty mad, and so we put two and two together. We realized you might show up here."
"Why do you keep saying 'we?'"
"How impolite!" Veggie replied, his voice dripping sarcasm. "I haven't formally introduced us, have I? This here, our drummer on my right, is Squid. Over here on lead guitar is London. How's that? Now, what's your name? You see, that I do not know. Your reputation has preceded you, but your name has not."
"I didn't come here for your names."

Nothing beats the attention of a beloved pet

Kerouac and I in 2011Dogs, cats, birds or even a pet tarantula (in a way) offer no-holds-barred affection. Their love burns brighter than any sun around. For so many of us who have pets, and those of us who have owned pets, nothing beats the look in their eyes when they stare into yours. The feeling is not unlike having children, but pet ownership is different than that. Children aren't covered in fur or scales. And they aren't always happy to see you.
Pets keep their love simple.
According to the ASPCA, there are approximately five thousand animal shelters in operation across the United States, all with great animals looking for the warmth of a loving home. Five to seven million animals are taken in by these organizations annually. Three to four million are euthanized each year.
For thirteen years I cared for my dog and best friend Kerouac. I rescued him from the Flagstaff Animal Shelter after he'd been picked up by the local canine PD. He'd spent his days begging in the Wal-Mart parking lot and hanging out a mile away at the KFC near the campus of Northern Arizona University. He crossed a lot of traffic back then in search of his next meal. After falling for his big brown eyes, it didn't take me very long to realize he'd never stepped foot in a home – this after seeing him dig a hole in the wall to get out and coming home from work to find him, a good-sized pooch, standing on my kitchen table.
Years later, Kerouac never wanted to leave the house, particularly the couch. He'd whine on walks and never strayed more than a few feet from my ankles when I forced him to get some exercise. He kept regular with his eating habits and would remind me about it if I forgot to put his food out by eight in the morning. Change was not something he enjoyed. When he died earlier this year, I was devastated, and still have not thought about becoming a new pet owner. Instead, I've thought about how inspiring pets can be. How, like our mentors, our parents, our idols, our pets can also be powerful contributors to our self-esteem and sense of worth. And I looked up to Kerouac. He provided the best example of wholesome purity, of happiness, not to mention a furry hide to rest my head on when I needed it.
Just as much as Zero, Dangler, Griz and the others are heroes to Barker, the homeless detective in my short stories, so Kerouac remains a hero to my personal life. Even as I edited the Barker Mysteries and dreamed-up new adventures for him and his canine companions, a photo of my furry companion hung on the wall over my desk, adorned with his old collar, watching me work – just liked he used to.
Like I did with Kerouac, when I'm ready for a new canine hero, I will become a hero to one as well and adopt from a shelter.
More on the ASPCA can be found here.

Breathless over 'Transported: Erotic Travel Tales'

Transported: Erotic Travel Tales


While herself something of a mystery, erotic author Sharazade never shows a picture of her face online, but effortlessly proves her talent in the saucy realm of erotic literature with her collection of tantalizing travel-themed short stories.
In Transported: Erotic Travel Tales , Shar's first-person narratives land readers into the oft-dirty mind of the traveler and whips them on a gasping, throbbing trip to pleasure.
From the story of a lusty, single woman training to Portland, to a dominating clerk at an airport with a hard-on for older women, not to mention a keen knowledge of vibrators, these spicy tales of travel are sure to leave even homebodies like myself out of breath and eager to take a trip.
The collection's pacing indicates a deft, intellectual hand, providing thoughtful décor to the sordid sexuality found in the tales. Where virginal women squeal and marvel at the chain of events that led to their sordid, sexual awakening, Shar's women all exhibit a strength of character not found in similar literature – even if they too find themselves doing things outside the norm – they just “do it” better when guided by a talented mind.
Themed erotica, as those who read and toil in the genre know well, is nothing new. Literature in the field ranges from stories on masturbation and nothing but masturbation, to tales of sex in the shower and all the variables in between. The popularity of BDSM has, of course, blown them all out of the water in recent years – a little of which can even be found in these sultry tales.
Transported offers a highly suggestive and original cover image so often lacking in the realm of erotica, where Indie authors grab the hottest images they can get their virtual hands on. While that may seem smart on the surface, those images end up popular with other authors as well. Before you know it there are five books with strikingly similar covers. Not so with Shar's sexually-charged airport shot and subsequent book title, which appears like a stamp on the passport, promising a trip to lurid lands.
In fact, that might even be Shar in the picture.
Check out a link to her book trailer here.

Online about being offline

Natalia in the wild.When someone told me to bring a journal with me while I hiked Oak Creek's West Fork north of Sedona, I shuddered inside. I'd only thought of holding Natalia's hand and watching her dog scamper through the dewy shrubs along the creek shore.
A journal? Really? I'd rather bring a flask and a flare gun.
But I planned to do it anyway. It dawned on me that I might have thoughts along the way I would forget when I sat down to write days later. And, as much as journaling makes me think of Yoga and existentialism and things I will likely explore when I'm not stressed about how to survive financially, I do own one.   It's pretty cool, too - a black M.C. Escher journal bought at the Portland Art Museum about three years ago (when I had a dash more money) while on a job-hunting expedition to the Pacific Northwest. The journal is not even a third full. It has some drawings in it, a sex scene for some short story, and random dark thoughts when I thought keeping a journal might help my depression. It's also got a little water damage from a monsoon, so the cover's a little warped, but otherwise it is something to behold.
And then I forgot to bring it on the hike. I remembered coffee, but that was about it.
Had I done so, I may have written about the serenity to be found out there in the early morning hours, the stillness of the air, the moisture and greenery found in this part of the southwest. It's easy to see why West Fork is one of the more popular destinations for outdoor-type people in Sedona. Bluffs and red rock rise like naturally-formed skyscrapers, boxing the area into a cool, shadowy canyon. Ferns and ivy, the trickling creek and sandy trails (almost like a beach hike) blanket the area. And, when hiking before 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning, no one interrupted us. Even our cell phones, knocked senseless by the surrounding geological formations, could find no signal with which to notify us of Facebook posts or incoming email. Save for some pictures to commemorate the sheer brilliance of the hike, neither of us missed the beeps, chirps and canned ringtones.
While my journal will hold no record of this hike, my mind will. And those thoughts, as beautiful as they were, will remain imprinted there. I can, after all, still feel the fresh air in my nostrils, the coolness of Oak Creek on my toes. And I want to do it again. It reminded me of a time when my personal computer held less sway over my daily routine, when I would do something like carve a broken branch into an awesome walking stick and not the feel the need to share it online. I would do it for myself, not because I felt a feverish need to post about it.
And next time I plan to bring that warped journal with me.

“Like” is critical thinking under siege?

Spoiler Alert!
Social media and criticism go together like pickles and coffee, which means they rarely do. Hearing differing opinions, learning perception and nuance from people who aren't like you; that's anathema to the womb-like world of distilled digital information.

After all, if you don't like what someone says, just un-friend them.
These days any form of criticism is treated like an attack of the cyber-bullies, even the sort that should be tolerated. It's not easy to differentiate between bullies and opinions and why bother? Why try to understand the difference between critical thinking and school-yard bullies? Personal growth is overrated. You probably can't even “like” it.
There are nearly one billion users on Facebook, not to mention the multitude who dwell on other forms of social media like Twitter or Google+. The philosophy of “thinking about thinking” is more important, and less used, than ever. It's one thing to be attacked by social media bullies, who no one likes, and another to exhibit opinions in a conversational or informative manner. Often, one can learn about topics they knew little about by paying attention to someone's thoughts and random musings. 
Just remember perceptions vary. Don't immediately assume they're being mean-spirited or ignorant. More often than not, they're thinking in a different box than you, even if they, too, “like” Star Wars.But really, it's easier to click those thoughts away and never see them again, isn't it? How dare they make fun of Romney! How dare they make “poke” jokes about the Goddess Gaia!
Criticism of those who, for whatever reason, reside in the public eye has also become a word people shiver in fear over. Heaven forbid someone say something bad about someone by name. Unduly attacking an individual's character is one thing, but if they are putting themselves in the public eye criticism is to be expected. 
And if you're a friend collector, you're in the public eye.
School-yard rules apply in the online world just like they do in real life. It's mean and terrible out there, just like it can be in the real world for those who venture outside the womb-like confines of their own agendas. But critical thinking should never be outright denied. What may be perceived as a negative comment may very well be a form of exploratory dialog. Social media is the perfect platform for powerful group thinking and discourse, where egocentric bias is left at the door. More often than not, however, it's reserved for pictures of cats with laser eyes.
“ You've ruined the movie for me!” said the guy on the website who read an article about the movie.
A great example of this form of insular thinking are “spoiler alerts” and those who cyber-complain about having their future experiences ruined.
These people scamper to online forums or news articles while trying to protect themselves from knowing too much about the topic at hand. It's akin to a biologist trying to discover what species a particular rodent comes from - then Googling it to find out it's a mouse – then getting pissed that someone had the audacity to share that information.
If it's that important, go see the movie on opening weekend or buy the book as soon as it comes out, but don't read about it online until you do. Really.
It used to be that people would share the plot of a movie as soon as it opened in theaters. Darth is Luke's father, etc., Quinn gets eaten by the shark, etc., The movie is out. All bets are off. But these days, skins are less thick. Entitlement has all the earmarks of a social plague. People think, if they haven't seen the movie, then no one should write about it or post about it until they have. 
And if they do post about it? Only mention insubstantial bits of fluff that no one in their right mind would care about, because that's sure to bang up hits.

'A Tree of Fear' reading at Gallery 527 in Jerome

Reading at Jerome's Gallery 527 for
the Stain of Politics show
I am afraid.Should I die, will my regrets wake up with me in that realm?Will those things I failed to do lay beside me in the grimy reality of hell?A claw scrapes my jawline, my daughter's talons tell me I've never been a good enough parent. Her words cut across my throat.While I live, devoid of things you have, there is a chance. I am one of 643,000 souls without a home tonight.Paying for the children I love dearly, for the cheating knife that pierced my soul.Paying for the education that landed me $10 an hour before the layoffs.Paying for healthcare that makes me sick with stress.I sit on a bench with no future.Out of 643,000 souls, one of every four call the sidewalk their mattress.I stare into the locked window of an empty home in a foreclosure.In my back pocket are pictures of an old life, before blackness swallowed it, when I fixed fences and swept driveways and hosted sleepovers on the weekends.The mortgage company listened to me beg and plead just because. They knew their answer was no. I offered my soul like the worst kind of whore - to keep a small scrap - and they said no without blinking.One of every 305 homes in Arizona sits in foreclosure.I am a father to children I rarely lay eyes upon. I'm a son to a dead mother - and a laughable memory to a forgotten father.I am someone who once read the newspaper every morning, who walked the dogs and made waffles, who voted and cared about hot-button issues. I am someone who tried to make a better life and failed.And I pay for it everyday.Since 2007, 3.6 million homes have been shuttered by the bank from foreclosure.I am afraid to die. My daughter and son will hate me for it.And controlling interests may be there as well, expecting payment.

Friday doodle - 'Barker has a visitor.'

Sketch for 'The Barker Mysteries' by Patrick WhitehurstJust a little comic book-style sketch to get the weekend started, and a little break from the editing proccess for volume two of the Barker Mysteries.

Hope everyone has a fantastic weekend! For me it sorts of feels like a hangover from the Fourth of July, but I'll take that over sitting in an office.

Barker Mysteries Excerpt

Monterey Bay in Calif. (Excerpt from the Barker Mysteries)
In the bowels of the ship, Joe stepped out from the shadows. His eyes were two dark slits as they stared at Barker, who lay with a bloody nose on the grimy engine room floor. 
Barker, with the mayor's assistance, got to his feet and faced his assailant. He wiped the blood from his nose and met the angry captain's gaze.
“You're with those dogs, aren't you?” asked the corpulent man in the green slicker and hat. “The two up on deck. You ain't that guy named Barker, are you? Little Naples talked about a friend of his, a street urchin, who lived with a pack of wild dogs. Is that you?”
“You should never have involved Naples in this,” Barker replied.
“So it was him, huh? That little jerk tell you what was going down? I knew I should have never hired on that little bugger. The kid was good at working the nets, but far too innocent for my tastes. Did he tell you where to find me?”
“No. Your cigars did that.”
The mayor pleaded. “Listen, Joe. We can work something out. You just let me and this guy off the ship...”
“It's too late for that, mayor! I already called in the demands for your release. I did it right when the cops were storming the hotel. Pretty slick, huh?” Joe's bushy white beard curled into a grisly, plump smile. “Soon I'll get word if we got it or not. Then we'll see to your release.”
A clamor on the stairs behind them turned Joe's attention away from the two for a moment. A second man, pale and sweating, ran down the steps with a rifle in his hands. Joe pivoted slightly to face his cohort.
“Boss! Boss! There's trouble up on deck, the dogs attacked us and... Boss! Look out!”
Barker delivered a solid blow to Joe's face. His large head snapped back and the man fell into his companion. Momentarily off balance, the kidnappers struggled to regain their footings as Barker, grabbing the mayor by the arm, dashed in the opposite direction. They made it to a nearby passageway when the first shot came.   The wooden wall near Barker splintered and cracked. A second shot ricocheted, bouncing off the walls of the ship. Barker and the mayor ducked to the floor as the bullet whizzed over their heads. A third shot ricocheted as well. Joe yelled something Barker could not make out.
“Is there an exit this way?” the mayor asked shakily as the two ran through the passageway.
They turned a corner just as the wall before them burst into a million splinters from a fourth gunshot. As the debris fell to the floor, they found a small stairway and charged up it. The stairs stopped at a small hatch which opened out onto the deck. The two hurried through it before another shot was fired.

Creating Barker

Rough sketch of Barker.
In today's world, many take a second look at the man slumped next to a dumpster and think how close they are to being just like him. That man, or woman, is sometimes dressed in tattered, stained clothes that look as though they've never had the opportunity for a luxurious soak in a washing machine. Usually that man or woman has something at their feet, like a duffel bag that looks as though it's been drug through bullet-riddled Afghanistan, or a pet that looks as though it would do anything to bring a smile to its master's face. And so many of us are only a paycheck away from slumping next to that dumpster, those with no recourses, no family and savings that have bled to nothing over the years.Defaulted loans, bill collectors, garnished wages; all combine to steal a person of what little they have regardless of circumstance. Collectors care not whether you keep your home, and subsequently your job - only that you pay right now.These thoughts led me to consider the character of Barker, a homeless man who lives with a handful of dogs under Old Fisherman's Wharf in Monterey. As many consider how close they are to living with no roof overhead, I began to think about who already dwells each night under a cluster of dried trees, behind concrete businesses in a cardboard box, on a beach or in a shelter - while so many of us stress over how to keep our comfortable homes and rental situations. The homeless are not scary people. So many are not stupid. There are assholes to be sure, just as there are in the work force, or in your neighborhoods, but they aren't all a bunch of cantankerous bastards. Their reasons for being there are legion. And many probably held it off for years, by that one meager paycheck, until that too went away.With Barker I sought to create a character unencumbered by a paycheck, who doesn't fear living on the streets and, in fact, embraces it. He's a heroic character, fallible as well, but an example of bravery to all. Like others in literary fiction, detectives and saviors alike, his past is complicated and his future uncertain, but where so many have comfortable living situations, such as Sherlock's famed sitting rooms on Baker Street or even Christian Grey's larger than life apartments in the Pacific Northwest, Barker makes his home in a clapboard structure beneath the wharf.His adventures, to be found in my upcoming Barker Mysteries are thrilling, sometimes sensual, and reminiscent of a time when literature took risks and entertained more than it sought awards and critical acclaim.

Billierosie pens hot new tale

The talented Billierosie has regaled erotic anthologies with her tasty tales for only a short time, but already her deft hand has left an indelible impression. Her words, and the scenes evoked, are so striking as to leave their images forever burned into a reader's brain. It's an ability that would make many authors just a bit envious.Her unforgettable shorts have appeared in the recently released anthology The Love That Never Dies: Erotic Encounters with the Undead and the Sherlockian erotica book My Love of all That is Bizarre: The Erotic Adventures of Sherlock Holmes among others. Her first collection of wonderfully smutty BDSM stories, Fetish Worship, raised the bar for quality erotic fiction.


And her newest offering, Memoirs of a Sex Slave: Confessions of a Submissive Woman , raises that bar yet higher.The riveting piece tells the story of Elektra, recently consigned to live her final days at the Ravens' House for the elderly, and her strange life with Mark, her larger-than-life dominant. Elektra's love and sordid public encounters convey the woman's aboslute affection for the older man in a manner only the most talented of authors can achieve.While Memoirs may not be for everyone, its sexual nature is fast and nasty; it's sure to please those who seek tales of forbidden, wholly carnal lust. Shared partners, multiple partners, degradation, humiliation; all play a part in the tale of a sex slave.Only some want it more than others.Besides being on Sizzler Edition for purchase, the book will soon be available on Amazon and everywhere else ebooks are sold.