Stuart R. West's Blog, page 55
July 3, 2015
Picher, Oklahoma: Bringing the Ghosts to Life
My new book, Ghosts of Gannaway, is a sweeping historical ghost tale full of curses, Native-American rights, one of the first feminists, greed, hissable villains, noble heroes, hippies, union strikes, violence, animated statues, haunted museums, pollution and love that transcends death.
But mostly it's the tale of Picher, Oklahoma. Oh, sure, I moved the events just over the borderline to my fictionally created tale of Gannaway, Kansas. And the characters in the book aren't real. But some of them do represent archetypes of the long passed citizens of Picher, Oklahoma.
Very few people reside in Picher now. They can't. Because of the zinc and lead mining boom of the '30's, the town is now a death-trap. In more ways than one. The water's tainted. The air is polluted with poisonous particles lifted off the chat piles. The very few structures still standing have been torn apart by tornadoes. The township were forced to move. Or die. Of course there're still a few stubborn folks who reside there. None too friendly either, I might add. You might just see a few Confederate flags flying high in the dilapidated living quarters, good reason enough not to linger.
But Picher was once one of the most prosperous towns in the Midwest. How do I know? I researched it. It was the most exhausting book I've written yet and I won't be attempting that amount of research again. Not only does the book take place in 1935 but there's a dueling timeline in 1969 with all sorts of characters, plot-lines and ghosts crossing paths. Whew. During the final edit, I nearly had a panic attack when I caught a character in 1969 saying, "That sucks!" Um, no, just wasn't done.
So...stupidly, I set the tale in two timelines I knew next to nothing about. I researched clothing, slang, lifestyles, food, autos, the effects of the depression. Then I had to find out about mining! Would you like to know about mining? Neither did I until I realized the book called for it! Now that info's stuck in my head! (Don't worry. I detailed only the pertinent information to the story, no boring lesson on mining here!) I found out about hippies and soul hand-shakes and the movements going on. I dug deep into unions and the violent labor strikes of the '30's. I learned about the plight of the Native-Americans in the Midwest going back years and years and years and...
Just too much. But I hope the research paid off. I tried to make my ambitious tale thrilling, chilling, exciting, action-packed, scary, even a little romantic. Let me know if I succeeded!
Act now, tell me later! For a small window of time, Ghosts of Gannaway is available for .99! That's a whole lotta' research and thrills for under a buck: One click away!
But mostly it's the tale of Picher, Oklahoma. Oh, sure, I moved the events just over the borderline to my fictionally created tale of Gannaway, Kansas. And the characters in the book aren't real. But some of them do represent archetypes of the long passed citizens of Picher, Oklahoma.
Very few people reside in Picher now. They can't. Because of the zinc and lead mining boom of the '30's, the town is now a death-trap. In more ways than one. The water's tainted. The air is polluted with poisonous particles lifted off the chat piles. The very few structures still standing have been torn apart by tornadoes. The township were forced to move. Or die. Of course there're still a few stubborn folks who reside there. None too friendly either, I might add. You might just see a few Confederate flags flying high in the dilapidated living quarters, good reason enough not to linger.
But Picher was once one of the most prosperous towns in the Midwest. How do I know? I researched it. It was the most exhausting book I've written yet and I won't be attempting that amount of research again. Not only does the book take place in 1935 but there's a dueling timeline in 1969 with all sorts of characters, plot-lines and ghosts crossing paths. Whew. During the final edit, I nearly had a panic attack when I caught a character in 1969 saying, "That sucks!" Um, no, just wasn't done. 
So...stupidly, I set the tale in two timelines I knew next to nothing about. I researched clothing, slang, lifestyles, food, autos, the effects of the depression. Then I had to find out about mining! Would you like to know about mining? Neither did I until I realized the book called for it! Now that info's stuck in my head! (Don't worry. I detailed only the pertinent information to the story, no boring lesson on mining here!) I found out about hippies and soul hand-shakes and the movements going on. I dug deep into unions and the violent labor strikes of the '30's. I learned about the plight of the Native-Americans in the Midwest going back years and years and years and...
Just too much. But I hope the research paid off. I tried to make my ambitious tale thrilling, chilling, exciting, action-packed, scary, even a little romantic. Let me know if I succeeded!Act now, tell me later! For a small window of time, Ghosts of Gannaway is available for .99! That's a whole lotta' research and thrills for under a buck: One click away!
June 26, 2015
Justin Bieber Tried to Sell Me Magazines!
Or close to it.
The odd and laminated identification card the kid showed me read "Justin Beiber."
I'm sure he had a good laugh about it later.
I really shouldn't have answered the door. But the tree trimming guys have been running rampant through my neighborhood this week, uprooting birds and busting my fences. Thought it might've been them returning to wreak more havoc.
But, no. Some kid stood at the door, rattling his clearly rehearsed non-stop patter in a strange and slurred (crack-enhanced?) tone. He told me he was trying to earn points to go on a trip. "You know where?" he asked. "They have plenty of meatballs and a leaning tower. That's right, Italy." Didn't even give me a chance to answer his question.
Then he whips out another laminated piece of paper displaying magazine covers (does "Life" magazine still exist?).
I say, "Oh, you're selling magazines."
"No, sir, I'm selling my winning personality." Keep selling, kid.
Basically, I told him to take a hike. In an unprecedented display of boldness, he goes back to his deep pockets and plucks out plan #2: a church brochure. He claims it's another chance to win his Italy trip. Now, I don't know if it's a good idea to have two battle plans, but in the Midwest, he probably should've led with the church's backing. Still, it did seem rather unlikely two separate organizations were conspiring to ship this kid to Italy. (Look out, Italy, you've been warned!).
Either way, God wasn't smiling down on him, not at my house. I told him--again--no thanks. The kid was either stupid or bold, definitely suffering from a toxic case of "moxie." More than likely, though, he had me pegged as a patsy.
"One last thing...do you have a cold bottle of water or a glass of cold water I could have?"
I ground my teeth, giving them a tortured work-out. Stunned, I said, "No, I'm out of water." Not true, we don't run out of water in Kansas. Especially not after the torrential rains we've suffered/are suffering. I couldn't believe his gall. Clearly, his plan was to enter my house, try and find "common ground," staging a siege by complimenting my collection of dust bunnies or whatever.
The worst part of this was the kid took me for a rube. I suppose once you hit a certain age, "old people" are ripe picking. I ain't that old yet. I got pissed, remembering the stories of how con-men dupe the elderly. And now I was being profiled as one of them.
Sigh. I shoulda' unleashed the dog on Justin Beiber.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta' go help out this nice Nigerian prince I just met on-line. He's having trouble holding onto his fortune or something.
The odd and laminated identification card the kid showed me read "Justin Beiber."
I'm sure he had a good laugh about it later.
I really shouldn't have answered the door. But the tree trimming guys have been running rampant through my neighborhood this week, uprooting birds and busting my fences. Thought it might've been them returning to wreak more havoc.
But, no. Some kid stood at the door, rattling his clearly rehearsed non-stop patter in a strange and slurred (crack-enhanced?) tone. He told me he was trying to earn points to go on a trip. "You know where?" he asked. "They have plenty of meatballs and a leaning tower. That's right, Italy." Didn't even give me a chance to answer his question.
Then he whips out another laminated piece of paper displaying magazine covers (does "Life" magazine still exist?).
I say, "Oh, you're selling magazines."
"No, sir, I'm selling my winning personality." Keep selling, kid.
Basically, I told him to take a hike. In an unprecedented display of boldness, he goes back to his deep pockets and plucks out plan #2: a church brochure. He claims it's another chance to win his Italy trip. Now, I don't know if it's a good idea to have two battle plans, but in the Midwest, he probably should've led with the church's backing. Still, it did seem rather unlikely two separate organizations were conspiring to ship this kid to Italy. (Look out, Italy, you've been warned!).
Either way, God wasn't smiling down on him, not at my house. I told him--again--no thanks. The kid was either stupid or bold, definitely suffering from a toxic case of "moxie." More than likely, though, he had me pegged as a patsy.
"One last thing...do you have a cold bottle of water or a glass of cold water I could have?"
I ground my teeth, giving them a tortured work-out. Stunned, I said, "No, I'm out of water." Not true, we don't run out of water in Kansas. Especially not after the torrential rains we've suffered/are suffering. I couldn't believe his gall. Clearly, his plan was to enter my house, try and find "common ground," staging a siege by complimenting my collection of dust bunnies or whatever.
The worst part of this was the kid took me for a rube. I suppose once you hit a certain age, "old people" are ripe picking. I ain't that old yet. I got pissed, remembering the stories of how con-men dupe the elderly. And now I was being profiled as one of them.Sigh. I shoulda' unleashed the dog on Justin Beiber.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta' go help out this nice Nigerian prince I just met on-line. He's having trouble holding onto his fortune or something.
June 19, 2015
Drowning Sorrows with Vanessa Morgan
Recently I had the pleasure of reading author Vanessa Morgan’s horror novel, Drowned Sorrow. If you like your thrillers with creepy ambiance, unexpected twists and a plot that’s truly original (I know I do!), then what’re you waiting for? Get thee hence to Amazon where you’re one clicky away from thrills, chills and multiple water spills (that’ll make more sense after you’ve read the book). So I just knew I had to grill Vanessa on Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley.
SRW: Hey, Vanessa, thanks so much for joining us. Let’s get the rote stuff out of the way first. Tell us a little about Drowned Sorrow, light on the spoilers, natch.
VM: It’s the story about a mother who has just lost her son in a tragic accident for which she is partly to blame. She becomes overprotective with her daughter, leading to a lot of tension. When the two women go on holiday together, the fights between them increase and the girl is doing all that she can to avoid her mother. However, there’s something very creepy going on in this village, something that has to do with the water. If Megan doesn’t react quickly, she might lose a second child.
SRW: One thing I truly loved about Drowned Sorrow is that it’s a bonafide horror book. So many of the books posing as horror these days are thinly disguised paranormal romances, angsty YA navel-gazers or plain ol’ thrillers (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I saw somewhere that a reviewer called you the “female Stephen King.” Disregarding the inherent sexism in that term, I say to you “Huzzah!” The writing world needs more horror authors. Do you intend to stay firmly planted in the genre? Is it your first literary love? Or are you ready to go through a sloppy break-up?
VM: Together with cats, horror will always be my great love. I have several ideas for future horror novels, but I want to explore other genres too (maybe that’s the cheating before the sloppy break-up). I’ve recently written a drama short film about an elderly couple (Next to Her) and a cat book (Avalon). All of my books have one thing in common, though: they explore a dark side of humanity that many of us prefer to deny.
SRW: While reading Drowned Sorrow (every time I type that, I want to pull an “Elmer Fudd” and call it “Dwowned Sowwow” for some reason. Is it just me?), it struck me how cinematic your writing is. I can easily envision DS as a film. The prose flows fluidly, each scene ending on a cinematic stinger, the way cinemaphiles like it. Knowing a little about you, this is a loaded question, I suppose, but tell our readers about your connection to the world of movies.
VM: I’ve loved movies ever since I was a toddler, especially the horror kind. Contrary to many authors, I’ve never set out to be a novelist. I wanted to be a screenwriter. When I didn’t succeed, I decided to turn my stories into novels as a way to get them out anyway. Once I released my first novel, Drowned Sorrow, several directors and producers were suddenly interested to turn it into a film. From then on, I’ve had several movie adaptations of my stories. It’s strange how life goes sometimes.
SRW: Very cool! (I know I wanted to see Vanessa's films, but they're only available thus far at film festivals).
Okay, this might count as a minor spoiler (it’s hard to get around it), but let’s chat about “water.” I don’t generally equate water as being necessarily creepy, but you made it so. I particularly love the opening scenes with the imagery of the hotel with water dripping down the walls, peeling at the wallpaper. All senses are engaged; I could practically smell the mold, feel the humidity. Are you afraid of water? A closeted hydrophobic? (Or did you just experience a particularly crummy night at a Motel Six?)
VM: Water doesn’t scare me at all. On the contrary, the proximity of water revitalizes me. Drowned Sorrow started with the characters and how they deal with sorrow and loss. The water was symbolic to the story. Water represents (re)birth, the tears of grief, and emotional cleansing (sounds pretentious, doesn’t it?). Of course, I made sure to use that symbolism in the creepiest way possible.
SRW: The entire town of Moonlight Creek is unsettling. Like a movie, you take your time setting up the locale, the mood, the atmosphere. All of which, I think, are important to establish horror. Toss someone into a horrific situation without any build-up, it’s hard to get too excited. So, you (and the readers) know this spooky little burg well. Now spill (not water, though, please)…what town inspired Moonlight Creek?
VM: I’m sure it won’t surprise you when I say that the setting comes from a movie. Do you know Let’s Scare Jessica to Death? The town from that film is the town I described in Drowned Sorrow. I also paid homage to that film in another way, but I can’t tell you how, because it would be a major spoiler.
SRW: Hey, not only do I know that film well, Vanessa, but right now I'm eyeing the DVD from my love-seat!
These days, publishers and agents insist that the leading characters be likable. I didn’t particularly find Megan all that likable, to be honest, and I actually found that refreshing. She’s self-centered, career-obsessed (to the detriment of her family), actually admits to avoiding her family in the past. Today’s “alpha woman”. Now, Megan does go through a changing arc, but it’s hard for her to bury her past, a major theme of the book. Did you intentionally set out to write a somewhat unlikable character, flaws, warts and all? (Or am I just, you know, bringing my baggage to the check-in?) VM: Absolutely. All my main characters are flawed. It’s part of being human. I know several people who love their spouse and children, but who feel ‘trapped’ and unhappy because they can’t do the things they love anymore. Most of them choose their family and remain frustrated, but others reach a breaking point and become selfish. The same goes for Megan. She adores her family, but they are equally a burden to her.
SRW: The book reminds me of The Wicker Man, Pines, and other closed community spook-fests. And I’m a sucker for them. Put a character into a strange environment and let the reader experience it along with the protagonist. Sure-fire chills. You’re tapping into a deep-rooted anxiety amongst humanity: a fear of anything different. Okay, put on your pretentious cap and wax allegorical for a bit…
VM: It’s funny you mention Pines. I’ve never read the books, but I just started watching the TV series (Wayward Pines). While watching the first episode, I immediately told my boyfriend, “This is so much like Drowned Sorrow. The town, the way people are trapped there, how they pretend to be happy and casual while they’re not, …”
And The Wicker Man is definitely one of my favorite genre films.
SRW: Jenna, Megan’s teenage daughter, is a scrappy heroine, one who managed not to grate on the nerves in the least. (Usually, in books, “scrappy” equates to “annoying.”) I was pulling for her, possibly more than for Megan. Who do you see as the heroine, Megan or Jenna? Answering both is cheating.
VM: Drowned Sorrow is about Megan and how she deals with loss, entrapment, and sadness. But it was important to get the reader inside Jenna’s head. The better they knew her, the more I would be able to shock them in the end.
SRW: I’m sitting on the casting couch. For the movie of Drowned Sorrow, I’d like to see Julianne Moore as Megan; India Ennenga (from The Returned and Treme) as Jenna. Both very fine actresses and they look like they could be related, too. Let’s see…for the teenage boy love interest, I’m thinking of Justin Bieber for marquee value. (Kidding!) Who do you want to cast? Or, um, has it been cast already?
VM: Actually, I had Naomi Watts in mind when writing Drowned Sorrow. Strange that you mention Julianne Moore because many friends compare me with her. And, oooh, India Ennega is a PERFECT choice for Jenna. Have you never considered becoming a casting director? Not sure who could play the teenage boy love interest, though. Definitely not Justin Bieber, haha.
As I mentioned before, I got several directors and producers interested in Drowned Sorrow (but the film never got made). I think they planned to have Alison Carroll as Megan, and Norman Reedus as… I don’t even know, maybe the hotel owner or the rock star dad.
SRW: Norman Reedus, you say? Cool. (Now, um, if you ever should meet him, Vanessa, please PLEASE tell his character on "The Walking Dead" to take a shower, kay?)
Along these lines, tell folks about your movie work. And what else is up for you, either in book or movie form.
VM: So far, two movies have been based on my stories: A Good Man (about an altruistic vampire) and The Strangers Outside (killer monks). A third film, Next to Her, is currently in the making.
I’m also working on my first movie reference book for which I’m collaborating with several talented writers. It’s about animal attack movies. You know, the kind like Jaws, The Birds, and many others that no one heard of. It’ll be the first of many movie reference guides.
SRW: Hey, I'll have a chapter in that book and I betcha' the movie I chose to write about is the most obscure in the book ("Snakes!").
Now go grab Vanessa's book, already. You won’t be sorry. Drowned Sorrow at Amazon.
June 12, 2015
Attack of the Creatures from the Indoor Swimming Pool!
Brrr. Be afraid, be very afraid.
Last weekend, we were in Oklahoma City for my wife's brother's wedding. (Terrific wedding for a terrific couple; Hi guys!)
Normally, I enjoy a hotel with an indoor pool and hot tub. But this particular hotel's hot tub was set to "stun," if not "destroy." The jets (turned up to 11) pummeled my body into mincemeat, exploding into great fountains of devastation. Unbeknownst to us, the destructive force of nature was salt-water, eating away at our flesh and corroding my wife's silver ring. Let's call it the "Typhoon of Terror."
Even worse were the peculiar creatures who lurked there.
Before the wedding, I thought I'd take a relaxing swim. Peering through the door, I saw two people, one in the tub, one in the pool. Alright, quiet enough.
But once I stepped through the portal of Hell, everything changed. A little, roundly cherubic girl--possibly 8 or 9--stood up in the hot tub. All the pretty, pretty pinks and oranges and yellows of a princess's world adorned her swim-gear. A cutesy little fringe encircled her formidable belly. Duckies blissfully swam across her midriff. Tight green swimming glasses cut off her head's circulation, puffy sun-burned cheeks cementing them into place. Apparently thrilled to see me, she asked, "Are you going to swim?"
I thought it kinda obvious, my embarrassing body squeezed into too tight swimming trunks. But I answered anyway, "Yep." Mistake number one.
As soon as I waded into the pool, another creature rose from the depths like a monster invading Tokyo. Seriously invading my personal space. A lean and muscular boy, acne spattering his face, grilled me like a seasoned police detective. The girl joined him. I sat on the steps in the pool, lobbing answers to their questions: "What's your name?" "How old are you?" "Where are you from?"
I found out everything about them. They shared the same father, had different mothers. Their Daddy Monster dropped them off at the pool daily while he attended to "business (or maybe he was seeking a future wife; the explosive tub made it impossible to hear)."
Then the boy asked, "Hey, wanna' see what I can do?"
Huh, I thought, not really. But my lips were out of alignment and said, "Sure." Mistake number two.
The Creature hopped out of the pool, backed up, ran. Flipped. Landed in the pool and nearly careened into the wall.
Nervously, I gnashed my teeth, waiting for blood to rise. Finally, I breathed easily when he broke the water. Grinning. Staring at me expectantly, waiting for my critique.
"Um, wow...that was..." I didn't know what to say. Even dumber, I tried to speak "their language." Something my wife hates mightily. "Dude, that was awesome!" Mistake number three.
The Midwest Monster Olympics had begun! I was the judge! But unlike Johnny Weir, I had no flamboyant clothing or crazy hair to fall back on. I sat, imprisoned in the water, uncomfortable in my trunks, trapped between them. I'd given in to water terrorism.
The girl vied for my attention, begging me to watch her dog-paddle the width of the pool on water wings and a wing of a prayer. Meanwhile, the boy was getting more amped up, jumping, running, leaping. Damn near exploding.
Then he dropped the big one on me. "Hey, hey, hey..." His elbow nudged me. "Wanna know what else I can do?"
Oh God, no, I thought. "That'd be sweet," my inner wannabe teen said. The biggest mistake yet.
"I'm into extreme sports! We call it rad, that's what we call it!" His voice rose, his caffeine and candy cocktail kicking in. "Man, I put torque on it! I just press down! UH! UH!" I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, but he pumped his arm, bashing the water, coming close to smacking me. Which would've been embarrassing trying to explain how a 11 year old gave me a black eye at the pool. "All of Oklahoma City's my gym," he continued, "my playground! Dude!"
I scurried out of the water. Couldn't get my shoes on fast enough.
"Check this out! Check it out!" He started running around the rim of the pool, hurdling over the hand posts. Then it happened, the inevitable. He tripped over a rail, crashed, rolled, his head splatting into the wall.
"Whoa! You okay?"
He jumps up, says, "Yeah." Forced a pained smile. Then limped to a lounge chair, holding his leg in pain.
All I could give him was a weak, "Um, you might wanna get ice on that."
I made my getaway. But they weren't done with me yet. They followed me toward the door, still talking, bragging.
"I, ah, gotta get to a wedding." My story fell on deaf ears. But I finally escaped, their shouts following me--haunting me--down the hallway.
Later I did the only thing a mature, responsible adult would do. I sent my daughter down to scope it out before I revisited the pool.
For more frightening tales, head on over to my Amazon Page!
Last weekend, we were in Oklahoma City for my wife's brother's wedding. (Terrific wedding for a terrific couple; Hi guys!)
Normally, I enjoy a hotel with an indoor pool and hot tub. But this particular hotel's hot tub was set to "stun," if not "destroy." The jets (turned up to 11) pummeled my body into mincemeat, exploding into great fountains of devastation. Unbeknownst to us, the destructive force of nature was salt-water, eating away at our flesh and corroding my wife's silver ring. Let's call it the "Typhoon of Terror."
Even worse were the peculiar creatures who lurked there.
Before the wedding, I thought I'd take a relaxing swim. Peering through the door, I saw two people, one in the tub, one in the pool. Alright, quiet enough.
But once I stepped through the portal of Hell, everything changed. A little, roundly cherubic girl--possibly 8 or 9--stood up in the hot tub. All the pretty, pretty pinks and oranges and yellows of a princess's world adorned her swim-gear. A cutesy little fringe encircled her formidable belly. Duckies blissfully swam across her midriff. Tight green swimming glasses cut off her head's circulation, puffy sun-burned cheeks cementing them into place. Apparently thrilled to see me, she asked, "Are you going to swim?"
I thought it kinda obvious, my embarrassing body squeezed into too tight swimming trunks. But I answered anyway, "Yep." Mistake number one.As soon as I waded into the pool, another creature rose from the depths like a monster invading Tokyo. Seriously invading my personal space. A lean and muscular boy, acne spattering his face, grilled me like a seasoned police detective. The girl joined him. I sat on the steps in the pool, lobbing answers to their questions: "What's your name?" "How old are you?" "Where are you from?"
I found out everything about them. They shared the same father, had different mothers. Their Daddy Monster dropped them off at the pool daily while he attended to "business (or maybe he was seeking a future wife; the explosive tub made it impossible to hear)."
Then the boy asked, "Hey, wanna' see what I can do?"
Huh, I thought, not really. But my lips were out of alignment and said, "Sure." Mistake number two.
The Creature hopped out of the pool, backed up, ran. Flipped. Landed in the pool and nearly careened into the wall.
Nervously, I gnashed my teeth, waiting for blood to rise. Finally, I breathed easily when he broke the water. Grinning. Staring at me expectantly, waiting for my critique.
"Um, wow...that was..." I didn't know what to say. Even dumber, I tried to speak "their language." Something my wife hates mightily. "Dude, that was awesome!" Mistake number three.
The Midwest Monster Olympics had begun! I was the judge! But unlike Johnny Weir, I had no flamboyant clothing or crazy hair to fall back on. I sat, imprisoned in the water, uncomfortable in my trunks, trapped between them. I'd given in to water terrorism.
The girl vied for my attention, begging me to watch her dog-paddle the width of the pool on water wings and a wing of a prayer. Meanwhile, the boy was getting more amped up, jumping, running, leaping. Damn near exploding.
Then he dropped the big one on me. "Hey, hey, hey..." His elbow nudged me. "Wanna know what else I can do?"
Oh God, no, I thought. "That'd be sweet," my inner wannabe teen said. The biggest mistake yet.
"I'm into extreme sports! We call it rad, that's what we call it!" His voice rose, his caffeine and candy cocktail kicking in. "Man, I put torque on it! I just press down! UH! UH!" I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, but he pumped his arm, bashing the water, coming close to smacking me. Which would've been embarrassing trying to explain how a 11 year old gave me a black eye at the pool. "All of Oklahoma City's my gym," he continued, "my playground! Dude!"
I scurried out of the water. Couldn't get my shoes on fast enough.
"Check this out! Check it out!" He started running around the rim of the pool, hurdling over the hand posts. Then it happened, the inevitable. He tripped over a rail, crashed, rolled, his head splatting into the wall.
"Whoa! You okay?"
He jumps up, says, "Yeah." Forced a pained smile. Then limped to a lounge chair, holding his leg in pain.
All I could give him was a weak, "Um, you might wanna get ice on that."
I made my getaway. But they weren't done with me yet. They followed me toward the door, still talking, bragging.
"I, ah, gotta get to a wedding." My story fell on deaf ears. But I finally escaped, their shouts following me--haunting me--down the hallway.
Later I did the only thing a mature, responsible adult would do. I sent my daughter down to scope it out before I revisited the pool.
For more frightening tales, head on over to my Amazon Page!
June 5, 2015
New Jerk Birthday Rule
Recently I celebrated my *mumble-mumbledy-th* birthday.
I decided on a new rule. For 24 hours, I get to act like a jerk. It's kinda' like the movie, The Purge (you guys seen this? You should. For one day each year, people get to legally kill. You know, Kansas style).
So on my recent birthday, I didn't shower. Hung out in my lawn-mowing clothes all day.
I swept my arm across my wife's cluttered desk, and bellowed, "That's what I'm talking about!"
I tap-danced down the stairwell, kicking accumulated stuff off the stairs.
Went to the bathroom in my backyard, just 'cause. Marking my territory.
Yelled at people to "Get outta' my yard" even though they were nowhere close.
It was good. Empowering.
I felt like those lumberjack cavemen in the musical 7 Brides For 7 Brothers, a jaunty ode to unfettered human sex trafficking.
Of course it was all a dream. A very, very good vicarious dream.
Then I woke up and prepared my wife dinner, a return to civil behavior. But it was good to be King for a while, even if only imagined.
What say you all to my new proposed holiday?
I decided on a new rule. For 24 hours, I get to act like a jerk. It's kinda' like the movie, The Purge (you guys seen this? You should. For one day each year, people get to legally kill. You know, Kansas style).
So on my recent birthday, I didn't shower. Hung out in my lawn-mowing clothes all day.
I swept my arm across my wife's cluttered desk, and bellowed, "That's what I'm talking about!"
I tap-danced down the stairwell, kicking accumulated stuff off the stairs.
Went to the bathroom in my backyard, just 'cause. Marking my territory.
Yelled at people to "Get outta' my yard" even though they were nowhere close.
It was good. Empowering.
I felt like those lumberjack cavemen in the musical 7 Brides For 7 Brothers, a jaunty ode to unfettered human sex trafficking.
Of course it was all a dream. A very, very good vicarious dream.
Then I woke up and prepared my wife dinner, a return to civil behavior. But it was good to be King for a while, even if only imagined.
What say you all to my new proposed holiday?
May 30, 2015
Summer Vacation Spot Blog Hop: Welcome to Your Worst Nightmare
For the Summer Vacation Spot Blog Hop I'm participating in (sponsored by Summer Reads That Thrill & Chill), everyone's supposed to write about their favorite vacation getaway. And we're giving away six awesome thrillers, perfect for beach reading! To enter, visit the sponsors, enter the Rafflecopter, comment, toss up your own vacation tale if you have a blog and link back. Simple, yes?
So hit up the other authors at: Lexa Cain, Melanie Karsak, T.F. Walsh, Vanessa Morgan, Jolie Du Pre, and myself (but, um, you knew that 'cause you're already here). Okay, enough nitty gritty. Let's have some fun! If you can call it that. Because in the name of fair play, I'm detailing my worst vacation spot nightmares.
Like all "snow birds," my mother migrates during winters to her small, one room condo in Daytona Beach, Florida. And my daughter and I used to make yearly sojourns (during her school spring break) to visit.
On one of our last trips, my wife joined us. Breaking with tradition, we booked into a hotel on the main drag. (Fitting five of us into the one room condo just wouldn't fly; talk about too much family togetherness). Problem was our trip coincided with college's spring break as well. Our hotel was overrun with drunken spring breakers, racing up and down the stairs, screaming through the thin walls. Sleep was not an option.
The first night, someone pounded on our door.
A girl, swirling a margarita glass, stood in our doorway, and asked, "Hey, is Kyle here?"
"Nope, you got the wrong room."
She leaned back, looked at the door's number, and said, "No, really, I know he's here."
Now obviously I didn't look like a frat boy. I patted my head to emphasize the lack of hair. Didn't seem to faze her. She just stared, waiting for me to make dreamy Kyle magically materialize, all glitter and sparkle and Captain Awesomeness.
"Look," I said, "you've got the wrong room. I'm here with my wife and daughter."
She grinned smugly, stood her ground, refusing to be punked. "Come on..."
No, I wanted to say, you're right. I'm just a thirty year college student who can't seem to graduate. But I didn't. Out of desperation, I called for my daughter. I presented her as my final piece of evidence. "See? This is my daughter! There is no Kyle here!"
Dejected, her smile faded. After taking a long swig of her margarita, she left, mumbling some not very kind words about Kyle.
The next day the five of us visited some "Sea World" knock-off. My daughter got to pet a dolphin. But the day ended in tragedy. Walking back toward the car, my mom fell, screamed. Couldn't move her leg. Claimed she was okay, yet was unable to walk. Didn't want to go to the ER. But we insisted.
It took nearly two hours to get down the main drag to the hospital. Not only had Spring Breakers overtaken the town, they were competing with the annual Daytona Beach Motorcycle Week rebels. Traffic was backed up for miles. Girls popped their heads out sunroofs, threatening to disrobe. Guys jostled in gangs, cat-calling everyone, indiscriminate in their testosterone-fueled idiocy. Bikers tore by us, taking to the sidewalks, engines amped up to about a million and a half decibels. Fights broke out, total chaos, the downfall of humanity. A war-zone. While my mom groaned in the back seat.
As my dad was in a wheelchair, it took heaps of strategy. Mom wouldn't be able to take care of him, not with her brand-new broken leg. (I had to push Dad who pushed Mom, quite the parade). My wife and daughter flew Mom home while I drove Dad back to Kansas City, a hair-raising 48 hour journey where he recycled old stories again and again and...
You'd think that'd be enough to keep me out of Florida. Think again. The next year, my daughter and I took off, my wife wisely opting out. Once we landed, my elbow had decided to grow as big as a grapefruit and burned hotter than the sun. Several days were spent at Daytona Beach doctor's offices. The incredible case of the mutant elbow stumped most of the doctors. Finally, my third visit produced results, my dinosaur egg vanishing with strong antibiotics.
By then I was determined to have fun, dammit! While my mom took her car into the shop, we hung out at the pool. Hours later, Mom showed up, went up to her room. My daughter followed. But shortly came back down. Looking horrified.
"Um, Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I think you better come upstairs."
Gah! Mom had left the kitchenette sink running. Three inches of water stood on the floor. The rest of my "vacation" was spent sweating, toiling, mopping, soaking, wringing, cursing, and tearing up carpet.
Enough!
I'm going to get with the Daytona Beach tourist association, coin a new catch-phrase. I'm thinking, "Daytona Beach: a Little Taste of Hell."
And speaking of hellish places to visit, you might want to stay away from Hayden, Kansas right now. I understand it's overtaken by the living dead. Not your usual living dead either.
Life is good for Hunter Wright. He's just about to graduate from high school and he's found true love. Just in time to lose her. Because the Rapture's begun and those in his path, living and dead, stand in his way of finding her. And it's not the Rapture the faithful have been expecting either. Someone failed to tell the dead they’re not in Heaven.
Horror. Suspense. Dark humor. And, of course, love in the year of the zombie. Zombie Rapture. (Just one of the books we're giving away!)
a Rafflecopter giveaway
So hit up the other authors at: Lexa Cain, Melanie Karsak, T.F. Walsh, Vanessa Morgan, Jolie Du Pre, and myself (but, um, you knew that 'cause you're already here). Okay, enough nitty gritty. Let's have some fun! If you can call it that. Because in the name of fair play, I'm detailing my worst vacation spot nightmares.
Like all "snow birds," my mother migrates during winters to her small, one room condo in Daytona Beach, Florida. And my daughter and I used to make yearly sojourns (during her school spring break) to visit.
On one of our last trips, my wife joined us. Breaking with tradition, we booked into a hotel on the main drag. (Fitting five of us into the one room condo just wouldn't fly; talk about too much family togetherness). Problem was our trip coincided with college's spring break as well. Our hotel was overrun with drunken spring breakers, racing up and down the stairs, screaming through the thin walls. Sleep was not an option.
The first night, someone pounded on our door.
A girl, swirling a margarita glass, stood in our doorway, and asked, "Hey, is Kyle here?"
"Nope, you got the wrong room."
She leaned back, looked at the door's number, and said, "No, really, I know he's here."
Now obviously I didn't look like a frat boy. I patted my head to emphasize the lack of hair. Didn't seem to faze her. She just stared, waiting for me to make dreamy Kyle magically materialize, all glitter and sparkle and Captain Awesomeness.
"Look," I said, "you've got the wrong room. I'm here with my wife and daughter."
She grinned smugly, stood her ground, refusing to be punked. "Come on..."
No, I wanted to say, you're right. I'm just a thirty year college student who can't seem to graduate. But I didn't. Out of desperation, I called for my daughter. I presented her as my final piece of evidence. "See? This is my daughter! There is no Kyle here!"
Dejected, her smile faded. After taking a long swig of her margarita, she left, mumbling some not very kind words about Kyle.
The next day the five of us visited some "Sea World" knock-off. My daughter got to pet a dolphin. But the day ended in tragedy. Walking back toward the car, my mom fell, screamed. Couldn't move her leg. Claimed she was okay, yet was unable to walk. Didn't want to go to the ER. But we insisted.It took nearly two hours to get down the main drag to the hospital. Not only had Spring Breakers overtaken the town, they were competing with the annual Daytona Beach Motorcycle Week rebels. Traffic was backed up for miles. Girls popped their heads out sunroofs, threatening to disrobe. Guys jostled in gangs, cat-calling everyone, indiscriminate in their testosterone-fueled idiocy. Bikers tore by us, taking to the sidewalks, engines amped up to about a million and a half decibels. Fights broke out, total chaos, the downfall of humanity. A war-zone. While my mom groaned in the back seat.
As my dad was in a wheelchair, it took heaps of strategy. Mom wouldn't be able to take care of him, not with her brand-new broken leg. (I had to push Dad who pushed Mom, quite the parade). My wife and daughter flew Mom home while I drove Dad back to Kansas City, a hair-raising 48 hour journey where he recycled old stories again and again and...
You'd think that'd be enough to keep me out of Florida. Think again. The next year, my daughter and I took off, my wife wisely opting out. Once we landed, my elbow had decided to grow as big as a grapefruit and burned hotter than the sun. Several days were spent at Daytona Beach doctor's offices. The incredible case of the mutant elbow stumped most of the doctors. Finally, my third visit produced results, my dinosaur egg vanishing with strong antibiotics.
By then I was determined to have fun, dammit! While my mom took her car into the shop, we hung out at the pool. Hours later, Mom showed up, went up to her room. My daughter followed. But shortly came back down. Looking horrified.
"Um, Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I think you better come upstairs."
Gah! Mom had left the kitchenette sink running. Three inches of water stood on the floor. The rest of my "vacation" was spent sweating, toiling, mopping, soaking, wringing, cursing, and tearing up carpet.
Enough!
I'm going to get with the Daytona Beach tourist association, coin a new catch-phrase. I'm thinking, "Daytona Beach: a Little Taste of Hell."
And speaking of hellish places to visit, you might want to stay away from Hayden, Kansas right now. I understand it's overtaken by the living dead. Not your usual living dead either.
Life is good for Hunter Wright. He's just about to graduate from high school and he's found true love. Just in time to lose her. Because the Rapture's begun and those in his path, living and dead, stand in his way of finding her. And it's not the Rapture the faithful have been expecting either. Someone failed to tell the dead they’re not in Heaven. Horror. Suspense. Dark humor. And, of course, love in the year of the zombie. Zombie Rapture. (Just one of the books we're giving away!)
a Rafflecopter giveaway
May 22, 2015
A Blight Upon the Nation!
I'm not talking about global warming, although that's kinda' bad, I think.
No, I'd like to rant about a far more insidious threat, something coming from within, something tearing up the world, something the youth of today are "trending" to the point of terrorism.
I'm talking about wearing pajamas in public.
Sure, I know it's a hipster thing to do, sorta' post-modern ironic. But it's awful.
Back at my old corporate job, some of the customer service women started wearing pajama bottoms into work. We're talking pastels with bunnies and crap on them. If the customers only knew what their representatives we're wearing. Shaking my head just remembering the horrors.
Last week, I went to a convenience store (because it was convenient). A girl walks in, wearing her jammies. I'm thinking, "What, a slumber party at Quik-Trip?"
Look, I'm not a fan of pajamas in the first place. Too confining, too soft, too itchy...too "churchy-feeling." I sleep in my underwear. But you don't see me strolling into McDonalds in my boxers, business as usual, proudly saying, "Big Mac, please." Just...no. (Trust me, it wouldn't be pretty).
To sweeten the pot, maybe I'll even get a "tramp-stamp" that says "Juicy." How do you like me now, you ridicu-hipsters?
So I'm calling out to you, my brethren in arms. Let's put a stop to the madness. Let's take back the night (and put pajamas back in bed where they belong). Rally with me! Norma Rae, Norma Rae! Free the penguins! Unleash the badgers! Don't forget to floss! Stop eating Kale, it's pointless! I'm Spartacus! Vote for me!
Sorry, sorry...I'm letting my cranky old man out to play.
Oh, one last thing...you kids get outta' my yard!
No, I'd like to rant about a far more insidious threat, something coming from within, something tearing up the world, something the youth of today are "trending" to the point of terrorism.
I'm talking about wearing pajamas in public.
Sure, I know it's a hipster thing to do, sorta' post-modern ironic. But it's awful.Back at my old corporate job, some of the customer service women started wearing pajama bottoms into work. We're talking pastels with bunnies and crap on them. If the customers only knew what their representatives we're wearing. Shaking my head just remembering the horrors.
Last week, I went to a convenience store (because it was convenient). A girl walks in, wearing her jammies. I'm thinking, "What, a slumber party at Quik-Trip?"
Look, I'm not a fan of pajamas in the first place. Too confining, too soft, too itchy...too "churchy-feeling." I sleep in my underwear. But you don't see me strolling into McDonalds in my boxers, business as usual, proudly saying, "Big Mac, please." Just...no. (Trust me, it wouldn't be pretty).
To sweeten the pot, maybe I'll even get a "tramp-stamp" that says "Juicy." How do you like me now, you ridicu-hipsters?
So I'm calling out to you, my brethren in arms. Let's put a stop to the madness. Let's take back the night (and put pajamas back in bed where they belong). Rally with me! Norma Rae, Norma Rae! Free the penguins! Unleash the badgers! Don't forget to floss! Stop eating Kale, it's pointless! I'm Spartacus! Vote for me!
Sorry, sorry...I'm letting my cranky old man out to play.
Oh, one last thing...you kids get outta' my yard!
May 15, 2015
Ghostly Touches with L.A. Dragoni
Recently I had the pleasure of reading author L.A. Dragoni’s Ghost Touch, a very good ghost story romance. So I became interested in Ms. Dragoni. I searched the internet, came up with only her Facebook page: L.A. Dragoni. Not much information. I stumbled upon her website: More L.A. Dragoni Mystery. No pictures, not very much background. At this point, my search for the elusive Ms. Dragoni turned somewhat into an obsession. I hired private detectives. Sought out the best hackers money could buy. Bought into skeevy info hunting websites. Nothing, nunca, nyet, nada! The woman’s a ghost! Which makes her perfectly suited to write a ghost tale. But I wanted to know more…
Oddly enough, I received an email the other night (morning?). Promptly at midnight. From L.A. Dragoni. She consented to an interview (but only between the hours of 12 and 2:00 AM and only when there’s a full moon out. And she sent along this (not very helpful) photo.
These are the results…
SRW: Hey L.A! Glad to see you could, um, make it. Okay, what’s L.A. stand for? How much CAN you tell me about yourself?
LA: Thanks for letting me hang out, Stuart. Nice rafters digs you got here. Though LA are my initials, the real reason people call me that is because when I was young I used to talk about horrible, scary things all the time. So much so, that when other kids saw me coming they’d stick their fingers in their ears and chant, “La la la la la la” so they couldn’t hear my creepy tales and anecdotes.
Fine print: this may or may not be a true story. LA Dragoni is writing under a pen name and writes fiction.
SRW: Let’s jump right into Ghost Touch. Give the readers the briefest, “teaseriest” description possible.
LA: She can help him cross, but can she let him go?
SRW: Okay, now I gotta tell you, I’m not much of a fan of paranormal romances. And one thing that struck me as odd is that Tamara begins to fall for one of the ghosts, Cal, haunting her barn. The only problem is he looks like a skeleton! My wife assures me this is par for the course in paranormal romances (as I said, I don’t read, um, many), so just go with it. But as Grandma used to tell me, “Looks count (she was odd, my grandma).” I’m just curious what your take is on this.
LA: There are a lot of things going on in both your question and in the book. Let’s see if I can make them converge. Two things inspired Ghost Touch.
First and foremost, I dreamed it. I dream every night, so that’s no big deal – but this dream was so vivid and complete and, dare I say it, haunting. The dream took place in my barn, my yard, on my property. Maybe that’s why it felt so real. All I know is the story wasn’t going to leave me until I wrote it down.
Second, looks do count, most of the time, but you have to realize that Tamara is a young woman who is grieving the first major loss of her lifetime. Her mother. Grief does crazy things to your psyche. So even though this revolting, musty smelling skeleton scares the crud out of her in the beginning, his kindness and consideration, his polite, cowboy ways, his gentle manner cut through Tamara’s grief and become the balm to the wounds that losing her beautiful, nurturing mom left her with. Besides, when he does become corporeal, he’s totally hot. But that is not what she falls for. That’s just bonus.
SRW: After I just went through my macho posturing about not reading paranormal romances, I have to admit you’ve created a very compelling love triangle between Tamara, Cal and Dex. Actually, I couldn’t wait to see who she ended up with. Dex is a sorta salt-of-the-earth kinda’ guy, Cal is, um, sorta from the earth. Did you have a preference?
LA: I don’t think I do have a preference. Tamara is in the unusual situation where Cal is corporeal and could very well be hers – for her lifetime. That kind of relationship security is enticing. But Dex is a real, living breathing, warm-blooded man. There is something appealing about warm skin. I admit I love Cal’s kindness and old-fashioned manners. But I’m also drawn to Dex’s fun mix of nerdiness and quirkiness. I could totally see him unapologetically attending a Star Wars convention dressed as Chewbacca.
SRW: In the book, Tamara likes her men (both dead and alive) big and long-haired. There’s a lot of finger kneading and knitting through long hair from all three main characters (this didn’t get by me as I’m follicularly challenged. Jealous I guess)! Is it safe to assume the elusive Ms. Dragoni likes her men the same way?
LA: Uh oh. Sorry if I overdid that! No, I don’t have a preference there either. Back in the day when I was alive and single, hair was optional.
SRW: I particularly liked the villain, Troit. Very memorably creepy, slimy, yet possessing a certain bit of Cockney bad boy charm. Where’d you haul him out from (besides the barn/void, I mean)?
LA: Troit was so much fun to write! I spent a lot of time looking up 20’s and 30’s slang to make his smack talk more authentic. I loved being able to revel in his meanness and selfishness. Tamara was really afraid of him – and rightfully so. Once he figured out what her Ghost Touch could do for him, he didn’t hesitate to try to drain her life force in order to walk the earth permanently.
SRW: The first chapter truly gave me the creeps, very evocative, very spooky. Would you ever consider writing a straight-up horror tale, light on the romance?
LA: Honestly, that’s what I set out to do here. There was nothing about love in my dream! The love story was not planned. But what can I say? I love love.
SRW: What’s up next for Ms. Dragoni?
LA: A sequel to Ghost Touch that I don’t want to say too much about, but I’m excited over. And I also have a phoenix story planned. The main character is a bad, bad girl and though there will be a romance in it, the story will be dark and creepy. Just wait until you find out what her boyfriend is!
SRW: Sounds great! Thank you very much for, um, showing up this morning, L.A. Yawn. Wait you’re fading…what? Hold up…
And like that, POOF, L.A. has left the building, vanished into a glowing light.
But, here, check out this cover:
Beauty, ain’t it? Huh? HUH?
Buy her book here: Ghost Touch
Oddly enough, I received an email the other night (morning?). Promptly at midnight. From L.A. Dragoni. She consented to an interview (but only between the hours of 12 and 2:00 AM and only when there’s a full moon out. And she sent along this (not very helpful) photo.
These are the results…
SRW: Hey L.A! Glad to see you could, um, make it. Okay, what’s L.A. stand for? How much CAN you tell me about yourself?
LA: Thanks for letting me hang out, Stuart. Nice rafters digs you got here. Though LA are my initials, the real reason people call me that is because when I was young I used to talk about horrible, scary things all the time. So much so, that when other kids saw me coming they’d stick their fingers in their ears and chant, “La la la la la la” so they couldn’t hear my creepy tales and anecdotes.
Fine print: this may or may not be a true story. LA Dragoni is writing under a pen name and writes fiction.
SRW: Let’s jump right into Ghost Touch. Give the readers the briefest, “teaseriest” description possible.
LA: She can help him cross, but can she let him go?
SRW: Okay, now I gotta tell you, I’m not much of a fan of paranormal romances. And one thing that struck me as odd is that Tamara begins to fall for one of the ghosts, Cal, haunting her barn. The only problem is he looks like a skeleton! My wife assures me this is par for the course in paranormal romances (as I said, I don’t read, um, many), so just go with it. But as Grandma used to tell me, “Looks count (she was odd, my grandma).” I’m just curious what your take is on this.
LA: There are a lot of things going on in both your question and in the book. Let’s see if I can make them converge. Two things inspired Ghost Touch.
First and foremost, I dreamed it. I dream every night, so that’s no big deal – but this dream was so vivid and complete and, dare I say it, haunting. The dream took place in my barn, my yard, on my property. Maybe that’s why it felt so real. All I know is the story wasn’t going to leave me until I wrote it down.
Second, looks do count, most of the time, but you have to realize that Tamara is a young woman who is grieving the first major loss of her lifetime. Her mother. Grief does crazy things to your psyche. So even though this revolting, musty smelling skeleton scares the crud out of her in the beginning, his kindness and consideration, his polite, cowboy ways, his gentle manner cut through Tamara’s grief and become the balm to the wounds that losing her beautiful, nurturing mom left her with. Besides, when he does become corporeal, he’s totally hot. But that is not what she falls for. That’s just bonus.
SRW: After I just went through my macho posturing about not reading paranormal romances, I have to admit you’ve created a very compelling love triangle between Tamara, Cal and Dex. Actually, I couldn’t wait to see who she ended up with. Dex is a sorta salt-of-the-earth kinda’ guy, Cal is, um, sorta from the earth. Did you have a preference?
LA: I don’t think I do have a preference. Tamara is in the unusual situation where Cal is corporeal and could very well be hers – for her lifetime. That kind of relationship security is enticing. But Dex is a real, living breathing, warm-blooded man. There is something appealing about warm skin. I admit I love Cal’s kindness and old-fashioned manners. But I’m also drawn to Dex’s fun mix of nerdiness and quirkiness. I could totally see him unapologetically attending a Star Wars convention dressed as Chewbacca.
SRW: In the book, Tamara likes her men (both dead and alive) big and long-haired. There’s a lot of finger kneading and knitting through long hair from all three main characters (this didn’t get by me as I’m follicularly challenged. Jealous I guess)! Is it safe to assume the elusive Ms. Dragoni likes her men the same way?
LA: Uh oh. Sorry if I overdid that! No, I don’t have a preference there either. Back in the day when I was alive and single, hair was optional.
SRW: I particularly liked the villain, Troit. Very memorably creepy, slimy, yet possessing a certain bit of Cockney bad boy charm. Where’d you haul him out from (besides the barn/void, I mean)?
LA: Troit was so much fun to write! I spent a lot of time looking up 20’s and 30’s slang to make his smack talk more authentic. I loved being able to revel in his meanness and selfishness. Tamara was really afraid of him – and rightfully so. Once he figured out what her Ghost Touch could do for him, he didn’t hesitate to try to drain her life force in order to walk the earth permanently.
SRW: The first chapter truly gave me the creeps, very evocative, very spooky. Would you ever consider writing a straight-up horror tale, light on the romance?
LA: Honestly, that’s what I set out to do here. There was nothing about love in my dream! The love story was not planned. But what can I say? I love love.
SRW: What’s up next for Ms. Dragoni?
LA: A sequel to Ghost Touch that I don’t want to say too much about, but I’m excited over. And I also have a phoenix story planned. The main character is a bad, bad girl and though there will be a romance in it, the story will be dark and creepy. Just wait until you find out what her boyfriend is!
SRW: Sounds great! Thank you very much for, um, showing up this morning, L.A. Yawn. Wait you’re fading…what? Hold up…
And like that, POOF, L.A. has left the building, vanished into a glowing light.
But, here, check out this cover:
Beauty, ain’t it? Huh? HUH? Buy her book here: Ghost Touch
May 8, 2015
The Super Awesome, Awesomely Super Summer Vacation Blog-Hop!
Is your favorite vacation spot a sunny beach, a bright city, or a secluded cabin? A romantic getaway or maybe a place you loved as a child? We want to see it and know why it's your favorite!So dust off that swimming suit. Suck in that gut. Go get extraneous hair removed. Don't forget the sunscreen and away we go.
To join in this fun Summer Hop:
1) Sign up on the Linky list below.
2) On Saturday May 30, put up a post "My Favorite Vacation Spot" and tell everyone about it! (Curmudgeon that I am, I'll be sharing my least favorite vacation spot.)
3) Link to the 6 Blog Hop Co-hosts:
Lexa Cain: http://lexacain.blogspot.com/
Melanie Karsak: http://www.melaniekarsak.com/
T.F. Walsh: http://www.tfwalsh.com/blog/
Vanessa Morgan: http://vanessa-morgan.blogspot.com/
Jolie Du Pre: http://www.preciousmonsters.com/
Stuart R. West: http://stuartrwest.blogspot.com/
4) On May 30-31, visit the other blogs and see where their favorite getaways are!
Special Giveaways - Summer Reads that Thrill & Chill!
There will be a giveaway featuring 6 exciting novels on the Co-hosts blogs!
Midway: The Harvesting Series Book 1.5 by bestselling author Melanie Karsak~ Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, for the beginning of the end. Join Cricket in this unique zombie apocalypse series. It's all fun and games until someone ends up undead!
Cloaked in Fur by T.F. Walsh
~ Cloaked in Fur sees rebellious Daciana cast into a life-threatening adventure against her will to uncover who is killing her friends before the predator sets its sights on her.
Drowned Sorrow by Vanessa Morgan ~ If Jaws kept you away from the ocean, Drowned Sorrow will keep you away from any water. Discover this chilling story of a remote village where water has become a supernatural element that can think, move, and kill.
Benton (Vol. 1) by Jolie Du Pre ~ There's no place to go, no way to escape the zombies until Jennifer meets a young man who says he can lead her to safety at his family's ranch. The catch is that Jennifer has to trust him with her life - and maybe even her heart.
Zombie Rapture by Stuart R. West ~ Someone failed to tell the dead they’re not in Heaven. Hunter intends to right that wrong.
Soul Cutter by Lexa Cain~ A teenage skeptic goes to Egypt and discovers the supernatural she scorns is all too real. The legendary Soul Cutter is hunting again.
(Link title to: http://ibty.in/31a1297 )
Linky Sign Up:
May 1, 2015
Fun With Spoilers!
Spoiler alert! This post will be about spoilers.
Several years back, I was a regular commenter on a movie board. A topic came up about what modern blockbuster film everyone hated. I chose Titanic. For many reasons. Never bought into the love story, especially since the so-called villain's fiancee cheated on him. Leave it to me to identify with the villain. And there was way too much Leornardo DiCaprio standing on the port of the ship, yelling "I'm the king of the world!" (Is it just me, or does Leonardo resemble "E.T."?)
Anyway, I wrote I couldn't wait for that dang boat to sink.
Some guy fires back and says, "Next time leave a spoiler alert."
Golly. (And I don't say that lightly).
Apparently history books should have prefaces pregnant with spoiler alerts according to my heckler's high standards. Guy probably should've paid more attention in school if he doesn't know the ultimate fate of the Titanic. Not like it's a well-kept secret or something.
Ridiculous. I (spoiler!) left the board after that, no moss on me.
But where and when and how do spoilers start and stop? Should I tell people ahead of time I'm walking the dog so as not to catch them unaware? Spoiler alert! Eggs for breakfast? Double spoiler! Eggs don't sit well with me anyway! Too late, you've been spoiled!
Spoiler alert! The Kardashians are still not talented! Spoiler alert! Elvis has left the building! Spoiler alert! Lima beans still, and always will, taste like regurgitated baby food!
This could go on forever, but I need to (spoiler alert!) get to bed.
In this age of everything being on display everywhere, at every moment, with every possible electronic gizmo, it's really hard to know anymore what constitutes a spoiler.
I'm the last person to spoil anyone's fun. But there's gotta' be a statute of limitations, particularly with the sinking of the Titanic. (Belated spoiler alert!).
Several years back, I was a regular commenter on a movie board. A topic came up about what modern blockbuster film everyone hated. I chose Titanic. For many reasons. Never bought into the love story, especially since the so-called villain's fiancee cheated on him. Leave it to me to identify with the villain. And there was way too much Leornardo DiCaprio standing on the port of the ship, yelling "I'm the king of the world!" (Is it just me, or does Leonardo resemble "E.T."?)
Anyway, I wrote I couldn't wait for that dang boat to sink.
Some guy fires back and says, "Next time leave a spoiler alert."
Golly. (And I don't say that lightly).
Apparently history books should have prefaces pregnant with spoiler alerts according to my heckler's high standards. Guy probably should've paid more attention in school if he doesn't know the ultimate fate of the Titanic. Not like it's a well-kept secret or something.
Ridiculous. I (spoiler!) left the board after that, no moss on me.
But where and when and how do spoilers start and stop? Should I tell people ahead of time I'm walking the dog so as not to catch them unaware? Spoiler alert! Eggs for breakfast? Double spoiler! Eggs don't sit well with me anyway! Too late, you've been spoiled!
Spoiler alert! The Kardashians are still not talented! Spoiler alert! Elvis has left the building! Spoiler alert! Lima beans still, and always will, taste like regurgitated baby food!
This could go on forever, but I need to (spoiler alert!) get to bed.
In this age of everything being on display everywhere, at every moment, with every possible electronic gizmo, it's really hard to know anymore what constitutes a spoiler.
I'm the last person to spoil anyone's fun. But there's gotta' be a statute of limitations, particularly with the sinking of the Titanic. (Belated spoiler alert!).
