Lex Chase's Blog, page 20

Taking The Longhanded Way

 

As a spec fic writer, the first question I get is “How do you do it?” Usually in reference to how I get my ideas.

But as a writer in general I also get “How do you do it?” As in how do I make the words go from my head into a digital screen.

My answer has always been “Anywhere, anytime, on anything.”

Everyone has their methods. Some can only write on laptops. Some can only write by the light of the full moon. Others can only write when they make an animal sacrifice. Well. Maybe not.

Me? I do longhand. Yes. Gasp. That thing where you hold a thing called a “pen” and you make marks called “letters” on that stuff called “paper.” What deviltry is this?

Truth is, I type a crapton slower than I write longhand. It’s taken me 30 minutes to write 146 words. In 30 minutes when writing by hand, I’d have at least 800 easy. I also type only with three fingers. My index, middle, and thumbs. I touch-type on muscle memory.

I find when I write out entire chapters by hand, I know exactly where I’m going when it comes time to transcribe. It used to be I’d write down any old thing, knowing I’d have to tweak it. It helped uncorking the brain and getting the words flowing. Now, I’m very specific about it. I’m also okay with if a sentence isn’t working, cross it out and start again.

For Bayou Fairy Tale, save a couple of chapters here and there, I wrote the entire book by hand. The book is 94,000 words. I filled one entire Moleskine notebook with it and a third of another. You’re wondering where I got the time aren’t you? The answer is anywhere I could.

For the last three months I’ve been buried in doctors appointments and the Bayou deadline was closing in fast. To the point that I didn’t know if I was going to make it. Between going this way and that way to this appointment and that appointment, Bayou wasn’t getting done any faster. I carry a Moleskine in my bag at all times, because it’s small, light, and durable.

So in between appointments, I’d either sit in my car and write or if I had a little longer, take a chill at Starbucks. Or if I was done with appointments for the day I’d go camp at a Starbucks or get a meal somewhere and write before heading home. The latter had the rule of I couldn’t leave until I finished the chapter. And that’s how I wrote an average of 20 pages a day in longhand.

I also learned when I head home from an appointment somewhere, it takes me hours to get in the zone to sit at the keys. I’m of the opinion that if I can escape my laptop I will. My phone is another story. I love Twitter way too much than is healthy. And when I get home, I am ready to rock. Or not. Because I know the chapter is well in hand and I can transcribe it the next day.

One of my favorite writers of all time is Warren Ellis. And often he’d talk about his “Writing Kit.” His kit was made of the writing gear he’d carry with him in a messenger bag everywhere.

Mine is as follows:

Moleskine
Handful of pens (because one or another is always running out)
Earbuds (I actually finally sprang for some nice comfortable ones called Yurbuds. You can find them here. )
iPod (Mine is a dinosaur of a First Gen Nano)
Phone (Galaxy Note 4 with all my writing apps. Like OneNote and Write-O-Meter.)
Baseball Cap
Hoodie
Fingerless Gloves

The last three as odd they are, are absolutely essential. I put my hood over my ball cap and my vision is blocked from the front and the sides. You know blinders on a horse? Same deal. I can only focus on my paper in front of me. I cannot look up or around me without some effort. Also the hoodie comes in handy because I get cold easily and fingerless gloves because my hands get stiff.

And yes. I live in the Florida Panhandle. And I carry this stuff year round. Sometimes I’ll even bring socks.

[Monday Spark] “Graduation” by Lex Chase

Hello Internet! Welcome to Monday Spark! As you know, I’ve had other authors participate in Flash Fiction Friday, but why let them have all the fun? Every Monday I pick my own prompts and run with it. Today’s story takes us to the not so fond memories of college graduation coming at us like a speeding freight train. Will it all be on the final exam?

Please enjoy!

Graduation
by Lex Chase

Genre: Paranormal

Prompt: “What was that noise?”

Cole scribbled lecture notes until he wore grooves into his paper. He had to keep up with every word that flew out of Professor Hutchinson’s mouth. Once he comprehended one sentence and jotted it down, he had to commit another to memory. The maddening cycle never ended. But this time, this time, Cole would graduate.

Everything Professor Hutchinson said would be on the exam. Every last syllable, every last word choice, no detail too small. The students had to rephrase it in their own words, but mix one poor word choice, and fail instantly.

Markus sat on the front row. Slumped over and too cool to care, Cole didn’t care for his arrogance and bubblegum philosophy. Markus raised his hand—well—kept it raised all of two seconds before butting in.

“So. It’s like Instagram.”

Cole threw his pen. The cheap Bic bounced down the auditorium steps.

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” he asked, infuriated that Markus would open his mouth and stupid would fall out.

Every pair of eyes in the packed auditorium turned to him in bewildered swivels.

“It’s like Instagram? Instagram?” Cole hurled his notebook at Markus, papers flying like a jetliner contrail.

Students dived under their desks, and Markus casually shifted in his seat as Cole missed his mark. The notebook slammed into the wall and the chalkboard shivered.

Cole slammed his hands on his desk. “Professor Hutchinson is lecturing about the impermanence of time and you mention Instagram?”

Professor Hutchinson’s eyes widened, but kept his composure. He would talk some sense into Markus. Cole expected nothing less of Hutchinson’s brilliance. Perhaps Hutchinson would expel Markus on sight. One less to compete for the top grade on the final exam.

“Now, class,” Professor Hutchinson said with a slow patience. “We’re all adults here.”

Cole’s frustration got the best of him. Also those eight bottles of 5-Hour Energy shooters from the night before fueled his rage. He would pass this exam. He would graduate. He didn’t care how many people he had to step on to get there. He needed this moment. Cole wouldn’t rest until he shot to the top of his class and then walked across that stage.

“Can we get back to the point?” Cole demanded. Markus didn’t deserve his remorse. And Security was welcome to try pulling him out of his seat. The mindlessness offended Cole to the point his skin crawled.

The students remained silent. One girl trembled. Another clasped her hands over her mouth and muffled her barking sobs.

Markus, the insignificant speck of a boy, looked like he could shit himself. One could hope.

“…..what was that noise?” Markus asked Professor Hutchinson.

Hutchinson bowed his head and then pinched the bridge of his nose. He held his head high as he met the gaze of every student.

“I’m sorry class,” he said, as he fidgeted with his wedding band. “I’ve called the exorcist twice this month, but none of them can seem to put Cole’s spirit to rest.”

Cole fell quiet and then settled into his chair. He picked up his notebook and then returned to furiously scrawling his notes.

The maddening cycle never ended.

But this time, this time, Cole would graduate.

Copyright © 2015 Lex Chase. All rights reserved.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Michael Rupured with “Going Up”

Hello Internet! On today’s Flash Fiction Friday, we have a true Southern Gent Michael Rupured, all sass and class. His offering is Going Up, telling the tale of what happens when a man runs into his ex’s new boyfriend in the most unlikely place.

Please enjoy!

Going Up
by Michael Rupured

The hot, wet tongue licking Grant Stone’s ear moved across his cheek and plunged into his left nostril. Big brown eyes met his gaze. He struggled beneath the weight on his chest to free his hands from the covers and pushed the furry face away.

His bedmate licked his face and wagged her tail. Grant pushed the big dog’s head away again. “Come on, Sadie. Let me up!”

She bounded from the bed and stood by the bedroom door with her tail wagging and an expectant look on her face. He couldn’t help but smile. The big dog’s indomitable cheerfulness and boundless enthusiasm had kept him going the last few months when all he’d wanted to do was pull the covers over his head and sleep.

He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. “Crap!” For the third time in as many days, he’d overslept. “Damn time change.”

Grant stood and stretched. In response, Sadie switched her tail into high gear, dancing around him as he made his way to the kitchen. Tim wanted joint custody, but Grant had provided his attorney with receipts proving he’d bought the dog and paid all her expenses. Tim had been granted visitation, but as with everything else, hadn’t followed through. Geoffrey, his new boyfriend, was allergic to dogs.

He turned on the coffee pot and headed for the bathroom. Sadie watched him with sad eyes and an unmoving droopy tail. “Sorry, Sadie. You’re going to have to wait until I’ve showered and dressed for work for your walk.”

She followed him into the bathroom, lowered her haunches, and rested her head on her paws. Grant turned on the shower, stepped out of his pajamas, and waited for the water to get hot. Getting married—Tim’s idea—had been a lot more fun than getting divorced. He wasn’t sure when Tim and Geoffrey had met, but for Grant, happily ever after had lasted about two years.

The steamy jets felt good on his neck and shoulders. Filing for divorce—Grant’s idea after learning about Tim’s affair—had prolonged the grieving process. In the past, ending a failed relationship had been a simple matter of kicking the two-timing bastard out of his house. Changing the locks had been the only expense. Interacting with his ex-partners was optional, and he’d chosen to pretend they didn’t exist.

 

Getting divorced was more expensive and a lot more painful. Seeing Tim again was bad enough. Seeing him with Geoffrey had been torture. The high-fives Tim and Geoffrey had exchanged when the papers had been signed added insult to injury.

Sadie followed him back to the bedroom and plopped on the floor by the door, her eyes following him as he hurried around getting dressed. He had to admit Geoffrey was a definite upgrade. The man was better looking, made more money, drove a nicer car, and lived in the best part of town. Aside from being a complete and total asshole, as far as Grant knew, the dog allergy was Geoffrey’s only flaw.

“Come on, girl. Let’s go for that walk.” She followed him to the front door, dancing with excitement when he picked up her leash. “No dawdling this morning, okay?” He hooked the leash to her collar. “Daddy’s running late again.”

After a quick trip around the block, they returned home. He tossed the bag of poop into the trash cart, let Sadie loose in the house, and then hurried to his car. As usual when he was running late, traffic moved at a snail’s pace. He fussed and fumed at no one in particular until he pulled into the parking lot of the office tower where he worked, finding a space, at last, about as far from the entrance as possible.

He rushed through the front door and hurried toward the elevator. The doors were closing so he stuck his arm between them, causing them to open. He stepped onto the elevator, pushed the button for the eighth floor, and as the doors closed behind him, recognized the sole occupant.

“Hello, Grant,” Geoffrey said.

Grant wanted to punch the smile off his face. “Hello, Geoffrey. What are you doing here?” He hadn’t meant to sound so angry or accusatory, but his unexpected presence had caught Grant off guard.

“Dental appointment.” He flashed a smile, his pearly whites standing out in stark contrast to his well-tanned face. “I forgot you work in this building. Good to see you again.”

Grant forced a smile. “You too.” He looked at the panel and saw Geoffrey had selected the ninth floor. Crap. An awkward silence followed. Grant stared at the display over the door indicating what floor they were on. The number switched from two to three, and then to four when all of a sudden, the lights went out and the elevator lurched to a stop.

“Oh my God!” Geoffrey exclaimed. “Are you there, Grant?”

Like he’d disappear when the lights went out. “I’m here.”

“Man, this freaks my shit out,” Geoffrey whimpered.

Grant smiled. He couldn’t help it. “Sorry.”

“What do we do?”

He heard panic creeping into Geoffrey’s voice. “We wait.” Pushing the emergency call button would speed things up, but Grant was enjoying himself too much to mention it.

“Isn’t there an emergency phone in here or something?”

Grant heard Geoffrey patting the metal walls.

“I can’t find it!” His voice went up an octave. “Do you think we’ll run out of air?”

A hermetically sealed elevator? Grant dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from laughing. Feeding the poor man’s fears, Grant knew, was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself.   “Gosh. I don’t know. I’d say we’re good for at least another fifteen or twenty minutes.”

Geoffrey sobbed. “I don’t want to die!” He pounded on the elevator doors. “Help!”

“No point yelling,” Grant said, grateful for the darkness. His cheeks hurt from grinning so much. He really wanted to pull out his cellphone to video the whole thing, but the light would give him away. “The elevator is soundproof too,” he lied.

Silence followed, punctuated by Geoffrey’s whimpers and sobs. Grant leaned back against the wall and listened. He resisted the urge to whistle or hum a happy tune, but was tempted to sing a few bars of My Favorite Things.

After a few more minutes, the elevator lurched. The lights flickered and then stayed on. Geoffrey was huddled in the corner, his face stained with tears. His bottled-blond hair stuck out from either side of his head at a jaunty angle where he’d been clutching it.

Grant would have felt sorry for anyone else, but found no sympathy in his heart for the sniffling home wrecker. He extended his hand. “Help you up?

Geoffrey wiped the tears from his face and grabbed Grant’s hand. When he stood up, Grant saw the front of the khaki pants he wore were soaked with urine. The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened on the eighth floor. “Good to see you again,” he said as he exited the elevator. “Tell Tim I said hello.”

He resisted the urge to whip out his phone for a quick picture. He didn’t need photographic evidence. The memory would last a lifetime.

[Monday Spark] “Ain’t Misbehavin'”

Hello Internet! Welcome to Monday Spark! As you know, I’ve had other authors participate in Flash Fiction Friday, but why let them have all the fun? Every Monday I pick my own prompts and run with it. Today’s story takes us to the innocent days of our youth and the mishaps that erupt at a child’s birthday party.

Please enjoy!

 

Ain’t Misbehavin’
by Lex Chase

Genre: Humor

Prompt: “What’s the matter? Are you actually scared of a horse?”

 

Little St. John Burroughs navigated the long tables covered in flimsy pink cloth and found the appropriate one for depositing his birthday offering. The happy princess and pony balloons wafted in the October breeze from the corners of the gift table piled high with odd boxes wrapped in neat colorful paper.  John wrapped his present himself in newspaper with far too many gobs of tape. On the front page news the district attorney was being brought up on drug charges.

Whatever that meant.

All John knew was that drugs were bad and to just say no. Furthermore, he had no idea what a district attorney was. He just thought the picture was pretty and the man looked like a Blaine doll in shiny silver bracelets.

John regretted how he combed so many of the pink girly toy aisles and climbed over every single shelf to find a Blaine doll with silver bracelets.  When he had dumped the contents of the shelves on the floor and thoroughly made a scene his mother demanded to know what he was doing. When he explained the objective of his search he didn’t understand why his mother dragged him by his ear from the Bulls Eye store.

With his gift in place so the birthday boy would be sure to see it first, John turned and scanned the backyard that had been made over into a princess pony paradise.  A princess with pretty blonde hair, a shiny blue dress, and a pointy hat read stories to a half circle of little girls in pink and blue party hats. Nearby a real live unicorn painted butterflies and flowers on children’s faces in a glittering booth.

“Here you go, Johnny!” Ahimsa’s mother said to him as she snapped a party hat on his neatly combed hair.

John scrunched his face up as the elastic string itched at his chin. He tugged at it and the string rudely jumped from his fingers and bit his chin again.

She turned away and then busied herself arranging a table with plates, plasticware, and napkins.

“Umm…” John tried to think of how to properly address the adult. “Misses S-Siven?”

Ahimsa’s mother returned her attention to the little boy as she crouched to his level. “Yes, pumpkin?”

John stuttered in embarrassment at the sight of the pretty lady. He fidgeted with the edge of the argyle cardigan that his mother made him wear.

“Where’s… Uh… Where’s Ahimsa…?” he asked slowly and flustered.

The mother beamed, “Oh dear! She’s waiting in line for the pony rides!”

“Pony rides?” John yipped excitedly.

“Do you want to ride a pony too?” she asked as she took the boy’s hand and led him to the paddock set up for three horses to trot in a wide circle.

However, as they approached something didn’t set right with John so he decided to take it upon himself to make it right.

“Um… Misses Siven… You know Ahimsa’s a boy…?” he trailed off as he watched for her reaction. Perhaps a light bulb alighting would have been ideal.

The mother snorted a laugh, “Oh, pumpkin! I think I’d know if my own daughter was a boy!”

Intimidated, John knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere. He decided the best course of action was to join the birthday boy at the front of the line who danced a little excited hop and wiggle. Ahimsa’s purple glittery princess dress fluttered and rustled in the breeze.

John scampered to the Ahimsa’s and failed to contain his excitement for his friend. “Happy birthday!” he squeaked.

Ahimsa brightened and the shiny flower painted on his cheek twinkled in the sun.

“Thank you, John!” Ahimsa politely chirped as he gave a prim curtsey. “Do you wanna ride the pony with me? You can be my prince!”

John smiled crookedly as he fidgeted with the hem of his cardigan. “O-Okay…” he muttered as his face grew hot.

When the white horse circled the paddock and the little girl rider removed, the man stooped to lift the birthday boy onto the pink and blue saddle.  Ahimsa wobbled in the seat and looked somewhat concerned.

“Hold on now…” the man said gently as he settled John behind him with a crinkle of sharply starched cloth.

Ahimsa’s brow continued to knit and then squeaked as the pony took its first loping steps.

John looked out over the wondrous backyard marveling at the decorations. “It’s so pretty!” he laughed.

However, Ahimsa hiccupped once then burst into hysterical sobs, “I want my mommy!”

The pony handler perked at the boy’s distress. “What’s the matter, little missy? Are you scared of Buttercup?”

Ahimsa let his head fall back screaming with sobs, “I’m scared of Buuuuh-huuuh-huuuutter-cuuuuup!”

John was suddenly nervous that the birthday boy was throwing a tantrum at his own party.  He was starting to rethink the Cowboy Blaine doll.  Maybe he should have looked at another Bull’s Eye store for one with the silver bracelets…  

Copyright © Lex Chase 2015. All rights reserved

 

[Guest Post] Anne Barwell with A Knight To Remember

Thanks, Lex, for hosting me today.

I’ve always loved stories about dragons so when I was asked what traditional story I’d rewrite as M/M, St George and the Dragon immediately came to mind.

I’m not a fan of helpless heroines or dragons as the bad guys. One strong image I had for the story before I started writing was a prince being sacrificed to a dragon but things not going the way you’d expect.  I also didn’t want to write a typical heroic prince.  Although Aric is the crown prince of Astria, he has led a sheltered life and can be naive at times.  Denys, a herbalist Aric meets while on the quest to find the missing sword of Sherwin, has much more experience of the world, but there’s still a lot he needs to learn.  Aric’s twin sister, Georgia, who started off as the George of the story, isn’t a typical princess who needs rescuing either.  She and her brother can both hold their own in a fight.

I had a lot of fun working out the dragon mythology, which will be explored more as the series progresses. Aric and Denys’s story has only just begun.  I’m writing book two—A Mage to Forget—once I’ve finished my current WIP. I’m half expecting characters to turn up who weren’t in the outline, and then run with the story. After all, that’s what happened in A Knight to Remember.  I sometimes wonder why I outline, but having a story take on a life of its own is half the fun. Right?

Dragons of Astria is also a reminder that I can’t write one-shots to save my life. In the original draft of A Knight to Remember I wrote an epilogue that tied up loose ends. Two of my beta readers read it, shook their heads, and said “you know this is the beginning of book two, don’t you? “ Then one of them took it further and said this is really a three book series, with this happening in book two, and then this in book three.

They were right.

 

A Knight to Remember

Blurb:

“The last of your line will be in the embrace of a dragon.”

Aric, Crown Prince of Astria, has been brought up to believe that all dragons are evil. But when he speaks with one, he finds himself questioning those beliefs. The dragon tells him to find a sword in Sherwin Forest to save not only his kingdom but also his sister, Georgia, who must otherwise wed the prince of a neighboring kingdom.

At the start of his quest, Aric dons a disguise and meets Denys, an archer and herbalist who lives alone at the edge of the forest. Denys agrees to guide Aric into the forest, but then Georgia appears, revealing Aric’s true identity.

However Aric learns he is not the only one keeping secrets. Denys has a few of his own that could change both of their lives forever.

Buy link: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3954&cPath=426

 

Excerpt

“You said you had something to tell me.” Aric cleared his throat, not wishing to reminiscence about such things, at least not now. He was losing his mind, he must be. This was a dream, it had to be. Yet why did it feel so real? “And my name is not Brandric. It’s Aric. Brandric is what my father calls me.”

“Aric, then.” The dragon inclined its head again, lowering its voice. “Your sister is to marry the prince of a neighboring kingdom. This must not be allowed to happen. It will not unite your kingdoms, but is merely a ploy to gain your father’s trust.”

“I already know that.” Aric had heard two of King Malachite’s men talking. Once the marriage had taken place, King Malachite planned to invade Astria and claim it in the name of Logan, his own kingdom. “He… they talked about using magic.” Aric had told his father about what he’d overheard, but he hadn’t been believed. King Malachite, King Brandr assured his son, would not attempt to betray Astria by using the evil that was magic. Nor would he use their children’s marriage to gain control over Astria. He was an honorable man who had stood by Astria and its people many times, their armies united against a common foe. Together they had triumphed over those who might use magic against them, and worked to rid both their lands of the threat of dragons.

Aric had never trusted King Malachite. There was something about the man that made his skin crawl, but if asked to explain, he couldn’t. Only two people had ever believed him: Georgia and Aunt Hannah.

“The only way to fight magic is with magic.” The dragon looked around, then cocked its head to the side as though listening to something Aric could not hear. “You must seek the Sword of Sherwin, Aric. The quest will not only save your kingdom, but also your sister.”

“I….” Aric stared at the dragon. He’d heard of the sword, of course he had. It was an old tale told to him by both his aunt and his mother. The sword was a thing of power. “It doesn’t exist. It’s just a story. Or if it did, it was lost generations ago.” He shook his head. Surely the dragon couldn’t be serious?

“Then it is time it was found again, isn’t it?”

“You make it sound simple. It’s not.” Aric looked up at the dragon. Its eyes were the same color as its scales. They seemed to bore into his own, searching his heart, and his soul. There was something ageless about it, powerful yet lonely. He shivered, and averted his gaze.

“You see what others don’t, young Aric.” The dragon opened its wings. Aric gasped. They were the length of several men, black cobwebs of fine leather and scale. “Follow your heart, and trust your instincts.”

“But I don’t know where to look.” Aric wanted to believe the dragon, he truly did. Georgia couldn’t be allowed to marry Prince Thorold, and Aric could not stand by and let his kingdom fall. Killing dragons had only been part of the oath he’d taken. He might not intend to keep that part of it, but he certainly would keep the other.

The dragon had already begun to flap its wings. It was preparing to leave, and Aric knew once it took flight he’d never be able to stop it. “Follow your heart, Aric. Do what is right.”

Aric stumbled back, his sword falling to the ground. He couldn’t kill the dragon, but more than that, he didn’t want to. “I don’t know where to look,” he yelled after it. The dragon did not reply but instead took to the air, gliding, hovering above him, its movement graceful, majestic. Something about it called to him, touched him.

He wiped at his eyes. They were wet.

When he looked up again, the dragon was gone.

 

Bio:

Anne Barwell lives in Wellington, New Zealand.  She shares her home with two cats who are convinced that the house is run to suit them; this is an ongoing “discussion,” and to date it appears as though the cats may be winning.

In 2008 she completed her conjoint BA in English Literature and Music/Bachelor of Teaching. She has worked as a music teacher, a primary school teacher, and now works in a library. She is a member of the Upper Hutt Science Fiction Club and plays violin for Hutt Valley Orchestra.

She is an avid reader across a wide range of genres and a watcher of far too many TV series and movies, although it can be argued that there is no such thing as “too many.” These, of course, are best enjoyed with a decent cup of tea and further the continuing argument that the concept of “spare time” is really just a myth.

Links:

Blog:  http://anne-barwell.livejournal.com/

Website: http://annebarwell.wordpress.com/

Coffee Unicorns:  http://coffeeunicorns.wordpress.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/anne.barwell.1

Google+: https://plus.google.com/u/0/115084832208481414034/posts

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4862410.Anne_Barwell

Dreamspinner Press Author Page:

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/AuthorArcade/anne-barwell

[Flash Fiction Friday] Kim Fielding takes us on The Date

Hey Howdy, Internet! Welcome back to this edition of Flash Fiction Friday. Let’s give a warm welcome to Kim Fielding with her short The Date.

We meet Paul, a young man overeager to take his relationship with Laz to the next level. But Laz has many secrets and a very unusual and dangerous hobby.

The Date
by Kim Fielding

 

I tried not to chortle like a movie villain, but I think at least a giggle escaped. I couldn’t help it. I’d been lusting after Laz for months, and I was pretty sure he lusted back. At least, he’d met me for coffee and movies and thrift store browsing and lunch, and he seemed to have a good time at each one. But when it came time to move beyond the good-night kiss, he was skittish. “I’ll text you, Paul,” he’d say. “We can get together again soon.”

But tonight we’d graduated to dinner at a place fancy enough I couldn’t wear jeans. Afterward we’d sat over coffee and Laz hadn’t pulled away when I held his hand. And when it came time for the usual almost-chaste lip-press, he gave me a long look. “Wanna come over to my place?” he’d asked.

So now I was standing at the front door of his cute little bungalow instead of watching stupid porn in my crappy apartment. Inside, I was jumping up and down like a kid on Christmas morning. Outside I was trying to play it cool—and not really succeeding.

“Come on in,” Laz said, looking shy and sweet as a virgin prom date. God, he was sexy. Not ripped—he wasn’t a gym bunny. And he didn’t look like he’d just stepped out of the pages of some magazine either. But he had this sandy hair that tended to flop in his face, and green-gray eyes with little crinkles at the corners, and a lopsided grin with a dimple in one cheek. He was the boy next door all grown up.

Even though he’d invited me in, Laz looked a little hesitant. So quick, before he could change his mind, I ducked inside. We were in a cozy living room. The furniture was mismatched and slightly shabby, but comfortable-looking. Two tall bookcases sagged under paperbacks, vinyl records, and knickknacks. The flatscreen was big enough to be manly, but not so huge as to suggest overcompensating. A few framed photos of old sailing ships hung on the walls. And everything was neat and tidy, which made me think he’d planned to have me over, and that warmed the cockles of my heart. Among other things.

“Nice place,” I said, meaning it.

“Thanks. The rent’s a little more than I can afford but, uh, it meets my needs.” He squinted at me. “Can I get you something to drink? A snack?”

“I’ve just had a gallon of coffee and I’m not hungry. How about a tour instead? I’d love to see the bedroom.” I waggled my brows. Hell, I didn’t care if we never made it to the bedroom. That couch looked comfy enough.

Laz nodded absently. “I have to show you something.”

“If you want.”

“It’s…. If we’re gonna do this,”—he waved his hand back and forth between us—“I have to show you first. In case you have second thoughts. It’s my hobby but it’s… unusual.”

That didn’t sound promising. But Jesus, it would have to be something really bad to keep me out of Laz’s pants. Severed heads. Accordion playing. Jazzercise.

“Show me,” I said, attempting a brave smile.

Laz let out a deep breath, grabbed my hand, and towed me down the hall. We passed a room with the door ajar—bed inside neatly made, looking really damn inviting—and came to another door that was closed. He looked at me, bit his lip, and slowly turned the knob. And then he took me inside.

I don’t know what I expected. A hobby, right? Baseball cards. Model trains. Knitting. I didn’t see any of that.

There were swords. Several of them, hanging neatly on pegs. I didn’t know a thing about weapons, but these looked deadly serious—no fancy grips, no decorative sheaths. These swords meant business. The room contained other weapons too. A couple of battle axes. Several bows and a bunch of arrows. Lots of little things like brass knuckles and throwing stars.

As I gaped, Laz strode across the room and threw open the closet. A dozen or so identical costumes hung there—black torsos, red stretchy legs, matching red capes. And jaunty black masks big enough to cover the upper face.

I walked to Laz’s side and turned one of the costumes to face me. I wasn’t surprised when I recognized the symbol on the chest.

“Dynoman,” I said. I was surprised I could say anything at all. “You’re Dynoman.”

Everybody knew about him. He’d spent the past five years saving people from bad guys. He’d foil a bank robbery, apprehend muggers, and then stop on his way home to help old ladies cross the street and to pluck cats out of trees. He was on the news all the time. But nobody knew who he was.

“It’s a hobby,” Laz said. He bit his lip. “Look, if you want to leave now, I totally understand. I mean, it’s… weird. You can go ahead and freak out and I won’t blame you.”

I looked at the costumes and the armory. I remembered all the news reports I’d seen about Dynoman getting blown up or shot or thrown off buildings. And then I turned my attention to Laz—sweet, pretty Laz—who looked like he was scared to death.

I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him right under the ear. Not chastely. Not chastely at all. “I think,” I said, “that it’s about time Dynoman got himself a sidekick.”

And Laz kissed me back.

Happy Lost Day: Live Together, Die Alone

 

Hello, Internet! On April 8, 2015, Lost fans, myself included, have rejoiced that our own holiday of sorts has come and gone.

What is Lost Day? You can find out over here at Entertainment Weekly.

Lost Day is unlike the “Star Wars Day” May 4th, which happens every year, Lost Day will only happen once. As far as I know, feel free to correct me Internet!

Today, I’m sharing my history with my most beloved show. It’s an unusual story of how one fan out in Nowheresville, Florida became an internet celebrity and then slowly faded away.

When Lost started, I’m not going to lie, it just wasn’t my thing. It was on at the wrong time, as I was taking night classes in graphic design, and those classes were two and a half hours long. So it was one of those things I let pass me by. So Season One hits episode 8, “Confidence Man” where we get Sawyer’s backstory. A buddy of mine in much of her fangirl flailings tells me “OMG YOU NEED TO WATCH THIS SHOW111!11!11!1!!!11” And I finally relented.

Back in the day, Bit Torrent was my best buddy in downloading the episodes. Watch full episodes on the website? Netflix Streaming? That stuff didn’t exist back then. Netflix even sent physical DVDs.

After I binge watched those eight episodes, I was a goner. I was a full on believer in the Castaway Crack. I was whole hog into the fandom. The theories, the conspiracies, not to mention slashing everyone with everyone else.

But Lost was different than a lot of stuff that was out at the time. Lost was a show that was very much a “Thinker’s Show” as I call it. It challenged a lot of what Americans thought of the world at the time. Case in point was Sayid Jarrah played by Naveen Andrews, it was unheard of to have a main character and a hero at that be an Iraqi soldier with the Republican Guard. Meanwhile, Iraq was on America’s shit list.

And speaking of Sayid, my buddy rather loved him so. I rather loved Sawyer so. One of the interesting jokes at the time was slashing them together. That met with a lot of WHAT WTF HOW WOULD THAT WORK?……….no really how would it work. no plz tell me. O_O Watch S1 EP8 and you will be on that boat. Believe me.

My buddy and I made a bet. She’d write a fanfic of such a pairing, and I’d illustrate it into a comic. Thinking pffft! There’s no way this would happen. Not a chance!

Well. She wrote it.

And I had to eat my words.

The fanfic in question was called Mechanical Rabbits, which I later made a comic as a final project for my graphic design class. Not only was working on Mechanical Rabbits challenging for me in many ways, but it was honestly my first experience with a slash story. Seems funny now, since, y’know. I write dudes that kiss and kick ass.

Mechanical Rabbits was my first full length comic, and it was my first illustrated sex scene. And I had to get up in front of my entire class and talk all about it with my head held high.

My professor told me it was brilliant, which coming from a straight dude at the time in Nowheresville, Florida that was a big deal. He suggested I send it to the actors. Like. Send a physical copy. Of a slash comic. To Hawaii. To Naveen Andrews and Josh Holloway.

To say I wanted to vomit from anxiety was an understatement.

But due to the glory of being able to find anything on the Internet if you knew the right keywords, I tracked down a callsheet one of the Lost extras scanned. On it was the address of the production company in Oahu. And I said, oh my god, now or never.

Fan letters composed, printed copies of the comic packaged, off they went. And off I went to hide my crippling shame.

But. But. There’s a plot twist.

So there I was, it was Thanksgiving Day, and I was depressed about something or other. And my Dad hands me an envelope with the address on it in my own handwriting. But the postmark says Hawaii. And I want to puke all over again. I opened the envelope and I find these.

Josh Holloway who plays Sawyer had the kindness to sign them and send them back. He doesn’t even know me. We’ve never met. But if we ever did, I’d tell him how much that meant to me on that very day. I later framed both and is currently sitting right behind me on my wall. And you would have to pry it out of my cold dead hands.

But there’s more to this story. And you say, there’s more!

So, Mechanical Rabbits went viral. And at the time there was a website called Something Awful, which was basically a repository for people being trolls on the Internet. Someone had posted the comic pages in an effort to trash it. It backfired on him and ended up getting even more readers and a bigger following. But. It didn’t freaking stop there.

Nope. This train kept rolling on.

One day, the local paper called for an article about Lost fandom. So now I went from Internet Celebrity to Local Celebrity. They called back later for a second article. And I was a Local Celebrity again.

And then came the day that the producers of Lost called my house. And they wanted to talk to me about Mechanical Rabbits. And I said what any logical fan artist would say. “Holy fuck am I being sued?” Turns out, no. Not at all. In fact, they want me to appear on a bonus feature on the Season 2 DVDs.

The producers decided to make a day of it, which included being on a nationally broadcast radio talk show. And I was on it as the only guest. And I was not only a Local Celebrity again, I was now getting recognized on the damned street.

The years have gone by since then, my involvement with the Lost fandom has since faded away. But my passion for the show runs deep, and I’ll take anyone to the carpet that trashes on the ending. And since you can find anything on the Internet, I found the DVD feature I was in on YouTube. I also found some delightful trolling comments calling me an idiot for talking about a plot twist that hadn’t happened yet because people don’t understand the glory of filming things in advance.

In the end, here I am 100 pounds heavier, geeking the hell out about my beloved show. My art, and a couple of the comic pages appear right at the start with JJ Abrams’s intro. I’m in the middle of it, discussing the one thing that Lost Day is all about.

The Numbers.

From one of the Old Guard Lost fans to all the younger generation rolling in I’d just like to say two things:

Live Together, Die Alone
Namaste and Good Luck

[Guest Post] Kim Fielding’s Startling Realization of Adulthood

Hi there! This is Kim Fielding, invading Lex’s blog.

Several months ago, I accompanied my husband to Home Depot. He goes there a lot. This is what a small portion of our garage–his domain–looks like:

Not that I am in any position to complain, since this is what a small portion of the study–my domain–looks like:

Usually he goes by himself, but I accompanied him on this particular trip because he needed help picking out paint (he’s colorblind). And of course while we were there anyway, we had a bunch of other miscellaneous stuff to buy: some kind of tape (because the other 10854 varieties of tape he possesses wouldn’t work), light bulbs, obscure little metal parts from the obscure little metal parts bins, potting soil, a rat trap for the rats that had recently decided my bird feeder was for them.

And while I was standing there waiting for the paint to mix, I looked down at the cart full of things and asked myself, “How did I get here?” I mean, not literally–we took the SUV–but figuratively. Because once upon a time I was a kid who wore ratty Vans and a safety pin in her ear and listened to the Ramones and stayed up until 4am on weekends. And now here I was, many (many, many) years later, buying tape and a rat trap.

When did I become a grown-up?

It kinda creeps up on us, doesn’t us? It starts out with little things. Driver’s license, maybe. First job. And somehow we end up with mortgages and kids and retirement plans and a zillion kinds of tape in the garage.

And some people grow up early and some people do it late, but it’s always tough, because nobody gives us a manual. We might get mentored or we might just learn things the hard way. Hopefully, we can get through it without too much pain and with vestiges of our youth intact. The Ramones are still on my playlist.

So these deep thoughts in Home Depot led to my new novella, Grown-up. And now the rats are gone and I have a lot of tape.

 

It’s time for Austin Beier to grow up. His car is falling apart, his roommates are less than ideal, and he’s just been fired for the umpteenth time. His love life hasn’t evolved past bathroom hookups at his favorite clubs. Forced to borrow money from his father yet again, Austin is walloped by an epiphany—he needs someone to mentor him into maturity. And who better to teach him how to be an adult than Ben, his father’s office manager? Cute in a nerdy sort of way and only a few years older than Austin, Ben is a master of organization and responsibility. But as he gets to know Ben better, Austin learns that whether you’re eight or twenty-eight, growing up is never easy.

 

Grown-up at Dreamspinner Press

At Amazon

 

Come visit Kim on her blog: http://kfieldingwrites.com

Or follow her on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/kfieldingwrites

Or on Twitter: @KFieldingWrites

[Flash Fiction Friday] Bru Baker with SAHMies

Hello Internet! Bru Baker is in the house for another edition of Flash Fiction Friday. She brings us her short SAHMies. We meet Kade, a stay-at-home dad and desperate for adult conversation, joins the neighborhood Mommies Club. What can possibly go wrong?

SAHMies by Bru Baker

He’d resisted for the last month. Surely the snow and cold must let up at some point, he’d thought. It’ll only be another day until we can get to the park or break out the jogging stroller.

But it snowed. And sleeted. And snowed some more. And when it didn’t snow or sleet, it was too cold for the park or for Jack to nap in the stroller while he ran.

So they stayed in some more.

“You’re being ridiculous, babe.”

Kade glared at his husband, though it was a wasted effort, since Tony was busy watching himself in the hallway mirror so he could get his tie just so. He was still dressing to the nines every day since he was the new guy at the firm, and Kade knew Tony was under a lot of pressure to make a good impression on the partners.

Kade took a breath and counted to ten. They’d moved across the country so he could stay home with Jack. Tony had walked away from a firm where he could have been made a partner in the next five years to take a more lucrative position with a place where had to start all over again building up his reputation and climbing the ranks.

Kade was grateful that he was able to stay home with their six-month-old son. He was. Two months into his one-month paternity leave, he’d come to the realization that another few weeks weren’t going to matter—he couldn’t leave Jack with someone else for the day. He didn’t want to witness his son’s milestones through pictures the daycare sent him.

So they’d left sunny Orange County for the cold, barren wasteland of the Midwest, with its much more reasonable cost of living and its snow. God, the snow.

“Just try it,” Tony said, tightening his perfect winsor knot and turning around.

“It’s just for women.” Kade knew he was being petulant, but he didn’t care. The SAHMies seemed perfect, if not for the fact that it was the acronym for Stay At Home Mom. The group met twice a week, once at a yoga studio for a “Mommy & Me” class and once at a local coffee shop that had a nice, gated area for the babies to play. Both were opportunities for Jack to play with other babies and for Kade to get some much-needed adult interaction—except he was expressly not welcome, given that he didn’t have boobs.

“Babe, it’s not. It says ‘parents and caregivers’ on the website. It’s just a name. You and Jackie should go. It’ll be good for both of you.”

Kade sighed and looked out the window. The predicted one inch of snow had turned into four overnight. It was mid-March, but spring just wasn’t springing. He couldn’t take much more of this.

“Fine.”

Tony leaned in for a quick kiss and then stopped by Jack’s high chair to ruffle his hair. “I’ll be home late tonight. I’ll try to come in quietly in case you’re in bed.”

Kade’s plans of a nice dinner flew out he window as Tony left in a flurry of coats and bags.

If Kade wanted to talk to anyone other than Jack today he’d have to man up and go be a mommy.

Damn it.

Kade didn’t exactly orchestrate it so he and Jack were a few minutes late to the “Mommy & Me” class, but he certainly wasn’t sorry. It saved them the awkward introductions and led them straight to the staring and whispers, which were going to happen anyway. At least he didn’t explain that Jack’s “mommy” couldn’t bring him because he didn’t have one, or field any questions about whether or not he was Jack’s “real” dad.

By the time they’d gotten situated on the yoga mat the intructor had laid out for them when they’d rushed into the studio, everyone else was already warmed up and focused on their own moves. Kade had never been that into yoga, but the poses were easy enough to keep up with, and Jack giggled and flailed through the whole thing, clearly having the time of his life. As the hour wore on, Kade loosened up and let go of the tension he’d been carrying since they walked in. Hell—if he was honest, the chip he was getting off his shoulder was one he’d been hauling around since the moving truck left them in their new suburban home almost five weeks ago.

He was pleasantly relaxed by the time class ended. They’d brought their mats into a rough circle and sang a song with the babies to end the class, which had been hokey but not unbearable.

He’d almost gotten Jack into his Arctic-expedition-worthy snowsuit when he heard the sound he’d been dreading—someone clearing their throat behind him.

He closed his eyes and prayed for patience before he turned around to smile warily.

“I’m Cynthia,” the perky blonde said. God, could she be any more Stepford? Everything about her screamed trophy wife. She and her baby were wearing matching yoga outfits. He hadn’t even realized they made those for babies. Poor Jack had just been in a onesie with banana stains on it from breakfast and a pair of baby sweatpants. “This is Bella.”

“Uh, hi. I’m Kade, and this is Jack.”

“We’re always happy to see new faces. I have to admit, you’re the first daddy to join the group.”

He gritted his teeth and forced his smile to stay in place. “Maybe that’s because you’ve got ‘mommies’ in the name,” he said going for wry but missing and just sounding bitter.

“Oh, that,” she said, waving off his comment. “It’s never mattered before.”

He took a breath and tried not to get defensive. “Well, moms aren’t the only ones who can stay home.”

She nodded. “Yes, some wives just aren’t cut out for it.”

And there it was, the gender normative heterosexual bullshit he’d been waiting for. Kade yanked up the zipper on Jack’s snowsuit. He’d given it a shot, and now he was being reminded why it had been stupid to even try. She didn’t seem to notice his anger, though, and kept talking, her blonde ponytail swinging as she gestured.

“I mean, take mine, for example. She’d go crazy if she was home with Bella.”

Wait, what?

[Guest Post] Must Love Dogs: Emma Jane and her Pups

Big thank you to Lex for having me on her blog. My name’s Emma Jane and I’m the author of ‘Shuttered.’

When wildlife and landscape photographer Daniel Hopson gets a reading

from clairvoyant Rowan Foster at a local craft fair, he quickly realizes

it’s a con. But he sees the charm behind the chancer’s façade, and so

rather than expose him, he starts to date him—only to discover that some

of Rowan’s other cons are far more serious.

The so-called psychic owes ten thousand pounds to two men after deceitfully claiming

to be able to find the body of their murdered mother. Daniel must help

Rowan recover the genuine gift he possessed in childhood and contact the

spirits before the men catch up to them—and the key to doing so might

be Daniel’s telepathic connection with his dog Sasha.

Snoopy

As you can tell from the blurb, a huge part of the novel is the dog, Sasha. I adore dogs and have my own five year old Jack Russell/Poodle cross called Beau. Before him I had a rescue girl called Snoopy, who was a Jack Russell crossed with, I think, some sort of spaniel. I would rescue so many dogs if I could!

Snoopy was about a year old when I got her and I was quite young at the time so I don’t remember the story behind her being in a rescue centre but she was a great dog. The dog I have now, Beau, I’ve had since he was eight weeks old, so I’ve had the joy of the manic puppy stage. Initially I wanted a nice chilled out breed of dog, like a greyhound, but when I went to see Beau’s litter (always fatal!) I just couldn’t say no to that cute little ball of fluff.

Beau

Beau is my constant companion, even as I write this he’s curled up on the sofa next to me. I’ve been reading lots about MRI scans on dogs lately, where science tries to prove what we dog owners all know – that dogs love us back. Research showed that dogs reacted more strongly and positively when given reward cues from their humans, rather than from a stranger or a machine. Their brains lit up!

I watched a TV show called The Secret Life of Dogs where the narrator told us that the bond between a dog and its owner is the same as that of a mother and child – lots of oxytocin, the love hormone, flying around.

This was shown on UK TV but you might be able to find it on the internet somewhere. It’s definitely worth a watch.

All dog owners speak to their pets and know that our dogs understand us. For Shuttered I just wanted to give the dog a voice, and so when Daniel speaks to Sasha, she speaks back. I’ve had lots of positive comments about Sasha, which has been lovely. I often wonder what Beau would sound like if he could speak. Logically I guess he would have the same accent as me, and for those of you who wonder what accent I have, just imagine a female Samwise Gamgee.

 




Beau

Emma Jane was born in Somerset, England, in the 80s. She grew up in a

little village and then moved to a town where she still lives, but from

which she soon hopes to escape. She has been writing stories since

primary school, some of which still survive in notebooks in her dad’s

attic, and wanted to be an author as soon as she realised it was a

possible career choice and “Pony” or “Ninja” weren’t viable options.

Shuttered is published by Dreamspinner Press, available to buy from Dreamspinner, Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other good book stores.

Follow Emma on Twitter: @emizzy

Or her blog: emmy-j.blogspot.co.uk

Or visit her website: www.ejtett.weebly.com