V.L. Locey's Blog, page 124
October 8, 2012
Tuesday Tales - Knife
Tuesday Tales
Welcome back! This week we`ll continue the story of ‘The Foggy Creek Hellhound’.
The word prompt for this week is ‘Knife’ so the story will reflect the prompt in some manner. As these are original stories written in a week, some errors may be found. I do apologize for those in advance. Try not to let them boggle you down though if possible.
Please do check out the other wonderful writers after you`re done reading by clicking on the Tuesday Tales link at the bottom. Thank you for stopping in!
The Foggy Creek Hellhound
*~*~*
“Man, you drive just like my grandma.”
I tossed a dour look at my cameraman. “In case you haven`t noticed, Sir Sarcasm,” I said, getting what I was growing to know as ‘The Look’ in return, “The fog is as thick as Arnold Schwarzenegger’s accent.”
That was no exaggeration either. Visibility was about four inches. We had already nearly run over a deer, an opossum, and a herd of frogs leaping across the two-lane that led to Foggy Creek, Maine.
“At least you didn`t go for the pea soup reference. That always make me think of Linda Blair and yeah, this place is creepy enough without the possessed little girl image in my mind. Shit,” he sighed, squinting at the windshield as we crept through heavy mist, “Now I mentioned her and it`s in my head. Quick, say another movie!”
This was a favorite game of ours. Gerard and I were both huge fans of classic films. This affection for the oldies is just another reason that I find the man so attractive. Big biceps and killer wit just round out the package nicely
Keeping my eyes on the shifting low clouds enveloping our dented white KBNY news van, I put my mind to the question. My devious brain coughed up something that made me smirk internally.
“Give me three of the stars of The Fog,” I tossed out, peeking to the right quickly then returning to the road, lest a frog stampede erupt again.
“You`re not even trying here,” Gerard bragged, reaching down to lift his bottle of spring water from the floor, “Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and my girl Janet Leigh.”
“I thought your girl was Margo Channing,” I commented, barely able to make out the small wooden sign welcoming us to Foggy Creek. I rolled my head in circles. I had been driving for close to six hours which would make it just around three in the morning.
“Yeah, I do love Bette, but Janet Leigh? Damn that woman was fine. You ever been more scared then when you watched Psycho for the first time?” Gerard yawned so widely his jaw cracked. I followed suit. “Did you know she measured 36-21-36?”
I glanced down at my 34B`s quickly, replying with a grunt. I heard him drinking, the soft plastic sides of the bottle collapsing with each powerful gulp. I was just about to ask him what he thought about Bye-Bye Birdiewhen a huge black shape stepped leisurely from the fog on the right. I cranked the wheel violently to the left to avoid the whatever- the-hell-it-was loping across the road. Upon seeing the thing Gerard`s mouthful of water sprayed over the dash. The rear of the van fishtailed slightly and I over-compensated. In a heartbeat the van was skidding sideways on the fog-dampened road. I worked at getting the vehicle straightened. Damn Eddie and his insistence that the tires had another hundred thousand miles on them! The animal in the road stood up on its back legs and lunged at the van.
All I managed to see was a flash of crimson eyes in a lycan-type face before we sailed past. Gerard was yelling something about Bigfoot. The sound of the beast punching the side of the van spurred me to hit the gas. Why, you may ask, would a person speed up when they were pointed at the guardrail? My answer would be ‘I don`t know’, but the fact that I was scared shitless may have come into play. I think Gerard may have bellowed a similar query right before the front bumper slammed into the guide rail. Metal wrapped around metal. We stopped so suddenly the air bag inflated in my face.
Stunned silence ensued, to be shortly followed by a six foot three, two hundred and thirty-five pound Black man falling into what I would term to be a major freak-out. While I regained my mental facilities and battled with the rapidly deflating airbag, Gerard was attempting, by the sounds, to rip the seatbelt from its moorings. The language coming from him was anything but polite.
A thud on the rear doors of the news van made all cussing and airbag pummeling cease. My eyes met his.
“Get your camera,” I whispered, blowing at some stray brown strands lying across my face. Gerard looked at me as if my head had just done a three-sixty.
“Are you out of your mind?” he hissed, jerking on his seatbelt until it popped free. He had mine unlatched in a millisecond. As I was about to respond to his question he tugged me from the seat to the floor. My knees hit the bare metal floor soundly. Damn Eddie for saying carpet would just get dirty! Gerard threw himself on top of me, the very model of gallantry. All oxygen left my lungs in a rush. “Keep your head down!” he snarled quietly, placing one of his catcher’s mitts of a hand on the back of my skull. My nose crunched into his camera bag.
We laid there with him on my back for a few nerve-wracking minutes. It would have been rather racy had we not been close to wetting our pants. When nothing else happened after a bit, he sat up and put his weight on my rump. Thankfully my ass has enough padding to support a burly cameraman. I always knew wearing a size fourteen would come in handy.
“I think it`s gone,” Gerard whispered, sliding from my backside to his knees. The knee joint he had blown out in college cracked like a whip. I winced. He snarled and fell forward. My lungs emptied yet again. Usually I at least insist on completing five dates before I have this much male on my back. The poor man moaned in pain while gyrating over me like a walrus coming ashore. It was kind of a turn-on until I began to grow loopy from lack of oxygen.
“Air,” I gasped. He bounced on his good knee over my head. “Your camera is under my left boob,” I informed him breathlessly. I could barely see him. The dash lights weren`t bright enough to illuminate the back of the van. I felt the van rocking slightly as he dragged himself to the rear, favoring his bad knee I was sure.
“I`m not getting the damn camera, Maggie, I`m looking for a weapon,” Gerard snapped. I sat up slowly. All that could be heard now was the sound of crickets as the engine idled. While Rambo searched for something to defend us with, I unzipped the large grey bag, lifted the Hitachi camera out, steadied it on my left shoulder and turned it on. A blinding light filled the van. Looking through the eyepiece I scanned the darkened passenger window. “This is Maggie Owens. We have just had our first sighting of the….”
“What the hell are you doing?!” Gerard was in front of my lens wielding a plastic butter knife. A small tussle erupted over the camera. He won. Darkness engulfed us once again. “Are you looking to end up as a late night Sasquatch snack?!”
“Were you really going to assault that thing with a plastic knife?” I asked because inquiring minds wished to know. Hell, the knife had still had sour cream on it from our take-out steak dinner.
“You`d rather I used the Spork?” he shot back. I know I said I was attracted to his wit and sharp mind, but sometimes I wondered why he couldn`t just be a pretty face with firm buttocks.
“Just turn the camera on so we can document what just happened,” I hurried to try to fix my hair in the semi-darkness. The shoulder-length mess refused to leave my eyes. The back door of the news van flew open. Gerard tossed me behind him. I thought that was pretty chivalrous of the man, especially since he held the only two weapons we possessed: the knife and the camera. My hand landed on a take-out box. I found a utensil inside then brandished it before me like a Bowie knife. Several beams of light crisscrossed us. My Spork gleamed in the streams of flashlights.
“You them folks from the big city news channel?” someone asked. I didn`t consider Running Falls, New York to be a big city but hey, what did I know? I was clutching a Spork like it was Johnny Depp.
“Yeah,” Gerard coughed. I held a hand in front of my eyes to shield them from the brilliant rays of several Maglights. “You the welcoming committee?” he asked, his voice returning to normal.
“Ayuh, guess we are,” a man drawled, his accent as thick as New England clam chowder, “Welcome to Foggy Creek.”
*~*~*
Click below to go to Tuesday Tales
http://tuesdaytales1.blogspot.com/
See you next Tuesday with the next issue of ‘The Foggy Creek Hellhound’!
October 1, 2012
Tuesday Tales- Dog
Since it`s now October, a month for witches, ghouls, and ghosts, I thought I would begin a short series to cover the month. In all of my October Tuesday Tales, we`ll be reading about Maggie Owens, age 34, and Gerard Williams, age 26,who both work on the show ‘Paranormal Private Investigators’, Maggie as the host while Gerard runs the camera.
Maggie and Gerard have had one previous outing in an unpublished short story I wrote where we discovered both were quite attracted to each other. In that story the two had a run in with a ghost who had a fondness for rump fondling. Gerard asked Maggie out to dinner afterwards. She accepted. We`ll pick up with their first date. For those who are fans of Ares and Libby, never fear, they`ll return to star in the November editions of Tuesday Tales.
The word prompt for this week is ‘Dog’ so the story will reflect the prompt in some manner. As these are original stories written in a week, some errors may be found. I do apologize for those in advance. Try not to let them boggle you down though if possible.
Please do check out the other wonderful writers after you`re done reading by clicking on the Tuesday Tales link at the bottom. Thank you for stopping in!
The Foggy Creek Hellhound
The Flagon and Ox Steak House in Running Falls, New York has the juiciest filet mignon in town. Tonight, it also has one of the juiciest looking men I`ve ever seen and he`s sitting right across from me. This is one of those times where you glance at the other women present, smile like a smug shark at them, and pat yourself on the back.
“Any particular reason you`re grinning at the blond in the black sweater?” that handsome man I mentioned asked. I jabbed at a cherry tomato in my salad to try to cover the gaffe.
“I thought I knew her,” I replied while chewing. Gerard gave me his ‘Uh-huh’ look then speared a slice of cucumber slathered with blue cheese.
“You smile like some demented hyena at every woman you know?”
“Nope, only the ones who get their breasts factory made,” I countered. That comment made the man turn around in his seat and check out the fake boobies. His dreads slithered over his wide shoulder. I reached out to touch the ebony ropes then stabbed myself with my fork. No fondling the cameraman’s hair in public Margaret.
“Damn,” Gerard muttered, returning to me and his salad, “She wants to be careful. Those things might block out her view of her dinner.”
I snorted rudely. He smiled. The small gold cross in his left earlobe glinted in the light of the stained-glass chandelier over our table. His teeth flashed white. My toes curled up tightly inside my flats.
“Bet they serve as a place for her to rest her beer bottle as well,” I snidely said. Gerard nearly choked on his crouton. I reached over to slap his back but he waved me away. Pity really. I wouldn`t have minded getting a feel of a former wide receiver for Pitt`s muscular back.
“You have a wicked mind, Maggie Owens,” the man coughed into his napkin. Dark brown eyes, now slightly watery but nonetheless sigh worthy, moved over me with appreciation.
“I know. My father tells me it’s a wonder he still has his seat in the senate the way my mouth runs,” I rolled another tiny tomato around in my bowl. “Did you hear that the big wigs loved the bit from Tuttlestun Manor? You have some dressing on your face.”
He dabbed and missed. I reached over and wiped at his face, my finger accidently-on-purpose sliding from the napkin to glide over freshly shaved chocolate skin.
“You didn`t spit on that finger did you?” Gerard asked. I wrinkled my nose. “My mother always does that. Why the hell do mother`s spit on themselves then wipe it on your face?”
“At least she doesn`t do it anymore, right?” It would seem rather odd to see a woman spit-cleaning a twenty-six year old man`s face. I refused to allow the thought about putting spit on any other part of my co-workers body to surface.
“Nah, she stopped in my sophomore year at Pitt,” he winked. “I`m glad someone enjoyed that footage. Personally, if I never get that close to a ghost with an ass fetish again I`ll be happy.”
“He did like your ass,” I giggled, ripping a breadstick in half. Gerard scowled and took the offered half gently.
“I hear it`s a fine ass,” he waggled a dark eyebrow and dipped his bread into the residual dressing in his salad bowl. A waiter rushed past carrying a tray.
“You ever plan on letting that go?”
“Not likely. If I recall, Ms. Owens, you not only complimented my ass up in New Hampshire, you also noted my guns and my killer smile.”
“Are all ex-jocks so full of themselves?” I glanced at the clock over the packed bar. “Did you know it`s been thirty minutes since we placed our order?”
“Relax,” Gerard cooed, leaning back in the stout wooden chair to sip his draft. “We`re having fun, right?” he asked over the foamy head of his ale.
“Well, yes, but that`s beside the point. Did they have to go out and slaughter the cow?” I leaned forward to summon our server. Gerard quickly leaned in. Our noses almost bumped. The inside of my thighs grew hot.
“You call that man over and I won`t kiss you goodnight,” he warned then wet his plump lips.
“Did you just make a girly come-hither move at me?” I asked, my mouth watering for another taste of his. It had been nearly a week since we returned from New Hampshire with what I called questionable footage of an apparition. Six days since he had kissed me last was six days too long. I had it bad. I openly admit it.
“It made you forget to bother the waiter,” he said. I could smell the Roquefort on his breath. I suddenly decided I love Roquefort. My cell began to vibrate beside my dinner plate. We both glowered at the phone. I reached for the Nokia. Gerard placed his large dark hand over my smaller pale one to stall me. “Maggie, don`t answer it.”
“What if it`s important?” I asked, my fingers vibrating beneath his. My reply didn`t seem to sway him. “Just let me see who it is. It might be my father,” I tacked on. The man exhaled. His hand left mine and he threw his considerable bulk back into his chair rather petulantly. I peeked at the caller ID. It wasn`t daddy. It was Eddie DeLong, the producer of our show Paranormal Private Investigators.
“Is it your dad?” Gerard asked his thick arms folded over a neatly pressed denim shirt. I must have made a face. His eyes rolled to the log timbers holding up the ceiling. “It`s Eddie, isn`t it? Son of a bitch! Give me that damn phone!” he made a quick grab for the Nokia. I was quicker though and plucked the shaking cell from the table.
“You can`t answer my cell!” I hissed, “I think we both know about that fraternization policy KBNY has.”
“I forgot to read that memo,” Gerard said, eying my hand over my head as if he were pondering making a leap over the table and wrestling me to the ground. The thought had merit but not in the middle of a steak house. Hopefully later some wrestling could occur….or possibly a robust round of naked Twister.
“I`ll send you another email,” I countered, hitting the speak button then placing the phone to my right ear. Gerard tossed his hands into the air then attacked another soft bread stick, ripping it apart with perfect white teeth. I made myself look at the blonde with the big boobs. “Eddie, what the hell do you want?” I snarled into the phone.
“Maggie, don`t get that pissy attitude with me. I just spent the night with my mother-in-law.”
I could picture Eddie pacing his office. He was like a weasel in many regards: Same slim build, same long face and beady eyes, same nervous energy, same nasty attitude when cornered.
“You have my condolences,” I muttered. I had met his wife and her mother at the office Christmas party last year. “In case you forgot I`m off the clock now.”
“Life`s a bitch then you marry one,” he chattered in my ear. “I just got a lead on a hot story. Something about this old legend of a hell dog up in Maine that the yokels have been seeing. This is hot, Maggie. It`s going to be trending, I can feel it. I want you and Gerard on this before anyone else beats us to the punch.”
I looked from the blonde to Gerard. He was chewing his breadstick angrily. I smiled. He stopped chewing and shook his head with sad resignation. I mouthed who it was. He wrinkled his wide nose as if he had just smelled something rotten, which describes Eddie DeLong pretty well. I have to give the weasel – I mean man – his due though. Eddie was the one who tugged me from a copy editing job that had been wasting the skills I had learned at Berkeley. If not for Eddie, I wouldn`t be hosting this show which means I wouldn`t have had the chance to work with Gerard. Gerard and I were proving ourselves, not only to the viewers who would tune in but also to the brass who had wanted to can the series after the original host had been let go. This chance was thanks to Eddie DeLong.
“Maine,” I mulled, leaning back to allow our steaks to be placed in front of us. “Did you find us a room?”
“Two, right in the heart of Foggy Creek. Now stop doing whatever it is you`re doing, find that hulkling you call a cameraman and get your asses up to Maine! Jesus H. Christmas, where the hell is my Mylanta?” he asked while severing the call.
I placed the phone down gently. The steak looked perfectly medium rare. The baked potato topped with sour cream and chives equally as intoxicating. I tossed a fast look at my dinner date. He was not amused. I ran my palms over my black skirt and then raised my hand to flag down the waiter to ask for two take-out containers.
“Just so you know,” Gerard grabbed another breadstick then shook it at me threateningly, “This dinner interruptus does not count as a completed date. You still owe me a steak dinner and a bottle of wine and I plan to collect.”
“You can eat in the van,” I said then tossed back my beer. “And if you`re good, and don`t bitch the whole way to Maine, maybe I`ll let you visit my room and we can have a nightcap.”
His look could have made cinderblock burst into flame. I blinked to cool off my sweaty eyeballs.
“Check!” Gerard shouted.
*~*~*
Click below to go to Tuesday Tales
http://tuesdaytales1.blogspot.com/
See you next Tuesday for more of ‘The Foggy Creek Hellhound’!
September 30, 2012
A Book and a Cuppa - Rapture
Ahhhh…..That`s the sound of a Para/Rom junkie getting her fix of The WARDen. How can I describe it to non-WARDen fans? It`s like getting the first mouthful of coffee swirling over your taste buds in the morning, or if you`re a smoker, inhaling that first lungful of Newport or Marlboro. The rush is the same. Thankfully the folks behind the WARDen have her books timed just perfectly. They give us a hit of angel in the fall then make us wait, quivering in anticipation, for a toke of vampire come spring. Today, over a fresh cuppa, we`ll be chatting about the latest book in The Fallen Angels series, Rapture.
I know you`re already thinking I`ll be giving this novel a five star rating. Well, you`re wrong. I don`t just hand out those five stars easily. A novel or series of novels really has to blow me off my feet. I adore the WARDen. I worship at her diminutive feet. I wish I could write books like she does, and Lord knows I wish I could pen men the way she does. But my fan girl admiration aside, Ms. Ward is not without faults, as small as they may be. What I found wrong with Rapture we`ll discuss in a bit and it will contain spoilers, so don`t read after the large SPOILER ALERT caps that you`ll find down a few paragraphs if you haven`t finished the book, okay? You`ve been warned. So, let`s get talking about a great book, shall we?
Rapture revolves around Mels Carmichael, a reporter for the Caldwell Courier Journal and Jim Heron, angel extraordinaire and hot-hot-hottie. Fans of the BDB will know that the CCJ is where Beth worked before she ran into the towering wall of ebony hair, wraparounds, and don`t F with me attitude that is Wrath. I may need a minute….
Okay, I`m good now. So, Mels works at the CCJ and is stuck in a rut of a life until a man stumbles in front of her car one night right outside the local cemetery. After she runs the poor man over his amnesia is just the sort of mystery that a woman like Mels can sink her teeth into. It doesn`t take long for Mels to discover she is dealing with a man with a very dark past that is involved in a war between good and evil. Will she lose her heart to him, or will she lose her soul to a demon?
And then there is Jim Heron. Jim is still in a battle with the demon Devina, fighting for a soul in a game where the score is kept and overseen by the big guy in the sky. I`ll admit that I am falling hard for Jim Heron. He is not your typical angel. You know, all softness and wings and pretty white robes? I will also confess to having warm tingly feelings for Adrian, Jim`s partner in the war against evil. You got to love an angel in leather with piercings and a sex drive that could rival a bull moose in rut, am I right? Darn Skippy. Since we lost Eddie in the last book (Yes, I cried over his death) I`m now clinging to Ad tightly. I don`t think I can stand another loss like that.
The plot is wonderfully paced. The action superb, the romance is fan-your-face-get-me-some-ice-to-dump-down-my-shirt hot, and the secondary characters crackle. I love that The WARDen slips in little references to my beloved Brothers in her angel series. Both series take place in Caldwell, New York, so if there weren`t glimpses of leather-clad behemoths from time to time it wouldn`t seem feasible, would it?
I enjoyed Mels a great deal. Once again Ms. Ward gives us a strong, determined leading lady that takes no crap. I love that. And our romantic leading man….Didn`t see that one coming! Nope. Knock me over with an angel feather. And now we`ll have that warning I spoke about earlier---
SPOILER ALERT!!!
We can`t talk about the leading man without saying his name. We also can`t discuss what I found disappointing with the book without bringing Matthias into things. There, I typed his name and it`s out. Matthias. Who the heck would have imagined that rotten, dirty, son-of-a-nutcracker from the previous books to come back and turn into a great leading man?? Not me. Ms. Ward got me and got me good with this choice. I loved it! Talk about showing character development and growth! He really worked for me as a romantic lead. Anytime a five hundred and two page book purchased on a Tuesday is done forty-eight hours later, you know I am hooked but good. And I was. Up until the last few chapters….
Don`t get me wrong, as a romance novel the ending was what is required. The leading lady and man must have an HEA (Happily Ever After) and 99.9% of the time I`m onboard with that. This time, it fizzled for me. We had a gripping, dramatic, making the right choice, death scene with Matthias, Mels, and Jim all involved. It was powerful, perfectly executed, tight, emotional, and detailed. And then Matthias comes back to life?
What? Why? The HEA, I know, I know. But for me, unless the big guy in the sky has brought Matthias back to work with Jim and Ad, who really need another angel (Lassiter, are you free?) this return to life cheapens the whole act of Matthias stepping in front of a bullet for Jim, in my humble. I fully understand we are reading about angels and vampires here. But death, especially in such a heroic setting, should stay vivid and stunning and real.
I applauded Ms. Ward for her decision not to bring Wellsie back in the last BDB novel Lover Reborn. To bring back Tohr`s love would have made her death meaningless and tainted the loss we readers felt. Yet, here she does what she would not do to Wellsie, which is bring a lost character back just for the HEA. Perhaps I`m alone in this view, and that`s okay. This is my review and my feelings. I totally understand if others think it worked.
So this book is definitely an easy four and a half stars. Since we don`t have that choice though, I`m giving Rapture a solid four stars. It is everything we have grown to expect from The WARDen. Now I just have to bide my time until Qhuinn/Blay hits the stands next spring.
Wonder if they have BDB transdermal patches I can buy?
September 28, 2012
Old Age Doesn`t Come Alone
A dear friend of mine passed those sage words along to me not long ago.
Boy was she right! I have noticed that there are things in my house that were not there fifteen years ago. They appeared slowly, one by one, and so I never noticed them until those words from my friend popped up the other day. I was making the bed and it hit me.
Old age surely does not come alone; it has brought these things with it so far—
Mister now sleeps with a pillow between his legs to ease an aching hip.
I sleep on a wedge to help my GRD.
I now wear these to help with an arm-length problem I was having.
Yep, purple pills to cut down that stomach acid.
A corn heating pad to be placed on Mister`s aching hip as needed.
Because regular coffee fires up my reflux and keeps Mister and me up past ten.
Daily just as a precaution for something I didn`t think I needed to precaution for when I was twenty.
For those who are now worried about blood pressure.
To keep middle-aged colons happy.
For those of us suffering from CRS.
I`m sure there are lots more but I can`t seem to remember what they are….
September 24, 2012
Tuesday Tales - Finger
Tuesday Tales
Today in our tale, Libby tells us about an outing with Ares. Libby and Ares are the stars of my ‘Of Gods & Goats’ trilogy. The word prompt this week is ‘Finger’ so the story will reflect the prompt. As these are original stories written in a week, some errors may be found. I do apologize for those in advance. Try not to let them boggle you down though if possible.
Please do check out the other wonderful writers after you`re done reading by clicking on the Tuesday Tales link at the bottom. Thank you for stopping in. May the gods smile upon you!
Fairly Confused
*~*~*
I suppose I may as well tell you the ‘Waiting in Line’ tale and what followed. I`m sure the stories have already been travelling up and down the dirt roads my mailman Gary covers with the speed of Clark Kent in spandex mode. There are no secrets in Pride County, Pennsylvania. I know when Cathy-Sue Proctor has her upper lip waxed before that mustache that she tries to deny exists is ripped from her face. That was kind of catty, wasn`t it? Sorry. I had a long night last night. Gods are voracious in their appetites. I`ll leave it at that and let you draw your own conclusions but let me add a wink and a nudge.
So yes, the county fair, where do I begin? I`ll start when we pulled up and parked in Leon Atchison’s hay field and – No, let`s start when we pulled up to go into Leon`s field. I should have known right then something was up. Ares was close to bursting from the truck; his anticipation level was so high. I feared he would combust with excitement before we got our parking pass and pulled into the chosen section of muddy pasture. I didn`t spend much time gawking at the fairgrounds as we approached the entrance. I was too damned busy trying to stay on my feet to gawk.
Thank Hera there was a short line. I tugged my wrist free from the behemoth and stalked back to get the sandal I had lost. Folks in line were smiling at me as I passed. Several lived on my road. I grinned and hopped my way back to Ares, finally getting my toes between the straps.
“He`s very excited,” I explained to a plump woman in front of us. You could feel the anticipation oozing from the war god in bib overalls and a pale blue tee. She nodded.
“Yah, so are my boys,” she patted the heads of twins no older than five. I thought about patting Ares buzzed dome but I didn`t have a step-stool. I patted his massive bicep instead. The line moved. Ares looked down on me at his side. I rested my head on his arm.
“Come, I tire of waiting,” he made to push through to the hand-stamping ladies seated in a small shady shelter.
“Whoa, you can`t just shove ahead. You have to wait,” I explained, planting my feet like a mule.
“I am Ares!” he announced, slapping his beer barrel of a chest smartly. I snorted to hide my mortification. “I should be granted immediate passage,” he boasted. The plump mother of twins and everyone else glared at the snarling mountain of stud-cake at my side.
“He`s from Greece,” I offered. They seemed to accept that, more or less. “His family is somewhat important over there.”
“My family is somewhat important?! Has the sun baked your mortal brain, Libby?!” Ares turned and laid a hand on my head. His fingers spanned from ear to ear. “I mean, your American brain,” he amended then gave me a sheepish smile. “Aye,” he then announced with enough volume his kin up on Olympus would have heard him clearly, “I am from Greece! Come to this land to study goats. I have also found a good woman to pleasure! She is a fine cook, and keeps me well placated!” he slapped my ass. Titters rose from the line. “There, Bunting, I have over smoothed things as you say.”
“Thank you, Ares,” I sighed.
He nodded regally. I got my hand stamped. It was a pig stamp. I watched Ares` reaction when the woman asked for his hand. He was puzzled at first, but then when he saw the bright blue hog his expression shifted to great joy. “A boar, how fitting. Did you know that I command boars?” he asked the elderly volunteer. She blinked at him through her bifocals.
“I`m sure she does,” I took the exuberant man and lead him into the fairgrounds. Various sounds and smells greeted us: browning peppers, onions, and sausages, grease for frying funnel cakes, sheep blatting, cows lowing, hogs squealing, kids screaming in merriment. I love a fair.
“I seek the horses,” the man holding my hand proclaimed. I pointed at a barn down over a small knoll. He frowned and shook his head. “Nay, Libby, not the flesh and blood steeds, the mechanical ones!”
We stopped walking beside a ‘Toss-a-Dart’ booth. I was thoroughly confused.
“Ares, we don`t have anything like that at this little fair. Maybe the state fair would but….”
“Nay, my good friend, Gary, the carrier of missives, explained that there were mechanical horses here. They are bound in one place, and move in a circular manner upon a platform. They prance up and down despite the fact that they have been impaled,” he said, his hands moving wildly as they did when he was getting aggravated. I arched an eyebrow at him. He exhaled dramatically, his gesticulating hands dropping to his sides. “Gary tells me that these horses run in circles and children attempt to grab jewelry as they pass.”
“You`re talking about a merry-go-round,” I said and was promptly kissed soundly. I stumbled when he released me and pushed a red curl from my dreamy eye.
“Aye, a merry-go-around,” the man perused the rides, his height giving him a great advantage.
“They haven`t had a merry-go-round here for years, Ares,” I said. He deflated like a pricked hot air balloon. “Sorry,” I added and wrapped my arms around his waist. “We can ride all the other rides though,” I pointed out cheerfully. He nodded, but the fire had been taken out of him I was saddened to see. “Let`s try the Ferris Wheel,” I offered. Ares came along in my wake. Soon we were in a bright green gondola, stopping and starting as the ride was slowly filled. It wasn`t a huge wheel in comparison to other ones at larger fairs, but once at the top it did give you a lovely view of a few rolling Pennsylvania valleys. That in itself was reason to ride it I thought. I was chattering away, pointing out various things to Ares as we started and stopped. Near the top he looked at me and something made my mouth stop running.
“You look very pretty,” he said running a sensual eye over my sundress. “Blue is a good match for your eyes,” he added, reaching out to finger the hem of my little blue dress with white eyelet. “I had hoped to have something to gift you with, but the mechanical horses were not here, thusly I could not find the ring to place upon your finger.”
“Uhm,” came out, followed by a very loud gulp. “Uhm,” Madame Mensa here said again. “It`s okay,” I finally managed to put two words together. “Which, you know, finger were you going to put the ring on?” I asked, keeping the knowledge of the carousel ring and its size to myself. He already felt badly, there was no point in adding to his disenchantment and embarrassment.
“I thought to place it on your right hand,” he informed me. I`ll admit it, I was kind of disappointed when I realized it wasn`t an engagement ring he was thinking of. Silly woman, I know. Like he would propose to a mortal when he never did ask Aphrodite for her hand? Granted, she was married to his brother, Hephaestus, so an engagement to Ares may have made things a teensy bit awkward. I forced a smile and curled into his side as the ride began to rotate in earnest. His fingers were moving through my hair, which was down just as he preferred it.
I couldn`t think of a single thing to say, so I rubbed his chest, my left ring finger feeling rather naked since I no longer wore Matt`s band. I don`t think my dead husband would object to Ares` ring taking the place of his. Knowing Matt, he would smooch my cheek, clap Ares on the shoulder and tell him to make sure he kept me happy. If angels came down to attend weddings, that is.
“Want to check out the goat barn next?” I asked after a few moments of wheeling and silence ensued.
“That would be fine, Libby,” he replied, dropping a kiss to the top of my head. He then lifted my hand from his chest and placed his lips to the knuckle of my right ring finger. The gentle devotion of that gesture made my lashes damp for a moment. Ring or no ring, I couldn`t love the big lummox more.
*~*~*
Just a small FYI, in case this isn`t widely known – The Romans began the trend of giving rings as symbols of marital status and wore them on their right hands. In the western world, wedding rings are worn on the left hand, but in many nations around the world wedding rings are worn on the right ring finger. Eastern Orthodox Christians, such as those in Greece, carry on the Roman tradition in this manner.
*~*~*
Click below to go to Tuesday Tales
http://tuesdaytales1.blogspot.com/
See you next Tuesday with another new tale!
Today in our tale, Libby tells us about an outing with Ares. Libby and Ares are the stars of my ‘Of Gods & Goats’ trilogy. The word prompt this week is ‘Finger’ so the story will reflect the prompt. As these are original stories written in a week, some errors may be found. I do apologize for those in advance. Try not to let them boggle you down though if possible.
Please do check out the other wonderful writers after you`re done reading by clicking on the Tuesday Tales link at the bottom. Thank you for stopping in. May the gods smile upon you!
Fairly Confused
*~*~*
I suppose I may as well tell you the ‘Waiting in Line’ tale and what followed. I`m sure the stories have already been travelling up and down the dirt roads my mailman Gary covers with the speed of Clark Kent in spandex mode. There are no secrets in Pride County, Pennsylvania. I know when Cathy-Sue Proctor has her upper lip waxed before that mustache that she tries to deny exists is ripped from her face. That was kind of catty, wasn`t it? Sorry. I had a long night last night. Gods are voracious in their appetites. I`ll leave it at that and let you draw your own conclusions but let me add a wink and a nudge.
So yes, the county fair, where do I begin? I`ll start when we pulled up and parked in Leon Atchison’s hay field and – No, let`s start when we pulled up to go into Leon`s field. I should have known right then something was up. Ares was close to bursting from the truck; his anticipation level was so high. I feared he would combust with excitement before we got our parking pass and pulled into the chosen section of muddy pasture. I didn`t spend much time gawking at the fairgrounds as we approached the entrance. I was too damned busy trying to stay on my feet to gawk.
Thank Hera there was a short line. I tugged my wrist free from the behemoth and stalked back to get the sandal I had lost. Folks in line were smiling at me as I passed. Several lived on my road. I grinned and hopped my way back to Ares, finally getting my toes between the straps.
“He`s very excited,” I explained to a plump woman in front of us. You could feel the anticipation oozing from the war god in bib overalls and a pale blue tee. She nodded.
“Yah, so are my boys,” she patted the heads of twins no older than five. I thought about patting Ares buzzed dome but I didn`t have a step-stool. I patted his massive bicep instead. The line moved. Ares looked down on me at his side. I rested my head on his arm.
“Come, I tire of waiting,” he made to push through to the hand-stamping ladies seated in a small shady shelter.
“Whoa, you can`t just shove ahead. You have to wait,” I explained, planting my feet like a mule.
“I am Ares!” he announced, slapping his beer barrel of a chest smartly. I snorted to hide my mortification. “I should be granted immediate passage,” he boasted. The plump mother of twins and everyone else glared at the snarling mountain of stud-cake at my side.
“He`s from Greece,” I offered. They seemed to accept that, more or less. “His family is somewhat important over there.”
“My family is somewhat important?! Has the sun baked your mortal brain, Libby?!” Ares turned and laid a hand on my head. His fingers spanned from ear to ear. “I mean, your American brain,” he amended then gave me a sheepish smile. “Aye,” he then announced with enough volume his kin up on Olympus would have heard him clearly, “I am from Greece! Come to this land to study goats. I have also found a good woman to pleasure! She is a fine cook, and keeps me well placated!” he slapped my ass. Titters rose from the line. “There, Bunting, I have over smoothed things as you say.”
“Thank you, Ares,” I sighed.
He nodded regally. I got my hand stamped. It was a pig stamp. I watched Ares` reaction when the woman asked for his hand. He was puzzled at first, but then when he saw the bright blue hog his expression shifted to great joy. “A boar, how fitting. Did you know that I command boars?” he asked the elderly volunteer. She blinked at him through her bifocals.
“I`m sure she does,” I took the exuberant man and lead him into the fairgrounds. Various sounds and smells greeted us: browning peppers, onions, and sausages, grease for frying funnel cakes, sheep blatting, cows lowing, hogs squealing, kids screaming in merriment. I love a fair.
“I seek the horses,” the man holding my hand proclaimed. I pointed at a barn down over a small knoll. He frowned and shook his head. “Nay, Libby, not the flesh and blood steeds, the mechanical ones!”
We stopped walking beside a ‘Toss-a-Dart’ booth. I was thoroughly confused.
“Ares, we don`t have anything like that at this little fair. Maybe the state fair would but….”
“Nay, my good friend, Gary, the carrier of missives, explained that there were mechanical horses here. They are bound in one place, and move in a circular manner upon a platform. They prance up and down despite the fact that they have been impaled,” he said, his hands moving wildly as they did when he was getting aggravated. I arched an eyebrow at him. He exhaled dramatically, his gesticulating hands dropping to his sides. “Gary tells me that these horses run in circles and children attempt to grab jewelry as they pass.”
“You`re talking about a merry-go-round,” I said and was promptly kissed soundly. I stumbled when he released me and pushed a red curl from my dreamy eye.
“Aye, a merry-go-around,” the man perused the rides, his height giving him a great advantage.
“They haven`t had a merry-go-round here for years, Ares,” I said. He deflated like a pricked hot air balloon. “Sorry,” I added and wrapped my arms around his waist. “We can ride all the other rides though,” I pointed out cheerfully. He nodded, but the fire had been taken out of him I was saddened to see. “Let`s try the Ferris Wheel,” I offered. Ares came along in my wake. Soon we were in a bright green gondola, stopping and starting as the ride was slowly filled. It wasn`t a huge wheel in comparison to other ones at larger fairs, but once at the top it did give you a lovely view of a few rolling Pennsylvania valleys. That in itself was reason to ride it I thought. I was chattering away, pointing out various things to Ares as we started and stopped. Near the top he looked at me and something made my mouth stop running.
“You look very pretty,” he said running a sensual eye over my sundress. “Blue is a good match for your eyes,” he added, reaching out to finger the hem of my little blue dress with white eyelet. “I had hoped to have something to gift you with, but the mechanical horses were not here, thusly I could not find the ring to place upon your finger.”
“Uhm,” came out, followed by a very loud gulp. “Uhm,” Madame Mensa here said again. “It`s okay,” I finally managed to put two words together. “Which, you know, finger were you going to put the ring on?” I asked, keeping the knowledge of the carousel ring and its size to myself. He already felt badly, there was no point in adding to his disenchantment and embarrassment.
“I thought to place it on your right hand,” he informed me. I`ll admit it, I was kind of disappointed when I realized it wasn`t an engagement ring he was thinking of. Silly woman, I know. Like he would propose to a mortal when he never did ask Aphrodite for her hand? Granted, she was married to his brother, Hephaestus, so an engagement to Ares may have made things a teensy bit awkward. I forced a smile and curled into his side as the ride began to rotate in earnest. His fingers were moving through my hair, which was down just as he preferred it.
I couldn`t think of a single thing to say, so I rubbed his chest, my left ring finger feeling rather naked since I no longer wore Matt`s band. I don`t think my dead husband would object to Ares` ring taking the place of his. Knowing Matt, he would smooch my cheek, clap Ares on the shoulder and tell him to make sure he kept me happy. If angels came down to attend weddings, that is.
“Want to check out the goat barn next?” I asked after a few moments of wheeling and silence ensued.
“That would be fine, Libby,” he replied, dropping a kiss to the top of my head. He then lifted my hand from his chest and placed his lips to the knuckle of my right ring finger. The gentle devotion of that gesture made my lashes damp for a moment. Ring or no ring, I couldn`t love the big lummox more.
*~*~*
Just a small FYI, in case this isn`t widely known – The Romans began the trend of giving rings as symbols of marital status and wore them on their right hands. In the western world, wedding rings are worn on the left hand, but in many nations around the world wedding rings are worn on the right ring finger. Eastern Orthodox Christians, such as those in Greece, carry on the Roman tradition in this manner.
*~*~*
Click below to go to Tuesday Tales
http://tuesdaytales1.blogspot.com/
See you next Tuesday with another new tale!
September 20, 2012
Yep, I did it
I`m going to show y`all a picture and then I`ll just sit here at the kitchen table, sipping my coffee while you look at it and try to figure it out.
Okay, so, I figure you`re now asking yourself ‘Why is there a stick jammed under the handle of your truck door, Vicki?’ Well, the answer is kind of an embarrassing one but heck, I`ve revealed more embarrassing things about myself on these blog pages then this before.
It all started last week. Miss and I got in the truck to go down for the bus in the morning. I got situated and tugged the driver side door closed. It bounced back open. Huh. That was weird I thought and tried again. This time it latched. So, off we go like two merry monkeys down to wait for the bus.
After the teen is on her way I drive back up, park the truck and exit with Trinity. Trinity always rides down to the bus. It is her duty to carry my keys back to the house daily for they are heavy and I am old and feeble, in her mind. Again, I close the door and it springs back at me. I check to make sure the seatbelt isn`t in the way. It isn`t. I study the problem for a moment and then slam the door soundly. It flies back at me. Huh. So, doing what I do best, I get myself behind the door and slam it with all I have.
The door simply squeaks back open and hangs there. Well this isn`t going to work I decide while Trinity is dancing around with jingling keys dangling from her mouth. I can`t just leave the door open. What if it rains? What if the chickens and turkeys decide the inside of my truck looks like a good place to roost and preen? I go off and find a chunk of fire wood and jam it up into the door.
And then I wait for Mister to get home. He does. I stand in the kitchen window and watch as he drinks in the door and chunk of fire wood. Inside he comes after a moment.
“What`s with the wood?” he asks. I explain what occurred. I get the ‘Dear Lord, spare me from women’ look and he heads outside to check things out. Within two minutes he returns.
“What did you do?” he inquires.
“Well, I tried to shut it. I even poked at the hooky thing with my keys to turn it, but it wouldn`t turn, so I just slammed it a few times hoping it would latch.”
“You know all that slamming did was bust the latch inside the door, right?”
“Uhm, no,” I muttered.
And there we are. The door won`t close so a stick is now holding it shut until Mister can work on it. He did manage to rig up a ratchet strap that goes from the passenger side handle to the driver’s side door, which keeps the door from bouncing and rattling when I go down the driveway and back up.
We are living, breathing examples of ‘You might be a Redneck if….”
Okay, so, I figure you`re now asking yourself ‘Why is there a stick jammed under the handle of your truck door, Vicki?’ Well, the answer is kind of an embarrassing one but heck, I`ve revealed more embarrassing things about myself on these blog pages then this before.
It all started last week. Miss and I got in the truck to go down for the bus in the morning. I got situated and tugged the driver side door closed. It bounced back open. Huh. That was weird I thought and tried again. This time it latched. So, off we go like two merry monkeys down to wait for the bus.
After the teen is on her way I drive back up, park the truck and exit with Trinity. Trinity always rides down to the bus. It is her duty to carry my keys back to the house daily for they are heavy and I am old and feeble, in her mind. Again, I close the door and it springs back at me. I check to make sure the seatbelt isn`t in the way. It isn`t. I study the problem for a moment and then slam the door soundly. It flies back at me. Huh. So, doing what I do best, I get myself behind the door and slam it with all I have.
The door simply squeaks back open and hangs there. Well this isn`t going to work I decide while Trinity is dancing around with jingling keys dangling from her mouth. I can`t just leave the door open. What if it rains? What if the chickens and turkeys decide the inside of my truck looks like a good place to roost and preen? I go off and find a chunk of fire wood and jam it up into the door.
And then I wait for Mister to get home. He does. I stand in the kitchen window and watch as he drinks in the door and chunk of fire wood. Inside he comes after a moment.
“What`s with the wood?” he asks. I explain what occurred. I get the ‘Dear Lord, spare me from women’ look and he heads outside to check things out. Within two minutes he returns.
“What did you do?” he inquires.
“Well, I tried to shut it. I even poked at the hooky thing with my keys to turn it, but it wouldn`t turn, so I just slammed it a few times hoping it would latch.”
“You know all that slamming did was bust the latch inside the door, right?”
“Uhm, no,” I muttered.
And there we are. The door won`t close so a stick is now holding it shut until Mister can work on it. He did manage to rig up a ratchet strap that goes from the passenger side handle to the driver’s side door, which keeps the door from bouncing and rattling when I go down the driveway and back up.
We are living, breathing examples of ‘You might be a Redneck if….”
September 18, 2012
Tuesday Tales - Picture Prompt
Tuesday Tales
Today in our tale, Libby shares a special evening spent with Ares. This week we have a picture prompt and the tale is written to reflect the image and must be 300 words. As these are original stories written in a week, some errors may be found. I do apologize for those in advance. Try not to let them boggle you down though if possible.
Please do check out the other wonderful writers after you`re done reading by clicking on the Tuesday Tales link at the bottom. Thank you for stopping in. May the gods smile upon you!
*~*~*
Cheers
The light of Artemis flowed over us in the hay mow. Soft bleats came from the goats below. Ares reached over me, his arm brushing my ear. I snuggled closer, the unfettered hay beneath a soft, fragrant blanket. He was warm from head to toe. My leg slid between his.
“`Twas it better this time than the first?” he asked, two flutes of golden bubbles in one hand.
“`Twas indeed,” I sighed, wiggling up to rest my bare back to round bale. The stem was cool in my overheated palm. Chaff tickled my bare breasts.
“Why?” he asked, his eyes aglow like apatites.
“Because I love you more now than I did when we first loved each other,” I smiled into the bubbles.
He made a sound of agreement and tapped the edge of his glass to mine.
“A man could want no better toast,” he murmured, drank rapidly then tossed the flute aside. “Come to me, my wee fiery bunting.”
I went like a scarlet bird on wing.
*~*~*
Click below to go to Tuesday Tales
http://tuesdaytales1.blogspot.com/
See you next Tuesday with another new tale!
Today in our tale, Libby shares a special evening spent with Ares. This week we have a picture prompt and the tale is written to reflect the image and must be 300 words. As these are original stories written in a week, some errors may be found. I do apologize for those in advance. Try not to let them boggle you down though if possible.
Please do check out the other wonderful writers after you`re done reading by clicking on the Tuesday Tales link at the bottom. Thank you for stopping in. May the gods smile upon you!
*~*~*
Cheers
The light of Artemis flowed over us in the hay mow. Soft bleats came from the goats below. Ares reached over me, his arm brushing my ear. I snuggled closer, the unfettered hay beneath a soft, fragrant blanket. He was warm from head to toe. My leg slid between his.
“`Twas it better this time than the first?” he asked, two flutes of golden bubbles in one hand.
“`Twas indeed,” I sighed, wiggling up to rest my bare back to round bale. The stem was cool in my overheated palm. Chaff tickled my bare breasts.
“Why?” he asked, his eyes aglow like apatites.
“Because I love you more now than I did when we first loved each other,” I smiled into the bubbles.
He made a sound of agreement and tapped the edge of his glass to mine.
“A man could want no better toast,” he murmured, drank rapidly then tossed the flute aside. “Come to me, my wee fiery bunting.”
I went like a scarlet bird on wing.
*~*~*
Click below to go to Tuesday Tales
http://tuesdaytales1.blogspot.com/
See you next Tuesday with another new tale!
September 16, 2012
Word of Mouth - Dragonfly in Amber
The woman is killing me. Honestly, Diana Gabaldon is slowly and surely plucking me into tiny bits with each laugh, each tear, each sigh of romantic appreciation that she tugs from me with her novels. And readers, if this is what death is about, I openly and wantonly embrace it. To die from the sheer enjoyment of a book, and the emotions it pulls from my soul is a wonderful way to go.
I`m sure you`ve gathered that we`re going to chat a wee bit about the second book in the Outlander series ‘Dragonfly in Amber’. Also, as you have figured out, I adored it. I`ll try my best not to spoil for those who may not have read the first book ‘Outlander’.
This second book takes us back to a love story that spans two centuries. We are once more graced with the unforgettable saga of Claire and Jamie Fraser. Claire has been keeping her secret for twenty years. She has returned to the Highlands with her daughter, Brianna, in hopes of finally revealing the truth about that mysterious circle of stones and the man she met on the other side. How the daughter of a long-dead Highland warrior will accept the news is unknown, but Claire is not a woman to let the unknown dissuade her.
The book starts out in the year nineteen sixty-eight in Inverness before we move back to Scotland in seventeen forty-four. We get to know Brianna and see what has happened to Claire before we journey back in time. Then we are swept into the courts of Paris as Claire and Jamie race to stop the ill-fated Highland uprising. Can they stop Charles Stuart in time to save thousands of lives?
I won`t say what happens but the tale is riveting and compelling. I couldn`t read fast enough. I simply adore Jamie and Claire. There`s is a romance that leaves me breathless one minute, laughing uproariously the next, sobbing like a babe a chapter later, and fanning my face when we slip into the bedroom. Honestly I cannot find one fault with the way our leading man and lady are presented. They love each other SO deeply. Their profound love has swept them to the top of the romantic leads I have read about in recent years. Yes, I adore other couples (Jane and Vishous, Cat and Bones to toss out a couple) but Jamie and Claire is simply the pinnacle for me.
This second book does not slip one bit from the first in any way. The plotting is superb. The sub-plots are tight and riveting. The secondary characters are brilliant and superbly fleshed out. The history is presented in an enjoyable manner that doesn`t leave me skipping over dry, boring facts. The humor is human and warm. This couple is fun! There were many passages I read out loud to my daughter just so she could laugh at the warmth and wit of Claire and Jamie like I did. There is intrigue, murder, rape, violence, and yet one does not lose sight of the love story.
I`m sure you`re wondering if there was anything I didn`t like about the book, aren`t you? Well, I must admit I wasn`t too keen on all the political machinations in court. I understood how important it was to the plot to detail it all for the reader. For me though, a wee bit less of the courts and more of the Highlands would have suited better. But that was a small thing, hardly a minor blip on my reader radar screen.
‘Voyager’ is the next book in the series. Am I buying it? You bet your sweet haggis I am! I cannot say enough good things about Ms. Gabaldon or this series of novels. Please, do yourself a favor and dive into the Outlander books, be ye lad or lassie.
Listen! Do you hear that? I think that`s the sound of pipes rolling across a foggy field of heather. I must be off! Until we meet again I leave you with something that Jamie may say when parting from friends-
“Lang may your lum reek.”
(Long may your chimney smoke.)
I`m sure you`ve gathered that we`re going to chat a wee bit about the second book in the Outlander series ‘Dragonfly in Amber’. Also, as you have figured out, I adored it. I`ll try my best not to spoil for those who may not have read the first book ‘Outlander’.
This second book takes us back to a love story that spans two centuries. We are once more graced with the unforgettable saga of Claire and Jamie Fraser. Claire has been keeping her secret for twenty years. She has returned to the Highlands with her daughter, Brianna, in hopes of finally revealing the truth about that mysterious circle of stones and the man she met on the other side. How the daughter of a long-dead Highland warrior will accept the news is unknown, but Claire is not a woman to let the unknown dissuade her.
The book starts out in the year nineteen sixty-eight in Inverness before we move back to Scotland in seventeen forty-four. We get to know Brianna and see what has happened to Claire before we journey back in time. Then we are swept into the courts of Paris as Claire and Jamie race to stop the ill-fated Highland uprising. Can they stop Charles Stuart in time to save thousands of lives?
I won`t say what happens but the tale is riveting and compelling. I couldn`t read fast enough. I simply adore Jamie and Claire. There`s is a romance that leaves me breathless one minute, laughing uproariously the next, sobbing like a babe a chapter later, and fanning my face when we slip into the bedroom. Honestly I cannot find one fault with the way our leading man and lady are presented. They love each other SO deeply. Their profound love has swept them to the top of the romantic leads I have read about in recent years. Yes, I adore other couples (Jane and Vishous, Cat and Bones to toss out a couple) but Jamie and Claire is simply the pinnacle for me.
This second book does not slip one bit from the first in any way. The plotting is superb. The sub-plots are tight and riveting. The secondary characters are brilliant and superbly fleshed out. The history is presented in an enjoyable manner that doesn`t leave me skipping over dry, boring facts. The humor is human and warm. This couple is fun! There were many passages I read out loud to my daughter just so she could laugh at the warmth and wit of Claire and Jamie like I did. There is intrigue, murder, rape, violence, and yet one does not lose sight of the love story.
I`m sure you`re wondering if there was anything I didn`t like about the book, aren`t you? Well, I must admit I wasn`t too keen on all the political machinations in court. I understood how important it was to the plot to detail it all for the reader. For me though, a wee bit less of the courts and more of the Highlands would have suited better. But that was a small thing, hardly a minor blip on my reader radar screen.
‘Voyager’ is the next book in the series. Am I buying it? You bet your sweet haggis I am! I cannot say enough good things about Ms. Gabaldon or this series of novels. Please, do yourself a favor and dive into the Outlander books, be ye lad or lassie.
Listen! Do you hear that? I think that`s the sound of pipes rolling across a foggy field of heather. I must be off! Until we meet again I leave you with something that Jamie may say when parting from friends-
“Lang may your lum reek.”
(Long may your chimney smoke.)
September 14, 2012
Literary Garden Party
Sometime`s songs are amazingly inspirational, don`t you think?
I was listening to some oldies the other day when Rick Nelson`s ‘Garden Party’ came on.
Rick Nelson - Garden Party
Now I know some of you may not know Rick, how he came to fame, or the song for that matter, and that`s okay. The song tells a story about a man going to a garden party where he explains that he has learned many life lessons. It`s a lovely song with some very good advice.
Well, Rick`s song got me thinking about going to a literary garden party. Imagine spending a day in a perfectly manicured garden, sipping tea and nibbling finger sandwiches while chatting with your favorite literary characters!
I can easily see myself sitting down to chat with a pig, a spider, a rat, a goose, and Fern. Of course, some at the party may take offense to such creatures at the table, but not me. I would ask Charlotte how it was she became so skilled at weaving. I`d keep a close eye on Templeton the rat, because I fear he would steal the cookies and tarts and try to take them under the trough. Speaking to Goose may become frustrating after a bit, what with her propensity to stutter, but I think we could talk for hours about our children, for Goose is a very attentive mother.
Wilbur would have to sit on a pillow or two to reach his plate, since he is a runt. I bet he would love cleaning up the scraps! Fern and I would fall into a deep discussion on pig rearing and proper fair procedure. Maybe, as we sipped and chatted, I might be able to get a blush out of the young girl by mentioning Henry Fussy.
Perhaps at another table, a much bigger one tucked back inside a darkened cave to avoid any sunlight, I could sit down and discuss how the war against the Lessers and BoB is going with Wrath. I could laugh at Rhage and his stupid jokes and enjoy watching Zsadist cradling his daughter, Nalla, while Phury and Butch compare suits.
Of course, I`d be seated next to Vishous, because this is my literary garden party and I get to sit next to the Brother I covet the most. He and I would sip tea heavily doused with Grey Goose, get into serious tech talk and Red Sox gossip, and argue which is better: rap or rock. More than likely I would stumble a bit as I left the cave, the sun blinding me as I giggled, hiccupped and tripped to the next table.
There I would find a seat between Claire and Jamie Fraser. Jamie would find my slightly soused state rather amusing. Perhaps he would even ask where I had found the good stuff as the party was a wee bit dry for his tastes. Claire and I could chat about life at Lollybroch, how she is doing, what changes she would like to see made.
Maybe the three of us could engage in a lively croquet game after I got my feet under me right. Jamie would cheat when confronted by the skills of a goatherder and a Sassenach I wager. Lord knows the man has a rather large amount of pride. Claire and I would roll our eyes and let the Highland warrior win, although the pilfered croquet balls in his sporran would amuse us to no end.
If you were having a literary garden party, who would you see and visit with? I`d love to hear what characters you`d sit down with for a day in the garden!
I was listening to some oldies the other day when Rick Nelson`s ‘Garden Party’ came on.
Rick Nelson - Garden Party
Now I know some of you may not know Rick, how he came to fame, or the song for that matter, and that`s okay. The song tells a story about a man going to a garden party where he explains that he has learned many life lessons. It`s a lovely song with some very good advice.
Well, Rick`s song got me thinking about going to a literary garden party. Imagine spending a day in a perfectly manicured garden, sipping tea and nibbling finger sandwiches while chatting with your favorite literary characters!
I can easily see myself sitting down to chat with a pig, a spider, a rat, a goose, and Fern. Of course, some at the party may take offense to such creatures at the table, but not me. I would ask Charlotte how it was she became so skilled at weaving. I`d keep a close eye on Templeton the rat, because I fear he would steal the cookies and tarts and try to take them under the trough. Speaking to Goose may become frustrating after a bit, what with her propensity to stutter, but I think we could talk for hours about our children, for Goose is a very attentive mother.
Wilbur would have to sit on a pillow or two to reach his plate, since he is a runt. I bet he would love cleaning up the scraps! Fern and I would fall into a deep discussion on pig rearing and proper fair procedure. Maybe, as we sipped and chatted, I might be able to get a blush out of the young girl by mentioning Henry Fussy.
Perhaps at another table, a much bigger one tucked back inside a darkened cave to avoid any sunlight, I could sit down and discuss how the war against the Lessers and BoB is going with Wrath. I could laugh at Rhage and his stupid jokes and enjoy watching Zsadist cradling his daughter, Nalla, while Phury and Butch compare suits.
Of course, I`d be seated next to Vishous, because this is my literary garden party and I get to sit next to the Brother I covet the most. He and I would sip tea heavily doused with Grey Goose, get into serious tech talk and Red Sox gossip, and argue which is better: rap or rock. More than likely I would stumble a bit as I left the cave, the sun blinding me as I giggled, hiccupped and tripped to the next table.
There I would find a seat between Claire and Jamie Fraser. Jamie would find my slightly soused state rather amusing. Perhaps he would even ask where I had found the good stuff as the party was a wee bit dry for his tastes. Claire and I could chat about life at Lollybroch, how she is doing, what changes she would like to see made.
Maybe the three of us could engage in a lively croquet game after I got my feet under me right. Jamie would cheat when confronted by the skills of a goatherder and a Sassenach I wager. Lord knows the man has a rather large amount of pride. Claire and I would roll our eyes and let the Highland warrior win, although the pilfered croquet balls in his sporran would amuse us to no end.
If you were having a literary garden party, who would you see and visit with? I`d love to hear what characters you`d sit down with for a day in the garden!
September 11, 2012
Tuesday Tales - Mountain
I am honored and thrilled to be a new member of ‘Tuesday Tales’ which is a group of wonderfully skilled authors who share original short stories every Tuesday. Each week the scribes at ‘Tuesday Tales’ write their stories to a prompt, either a word which must be in the story or have bearing on the tale, or a picture. This week the word is ‘Mountain’. As these are original stories written in a week, some errors may be found. I do apologize for those in advance. Try not to let them boggle you down though if possible.
My post this week is an original short starring my leading lady and man from ‘Of Gods & Goats’, Libby Simons and Ares, Greek god of war, bloodlust, and other testosterone laden titles. Thanks for stopping in. May the gods smile upon you!
A Mountain Morning
Late summer on my goat farm is a sanguine time. Or it used to be before the behemoth known as Ares, Greek god of war and manly courage, tumbled through the roof of my barn. Sanguine is now what I`m usually mumbling incoherently at the end of a crazy day when I need some sangria stat.
There are many things that late summer means to me as a caprine raiser. Getting my hay in for the winter is a labor intensive job but a necessary one this time of year. There are fairs to attend and goat shows to participate in. I used to show in open but now with Ares to keep an eye on I declined this year. Trust me, it was a good call. I can`t imagine what the ox would do to the judge if I lost.
I always go watch if some 4-H or FFA members have purchased my kids for the fair. Ares and I attended this year’s fair but I`ve not had enough sangria to rehash that outing. I`ll get to that trip next time.
Another sign of fall approaching is that the kids are now more than old enough to be sold. This is a bittersweet time for me as I`ve grown very attached to all my little darlings over the course of the summer months. This spring I was blessed with four does and one buckling. Despite my intentions of castrating the little guy, he never got his goat nuggets removed so, sadly, he had to find a new home. I do not wish to have son making babies with mama. My four little girls are staying here on my farm to increase my milk production needs. More milk means more soap which means more money for me.
Today was the day that the buyers were coming to pick up Simba, my lone little guy. The family is a great family. The parents are very much into getting this buckling for their yearling Saanen does. The young man who is buying Simba is a goat enthusiast; his admiration for my buck kid was obvious when they came out to look at Simba a few days ago. As soon as the young man saw the buck he was sold. I have to admit that kid is going to make some great does in the future. His mother has an udder attachment and capacity to die for. Oops, sorry. I slipped into goat talk for a minute.
Anydoodles, this morning when I woke up I rolled over. Actually, it was more like free-rolling into a ditch. My nose crunched into Ares hairy armpit. Praise Hera he had taken a shower and applied liberal amounts of that manly deodorant that is spicy and old. I sneezed violently. The man chuckled deeply. After my sneezing fit was over I got my face onto his pectoral. It`s nice and firm and covered with dark curly hair. We laid there intertwined for a few minutes, listening to the robins greeting the new day and the sound of a steer and Minotaur making bovine whoopee. Ares was the first to say something. Big surprise, I know.
“Do those two never tire of their failed attempts at breeding? Surely it cannot feel that good. If `twas me that tried numerous times to poke about pointlessly in search of the correct …..”
“And a rosy ‘Hello Tuesday!’ to you as well,” I quickly cut-in. There is something you should know about the god of war. Ares has no filter. There is nothing between his brain and his mouth to censure what flows out. Being a god I suppose he never really needed to learn tact upon Olympus. Living here in among we mortals is another story. “Why don`t we just let the calls of cow love drift away without comment? Think you can do that?”
He made a funny sort of sound which I took for consent. His arms slid from behind his motor-block of a head. Fingers, war-torn and rough as tree bark, began to move in languid strokes up and down my neck. I shuddered. His chest swelled. Ego thy name is Ares. More time moved past. My dog and cat got up and found new sleeping spots behind me. I wriggled closer to my man.
“Bunting, is there some reason you are content to lay in our bed this morn?” Ares inquired. His voice was a booming sound in my ear that laid flat to his chest. “Do you wish to rut? I find I am quite ready if you are.”
I winced. After the rather robust session last night, I was really not in the mood for canoodling. “Uhm, maybe later,” I offered then slid my bent leg away from his ready part shyly. “I`m just in the mood to cuddle this morning,” I confessed.
“Ah,” he said with a smile, “The attentions of a god were too much for you last night. I shall be gentle and considerate of your weary womanly gates this day.”
“My gates and I thank you,” I giggled, placed my lips to his chest and inhaled deeply. More time crept past. The man next to me began wriggling around. I lifted my head to look into eyes as deep and blue as the Aegean Sea. His bushy brows were knotted.
“Are you feeling ill?” he asked.
“No, I feel fine.”
Obviously he did not believe me for his brows dropped even lower. “Then why are you here in bed? If you are not wishing to rut, or are not sickly, what besets you? Never do you lie in bed when Apollo is rising.”
“Nothing besets me. I just wanted to curl up with you,” I lied like that famous rug. “If you have to pee then please feel free.”
“You are not being truthful, Libby. My need to urinate can wait until I know the manner of this malaise that has settled upon you,” Ares said in that tone I know too well. It was his ‘I mean it and will brook nothing less than the truth, Woman!’ tone. He rolled to his side. My head flopped to his rumpled pillow. Again I found his gaze upon me. A finger twice the width of one of mine gently brushed a red curl from my cheek. “What weighs so heavily upon you?”
“I`m just not in any rush to get up this morning,” I replied, wondering not for the first time why men are blessed with lashes so thick and naturally dark. His crooked nose wrinkled in concentration. Somebody down in the goat barn blatted. A cool breeze carried the call in through the window. I watched the light of illumination cross his rugged face and knew he had hit upon my reluctance to rise and shine.
“You do not wish to see your kid leave, that is why you lay here in my arms when `tis not your norm,” Ares told me. I shrugged a shoulder. He ran his palm over the bare expanse I had just tossed up in feigned nonchalance. “I am correct, am I not?”
My face may have screwed up slightly. “Maybe,” I finally admitted. The cover slid from my back to be replaced with a hand centuries old. Ares pulled me to him then kissed me tenderly.
“I find your affection for your beast endearing. He is going to a good home, you yourself said so. I have never heard a shepherd ask so many questions of a person seeking to purchase a member of their flock,” he whispered. Whenever Ares speaks tenderly it is done so very quietly. It`s as if he`s afraid someone may hear him being gentle. “If you wish, we can go see him after he has settled into his new abode. Will that ease your caring heart?”
I nodded then gave him a smile. “That would ease my heart greatly.” I tossed my arms around his neck and molded my mouth to his for a long kiss.
When we came up for air his right eyebrow climbed up his forehead.
“You can lower that brow. My gates are closed for the day,” I informed him. The brow dropped like a lead weight was tied to it. “I can go make some breakfast though, if you`re hungry?”
“Aye, I may as well break my fast,” the man sighed dramatically then tossed himself to his back with a huff.
“May as well,” I agreed, pecking a cheek in bad need of a razor.
*~*~*
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