Birds. The birdsong had pulled Alex out of his morning dreams so inconsequential that their meaning and mood was gone before an instant. A breeze that carried the birdsong in tickled his arms and face and ruffled his hair. He stretched his limbs under the thin silk sheet. The air was warm and comfortable, he didn’t need the sheet, but it felt lovely against his skin.

A soft huff, and Alex realized he wasn’t alone, as he so often was when he woke. Avery. The lightness of his mood left and his heart was full and heavy. Again.

“I know you’re awake.” Avery’s hand ghosted over Alex’s arm. “How about you say good morning properly instead of pretending to be asleep?”

Alex opened his eyes. Avery’s wheat colored hair pointed in all directions. A soft smile turned up his lips and eyes, and he looked like the Avery that Alex always wanted to Avery to be—content, carefree, innocent. Alex had to close his eyes again.

At that, Avery gave Alex’s arm a shove.  “Dillon said good morning in a highly proper and enthusiastic manner. I can be content with his most enjoyable and effective method of greeting, but I would like to have yours as well.”

“Oh, fine,” Alex groused. He couldn’t hide the smile that crept out despite the heaviness in his heart. Alex propped himself up on his elbows, leaned over, and kissed Avery’s arm. It was all he could reach.

“You’re one lazy prince this morning, aren’t you?”

Alex shrugged and let his head fall into Avery’s bare thigh. Avery’s fingers combed through his hair. They breathed together in the calm morning air. Alex ran his fingers in circles around Avery’s knees. He had only been back a week.

After a two years of investing his heart entirely into his two most skilled “assistants” and closest friends, Alex was convinced he was a dolt. He should retire them. At least Avery had persuaded Dillon to become Alex’s personal body guard, so Alex no longer had to say goodbye to both Avery and Dillon. But Alex wasn’t complete without Avery. And Avery… Avery didn’t seem to desire retirement.

“Watersmeet is miserable this time of year,” Avery said, in that distracted way of his the meant his thoughts were far away.

“All the reason for you to tell your boss to go to hell and quit.”

“He might hang me for treason.”

“I assure you, he would not.”

Avery leaned down and kissed Alex’s temple. When he spoke, Avery’s voice was soft and close to Alex’s ear. “I’ll return before the moon is full again.”

Alex closed his eyes, blocking Avery’s radiant yellow hair out of his peripheral vision. The moon was full just last night. His heart thumped hard and sad. Would this be the trip Avery didn’t return from? Sometimes Alex was convinced Avery would leave his life, leave the country, start over somewhere else. Sometimes—this time— Alex was convinced Avery’s head would be returned to him in a box.

“Stop that. I’ll be back before you realize the time has past.”

Alex sighed and sat up. “Be careful. If you need help—“

“I will send for Dillon.”

“I refuse to say goodbye.” Alex flopped over to his part of the bed, laying down again, and looked out the window.

The mattress moved and Avery curled around him, wrapping him in arms and legs. “Fine.”  Avery’s hand glided down Alex’s chest lazily. “But how about a proper good morning?”

Here are links to the auction pages of the authors participating:

• Piper Vaughn
• Xara X. Xanakas
• Megan Derr
• Zach Sweets
• Cari Z
• Sasha L Miller
• Terry Milien
• K-Lee Klein
• Julian Griffith
• Lor Rose
• MJ Willow
• Vicktor Alexander
• Laylah Hunter
• Blaine D. Arden
• Evie Kiels
• Cherie Noel
• Julia Alaric
• S.L. Armstrong & K. Piet
• Emily Moreton

Currently:

• The Kiels are moving to Portland, OR in less than a month.
• Moving tends to make me write a lot
• I’m rewriting the first story I ever finished–Keith and Ryan’s story. They are in OHAG. This is a serious rewrite. Literally re-write. It’s currently terrible. And I do mean Terrible. With a capital, italicized, bolded T.
• I’m waffling on NaNoWriMo
• I never succeed at NaNoWriMo
• I have an angel anthology to write! It’s 75% outlined.
• November will possibly be Angel month.
• But did I mention I’m moving, 1200 miles (1900km), in November?
• 66 Faces is uncertain. I have one more 66 Faces story finished. Waiting. But issues.
• Secret Santa is the bane of my holidays (you can just call me Evie the Grinch)

Avery peeled a piece of entrail? off the back of his neck. He needed a bath in the worst way. Going to the staff bathhouse was tempting. He could get clean and then go to Alex and Dillon.

He climbed the narrow, dark stairs of some long forgotten back passage. The passage exited two floors above Alex’s suite. Avery went to the window, hooked the sill, then slid down to the roof over Alex’s balcony.

Alex was already in his suite, moving around. Doors, probably to the armoire, opened and closed. Water splashed. Then there was quiet.

He would just stay on the roof until Dillon returned from his party. Avery almost regretted pushing Dillon back into society. But with Dillon in society, he could be with Alex and guard him. Avery, who was still little more than nobody, could never be accepted like that. It mattered little. Avery preferred being the hidden party. Whenever people saw him, they looked on him with pity—the jilted lover of Lord Effingham. Bastard.

It was a good night to sit on a roof. Better than the spider web filled tunnels he’d been navigating for the past five hours. The shuffling sound on wood made Avery fairly sure Alex had moved to the balcony.

Avery wanted to join Alex. To wrap around him and feel him and feel safe. Safety was an illusion, but what a lovely illusion. If he were clean, he would go. But he was so filthy. So ugly. Alex shouldn’t have to see him in his wretched state.

#

Stars twinkled bright in the moonless night. From his balcony, high above the city Alex could choose his preferred prospect, from the array of glowing street lanterns, to the fields dark and obscured beyond the city walls, to the heroes immortalized in the stars. He watched the wide road that led to and through the outer castle gates, which in their time of peace were always open. No one, save the Queen’s Guard, walked the road during the late hour.

A draft emanating from within his room told him he was no longer alone. He listened, trying to identify his new companion by the pattern of footfalls. There were none. He breathed slow and deep. After a moment, the scent of sandalwood and citrus tickled his nose. “Lord Ratcliffe, you are quite dapper this evening.” Dillon, Lord Ratcliffe, never wore scent unless he was dressed for a social function.

“Thank you your highness.” Dillon wrapped his arm around Alex’s shoulders, and Alex leaned in to the warmth. Avery may be absent, but at least Dillon was there. “What are you doing, outside in this chill?” Dillon asked.

“Watching the road.” Watching for Avery.

“And what do you expect to happen, on that, the most heavily guarded road in the entire country?”

“Nothing,” Alex said with a sigh. “Absolutely nothing.”

Dillon was silent. His presence became part of the environment. The stars, the fields, the city, the crisp breeze, Dillon’s warmth, his scent, the puff of breath against Alex’s hair.

“What are you looking for, Alex?” Dillon’s voice was serious. Perhaps worried. Alex sighed again.

“You know Avery, Leo, and I were good friends.”

“I am aware.”

“Leo used to stand at the window of his south parlor; it overlooked the drive. He didn’t care what I did–quite rude really.” Alex smiled, thinking of them when they were all still friends. Of course, Avery was completely unattainable then. “He watched out the window, waiting for Avery. Sometimes I stood with him at the window. In his own good time, Avery would appear on the road. Distant and blurry at first.”

Alex had resigned himself to watching Avery and Leo. Had done so for years. “Eventually he would look up—at Leo—and give Leo a brilliant grin. I suppose at such a distance I couldn’t actually see the smile. But he was. He loved Leo.”

Against all expectations, fate had been good to Alex–at Avery’s expense—which made him a bastard for being happy about Leo’s arranged marriage. But Alex got Avery. And Dillon. But Avery had changed.

“He doesn’t smile any more.”

“He smiles.” Dillon’s arm tightened around his shoulders.

“Not like that.” Avery would never smile at him like that. After his anger and hurt at Leo had passed, Avery had become subdued. Asking him to make Alex’s enemies go away was probably not helping either. Avery had been so sweet. Now he was hard.

“You know,” Dillon said, “if he came, he wouldn’t take the road.”

“I know.”

“You’d do better to watch the tunnels.”

Alex shrugged. “It’s a fantasy. The smiles. The looks. All of it is a fantasy.”

#

Avery no longer cared about the dried carrion speckled all over his body. He no longer cared that his right eye looked hideous and was still swollen shut. He silently swung his body over the roof and onto Alex’s balcony. He pulled Alex out of Dillon’s grasp and into his arms. Already a long smudge of brown-red marred Alex’s face. His hair was soft, but the more Avery touched it, the more matted and filthy it became.

“Avery?” Alex said. “You smell.”

Avery nodded against Alex’s head. “Like dead things.”

“You’re here.”

“Yeah.” Avery looked up at Dillon and smiled. “You’d do better to watch the tunnels.”

Elliot, chin perched on the back of his hand, stared out the open window. The strong shafts of light from the west illuminated his face, giving him an unearthly glow. He hadn’t yet noticed me, standing in the doorway. His back, unlit by sun and covered in black wool, disappeared into shadow, giving the impression he was part of the shadow.

I shifted my wings, pulling them tight to my body.

The shushing sounds of my feathers reached him wherever his thoughts were. His head snapped around. He stood so fast, the stool he had been sitting on fell to the floor. A blush worked its way up his neck and covered his face.

“A-Andner.”

I walked in, putting a slight swagger in my gait, then leaned against the high counter. “Evening, Elliot. Got anything for me?”

His stared at me, his expression blank. Then his eyes widened and he swung around. Too quickly. He must have stepped on the bottom of his robe, because after one step instead of moving forward his was flying towards the counter. At the last moment his arms shot out and he caught himself.

“Okay, there El?”

His face was red as the sunset in the west. “Yeah. I uhm. Stupid robes, too long, and I…” His voice trailed off into incomprehensible muttering. I put my bag on the counter for Elliot to put the letters in. “There’s a lot for the lowlands this time. Something must be happening.”

“Hmm? I hear one of ours is missing. They’re organizing. I’m surprised you have been enlisted to join the hunt.”

He stopped sliding letters deftly into the bag at that. “Me? Enlisted?” He snorted. “No. I am so bad at everything they stuck me in the mailroom.” He resumed packing my bag, and the blush faded from his face. That wouldn’t do. Not one bit.

“Well, my gain. And here I thought they put the nicest looking man in the mail office for my benefit. A bright shining light in a dark, dull life of flying back and forth, over and over.” I heaved a melodramatic sigh.

The blush was back. He looked up at me, his lips twitching. “Sorry to have to tell you this, Andner, but no.”

He slid my bag over to me. If I left now I could make it to the lowlands before first light and be back on my way. That would be safest. He looked at me, waiting. The sun no longer lit his face, and anything akin to light came from his bright eyes.

“Tell me.” I leaned forward so that mere inches separated our lips. His eyes were large and bewildered.

After a moment, thick such that few things could dissipate it, he licked his lips, deep red in the darkening room. “Tell you what?”

“What is there to do around here on a Saturday night?”

“Um.” He inched closer. I doubt he even knew he did it. “Well, um. The monks taste their ale. For quality.”

“Is that so—“

The door slammed open. A young man ran in, looked around, then dove out the window.

“What in the wor—“

Another man ran in. “Was Chris just in here?”

Elliot laughed. “Yeah. He went out the window.” Elliot pointed to the opposite window.

“Thanks!” The man left out the door and ran in the direction Elliot had pointed.

“What was that?” I was irritated the spell had been broken, but my curiosity easily overcame my ire.

Elliot chuckled and shook his head. “That was Brother Christopher. And then Brother Oren. They spend their Saturday nights… well I’m not sure exactly what they’re doing. As I was saying, most of the brothers ensure the ale’s quality is high. Would you like to join us?”

I sat back, my wings fidgeted on their own volition. “Won’t I stand out?”

“At first sure. Just tell one of your silly human-angel mishap stories, have a couple drinks. You’ll fit right in.”

I didn’t want to leave. Not yet. Elliot’s looks had started lingering on my mind long after I picked up and delivered mail at the monastery.  “Okay. But if it’s awkward, I’m holding you responsible.” I grinned at him, so he knew I wasn’t serious.

He came around from behind the counter. His smile was neither awkward nor flustered, but happy. Just happy.

<navel gazing>

I’m trying to figure out what’s going on with my writing slump. Possible Causes:

• It’s really hot. Seriously, really hot.
• I broke up with goodreads. (Not under my Evie account. Evie’s still there and present and etc) I spent a lot of time on goodreads, interacted with many people, and found many books. Unfortunately, it had to stop. It made me unhappy. In the interest of my continuation in the genre, I had to stop being a part of it.
• I have been growing increasingly upset with how women are discussed by government, treated in society, represented in media, etc. As this discontent grows, I question my writing focus. Mainly I write m/m, however I do also write other characters under another pseudonym. The reason I write m/m is because men get to have certain freedom in society and in social situations. They also have by default a certain degree of social power that let’s me explore a wider range of relationships and movement in society. The problem here is that I’m now part of the problem rather than a solution. Basically, because I don’t like how women are portrayed in literature, I’m going to write about men. On one hand, I’m totally okay with that. But on the other hand, I’m not helping to improve the portrayal of women in fiction.

Effects:

• I’m not writing
• I’m not reading. I read a little, but it’s trickled to a stop. I was a voracious reader.
• I’m not talking to anyone online.
• I’ve started quilting and cross stitching to fill my time.

Basically, my creativity has shifted from creating to executing someone else’s creations. Which I have ridiculous amounts of time to do because I’m not reading and I’m not writing.

</navel gazing>

She-Ra is a fondly remembered cartoon from my childhood. The boys had He-Man, and occasionally, when there was room in the television programming schedule, us girls had She-Ra, He-Man’s super bad-ass twin sister. Or so I thought. I did watch He-Man, as well, but I was always really pleased when She-Ra episodes showed up. Beyond the show, I loved the She-Ra dolls. They had such cool costumes and head gear and hair. I still admire the dolls and their costumes.

About six months ago, I noticed that She-Ra was available on Netflix instant streaming. Joy! I could procrastinate on my writing by assuming blob-mode on the couch and watching nostalgic girl-power shows from my childhood. I picked a random episode. I don’t remember what happened in the episode. The villain was being all villainous and the bad-ass women were trying to overcome his evil plans. As we approached the end of the episode something happened that stunned me. I stared at the television outraged, mouth hanging open. You know what happened? The women could not triumph over evil, and He-Man and his company of men had to come in and save the day.

What. The. Fuck.

Girl-power show? No. I hereby revoke any claim She-Ra has to girl-power.

I understand the times were different when I was a child. That was a whole whopping 25 years ago. I was told by boys in my pre-school that girls couldn’t be doctors. Although, to be fair, I don’t talk to many kids, so maybe little boys still believe girls aren’t allowed to be doctors. I really hope not.

Still. I am horrified that the message that one of my most beloved childhood shows conveys is that girls can’t always save the day, but boys can. I can’t help but wonder how, if, that affected me growing up. How much did that reinforce or inform my perception of gender roles and abilities in the world.

*The Lara Croft thing is best introduced by Chuck Wendig in his post The Victimization of Lara Croft

Blurb: Kip discovered at an unfortunate moment that he was a ‘betentacled human’. Since then, he’s been abandoned by his teenage crush, his parents, and soon his sister. He’s the loneliest tentacle monster in the world until his childhood crush walks back into his life… hopefully not to kill him.

This one’s available in ebook only:
[PDF] [ePub] [mobi/Kindle]

Apologies for the typos, they’ll work themselves out over time.

Prologue

Dowd leaned against the door jamb, watching the captured angel in awe. The stone room was so dimly lit by the torch in Dowd’s hand that he could barely make out the prisoner’s features. His white hair glowed, but the rest of the prisoner was in shadow. Dowd sighed. Surely nothing was as beautiful as this heavenly creature of God. Even his name, Sobal, was both gentle and fearsome. Sobal moved and chains dragged and chinked as he tested their strength.

“How long are you going to stand there, Bishop Dowd?” The venom in the angel’s voice was surprising; God was merciful and just—not angry. Why would He give such a human emotion to His holy emissaries? Never mind, it was not for Dowd to question.

The angel looked down upon him, even though he was chained to the ground and Dowd stood tall above. It was proper, of course, that the angel should be so superior; Dowd was far beneath this magnificent being of God. Dowd mentally shook himself from his contemplation of awe and bowed. “I am honored that you know my name.”

“I make it my business to know those who are a threat to me.”

Dowd walked into the room and lowered himself to sit on the damp floor in front of the angel. He wasn’t a threat to the angel, not in the slightest. In time, Sobal would come to understand that. Dowd simply needed his cooperation to gain credibility with the Assembly of Bishops. Then he’d be granted a city, and the city would grow. The people would come, and he could share the beauty and teachings of God with them. And who better than a creature of God to want the same thing? It was such a pity the angels granted cooperation so reluctantly.

“I know this must seem a terrible inconvenience to you,” Dowd said. “You have my most heartfelt and sincere apologies.” Sobal raised his face and the light fell upon his body. No emotion was present, only a sneer of condescension. His chest was bare except for the stained cloth that wrapped around his torso and flattened his wings to his back. Dowd decided to extend an olive branch. “May I undo your bindings?”

“Do not touch me.” Sobal rattled the chains attached to his wrists.

Dowd shook his head in awe. Sobal must be in terrible pain with the bindings still in place. Mortification of the flesh was something even Dowd could not tolerate. He was very lucky to have acquired such a holy being. “Very well. The shackles will be removed in a month. You can unbind yourself then.”

The chains rattled constantly and with increasing volume. “I’m not alone, you know.”

Dowd suppressed the urge to laugh; that would have been rude and inappropriate in the presence of a holy creature. “Of course not. I am here with you, and you will always be in my thoughts.” Dowd cocked his head to the side as if in thought. “But you mean your boy?”

“Aive. Yes, I mean Aive.”

Dowd nodded in agreement. “Of course. We took care of Aive.”

The first hint of genuine emotion crossed the creature’s beautiful face. “What did you do to—if you killed him, I swear, wrath unlike you’ve ever known shall rain down up—”

“No, no.” Dowd raised his hands and bowed his head. “To kill is a mortal sin. We helped him go home.” And what a chore that had been. He’d had to call in every favor owed for the resources to deal with that particular thorn.

“He will find me.”

“I very much doubt that, your eminence.”

“He will.”

“In the unlikely event that your boy were to show up, it will not matter. By that time, you will have seen the wisdom of my plan and agreed to aid me.”

Sobal’s eyes widened, he tensed, but the fear was quickly replaced by a mask of ennui and he relaxed. He could feign optimism, but they both knew that after a year or so in the cave, Sobal would break. Then Dowd would have his holy slave well in hand, and it would be too late for anyone, much less a merchant-class boy, to steal his heavenly creature of God.

***

Six Months Later …

Aive sat in his chair. The back faced the fire and, as a result, the chair warmed to a comfortable and cozy cocoon. He loved curling up within its arms and wings where he felt safe and cradled. In this chair was the only place he could snatch this small bit of calm.

Across the room, his sister quietly hummed to herself while flipping through the store’s account books. Lina closed the book with a quiet thud and her humming stopped. “What are you thinking over there, so dull and mopey?”

Aive lifted his head and uncurled his body. He had been thinking about his most recent dream. He looked at her. Her lips drew into a thin line, and her eyes bored into him. He sighed and composed the words in his head. When he thought he had the right ones to do the dream justice, he took a breath and spoke.

“Last night I dreamt of the ocean. Its blue waters stretching from the land to the sky. I dreamt I had wings that carried me from here in the plains, west over the desert, over mountains, over forests, and finally to a massive city pinched between mountains and sea. The wings took me over the water. I could smell the salt in the air, feel it sticky on my skin. There were gulls and sea birds fishing. I even saw a pod of whales. But then the wings were gone, and I was falling.”

The dream had profoundly disturbed Aive for reasons he couldn’t name. It set off an emptiness in him that festered and ate at the core of his being. Even now, at this very minute, he needed to understand it, fill the terrible chasm gnawing at his insides, and vanquish it. Instead he took a deep breath, trying to calm and soothe the panic bubbling below his thin facade of calm.

Lina, his sister and sometimes friend, sat silently, running her finger along the shell of her ear—a sign she was deep in thought. “Do you think,” she said slowly, “that you were actually there?”

Aive shook his head slowly. “That’s absurd. The ocean is a six-month journey. How could I get there and back here in just a year? And not even remember it?”

Lina shrugged. “You were gone for a year.”

“I think if I were to go to the ocean, I’d stay a little longer than three minutes before turning around to get back in that amount of time.”

“Maybe you should go.” She tapped her pencil slowly on the table. “If you’ve never been, but you’re having vivid dreams …” Lina looked down at the table.

Aive had thought of that. That something waited for him at the edge of the land. “It’s so far away. I don’t know if I’ll ever make it home again.”

“Is that so bad? No one expected to see you again after you left last time. Yet you’re here and … Are you even happy?”

Aive didn’t need to think about his answer, but he paused anyway, out of courtesy. “No.”

eBook Files: [ePub] [mobi/Kindle] [PDF]

This close to the stage, what probably appeared like merely lackluster lighting effects to the crowd further back were bright white strobe lights directed right into Bry’s face. There should have been epileptic seizure warnings on the doors, for fuck’s sake. The lead singer moved around the stage in practiced, precise moves completely lacking in spontaneity or genuine emotion. The crowd roared when the man hopped onto a box then jumped off, knees bent. Stiff. Fake. Intended to woo the crowd.

Bry was not impressed. He wanted genuine, honest, impulsive action. The band’s songs were much like the singer’s stage choreography. The music was good. Practiced. But there was a distinct lack of uniqueness that made Bry feel like he was being pandered to. He nodded his head to the beat, wishing the opening band would finish and get the hell off the stage.

Bry seemed to be alone in his apathy, however. The crowd jumped around whistling and calling out “fuck yeah”. There was a disturbance behind him, then a couple men, both with beautiful muscled shoulders shown off by pristine white tank tops, shoved and bounced their way through the crowd towards the stage. Bry gave the nearest a hard shove forward. The crowd was rowdy—more so than he preferred. Only thirty minutes in and the band was being heckled for favorite songs. “What the fuck is this new shit?” the guy behind him shouted in the relative quiet between songs. “Play Stranger Danger!” If slurred shouting hadn’t made it obvious the man was well past sloshed, him spilling beer on Bry’s shoulder and down his back made it clear. “Oh shit, man, sorry!” Bry gave him that fake, lift one side of the lips smile. “Dude, I am so sorry.” Bry turned back to the stage wondering how long it would take his shirt to dry.

Scott hit his arm and said something, but Bry couldn’t hear over the obnoxiously loud guitar that sounded like the previous thirty minutes and thirty years of rock. He waved at his ear. Scott leaned closer. “That happened sooner that usual.” Bry rolled his eyes. It wasn’t a concert if at least one beer wasn’t spilled on him. “But hey,” Scott went on, “at least it’s out of the way, right?”

“There’s nothing that says it won’t happen again.”

Scott leaned in close again. Close enough Bry could smell the subtle scent of aftershave. “While some things are good enough to happen again and again and again, beer spillage is not one of them.” Bry wasn’t sure what Scott meant by that. He had a strange way of teasing that Bry had learned over time to just accept. “What do you think of the band?” Scott yelled.

Bry very intently did not look at Scott to answer. He was already half hard at Scott’s proximity. Bry shrugged, brushing Scott’s arm and causing tingles to run along his skin. “I think they have no soul.”

Scott punched his arm and stepped back, taking the comforting scent of his cologne with him and leaving Bry with the smell of beer. Somehow Scott always managed to avoid spills, collisions, and bands that he disliked. Or maybe he just had all the luck and liked every song he encountered.

The opener started yet another song. Bry liked the main act, but the torture of the opener wasn’t worth it. He hated this venue; it held way too many bodies. The only real reason he came was for the opportunity to stand close to Scott for three hours in a crowded, hot, dark arena. Where if they wanted to talk they had to stand so close Bry could feel the heat radiating off Scott’s body.

Scott was Bry’s one unattainable crush. He knew Scott wasn’t going to happen, he accepted it, but the man had the deadly combination of rich blue eyes and a mega-watt smile complete with the sweetest little dimples. Bry wanted to do all sorts of things to those dimples with his lips, fingers, cock.

He took a deep breath. God, he was hard and the vibrations of the bass line traveling through the floor into his legs and up his body were not helping the arousal that thrummed through his veins. He hoped no one pushed into him because that would be awkward.

Bry concentrated on the wasted woman falling and flailing into everyone around her, the crappy music, and the smell of beer now mixed with the smell of weed. He did multiples of two in his head until 16,384. Finally, he was under control again.

He glanced at Scott who was pumping his fist in the air in time to the heavy beat that, to Bry, lacked drive. The singer ended a line and yelled into the mic “Thanks for coming out today! You were a great crowd.” The music died and the band exited the stage. Thank fuck.

“Didn’t like ‘em?” Scott asked.

“No. There was nothing unique about them. Well… maybe the God awful lightning.”

Scott laughed and a little thrill of happiness traveled through Bry, turning his innards to mushy goo. “Yeah,” Scott said. “I like ‘em, but that lighting was for shit. At least you got some eye candy, right?”—never we, just Bry—”Of course, that said, no one can really compete with this perfection.” Scott waved his hand from his shoulders to waist. Bry felt his face scrunch with confusion. Scott laughed and punched his shoulder hard, which sent him stumbling back into some guy behind him. “You should see your face.” Scott laughed more. “I’m just messin’ with ya.”

“Could you stop hitting me?” Bry rubbed his shoulder.

On the stage, roadies moved equipment off and on with practiced efficiency. “Any weekend plans?”

“Huh?” Bry was starting to feel closed in by the bodies of all the strangers and the loud buzz of conversation. The question finally processed in his brain. “Oh. No. Laundry.”

“You are so boring.” Scott raised his arms about his head and stretched, his shoulders popping. His shirt rode up and Bry allowed him exactly two seconds to study the skin revealed.

After his two seconds were up, Bry shrugged. “That’s me. Bryce Joseph Boring the Third. You?”

“Hiking.”

“Of course.” Scott planned to hike every weekend, and actually did when the weather was good for it.

“You should come,” Scott said with a suggestive lilt.

Bry’s mind was thrust right back into the haze of lust, but what the fuck? Scott started laughing again. Bry opened his mouth to say—what? So he closed it again, which caused Scott to laugh more.

“I fail to see what is so funny.”

“You’re easy to mess with. Sorry. Sorry.”

Bry was pretty sure Scott’s mission in life was to tease and confuse Bry as much as possible. It really wasn’t funny. Bry turned to watch the stage as the techs did the sound checks that filled the arena with random pops and crackles and cords on top of the pop singles being pumped through the sound system.

“Come on, Bry,” Scott said. “It’s supposed to be real nice Saturday.”

Bry sighed. “Maybe.” They both knew maybe was a good as a promise.

“Great! Windy Peak it is. Man, I haven’t been there since… Kelly Jones. God she had a rack on her. And watching her climb up the rocks. They swayed man. Swayed. And jiggled.” Scott sighed. “Best hiking trip ever.”

“Scott.” Bry had to stop this. “How bout getting some beers?”

Scott saluted. “Aye aye, Cap’n.” He held out his hand. Bry reached into his pocket and handed over a ten.

Once Scott left, Bry sighed and settled into stillness, watching the activity on the stage. Being around Scott was getting, once again, to be… difficult. He wanted to be around Scott, but he wanted Scott. Neither his cock nor his heart understood why they couldn’t take Scott home and show him exactly how he was wanted. Thankfully Bry’s brain ran this show, and it was thinking that perhaps another Scott-vacation would be a good idea.

When he’d first met Scott, Bry thought—was sure—there’d been the spark. The spark that meant sex and friendship and maybe more. The way Scott’s eyes crinkled in mirth, the way he smiled, they way he held Bry’s eyes and made those sinfully sweet dimples to charm the socks right off Bry. Scott had only to smile and Bry was stupid happy. He felt like the center of the universe and with that sensation a want stronger than he’d experienced with any other man. And he was sure he saw the same reflected in Scott’s eyes—want. Acute want.

But then came the buxom Kelly Jones and conversations about her well-endowed chest. The damage had been done—Bry wanted Scott. And it was devastatingly obvious that Scott wanted tits.

At least once every three months Bry swore that there would be no more Scott. He went out alone, got laid, ignored the man whose smile seemed to control his cock. It lasted, the longest time, three weeks.

Bry sighed. The stage was set and Scott returned with beers in hand. Bry took a plastic cup and drank it down.

“You’re not very talkative tonight.”

“Sorry,” Bry said. “Tuesday. I’m tired.”

The lights went down and the main act came on. The lighting was awesome, the music rocked, and Bry let himself get swept away in the sensory assault. Bry felt through the movement of air next to him Scott jump up and down along with most of the crowd. Bry stepped to aside to avoid the wasted girl falling all over the place. She probably thought she was dancing. Hands reached out and shoved her back the direction from which she came.

“Man,” Scott yelled in his ear. “That bitch is out of control.”

Scott nodded his agreement, and a woman behind them piped up, “Someone call her mother!” which made him and Scott laugh.

The beer had been just enough to make him feel loose, and he let himself fall back into the music. The sweet song of the guitar blending with the singer’s deep, dulcet tones. The counterpoint of the bass that vibrated through his body. The driving beat of the drum that brought to mind horses galloping across the wide-open planes, ever onward. This was music. Emotion and sound and energy and meaning shared from the musicians to the crowd.

A bony shoulder shoved into his chest hard, and he flew backward into another hard body with an “oomph”. The hand that landed on his stomach to steady him was Scott’s, and Bry was thankful he hadn’t been shoved into a stranger.

There was a twitch against his ass. At first he thought it was the bass getting heavier, sending stronger vibes through the floor, but it wasn’t. Bry’s breath stuttered and stopped in his throat. Scott’s cock twitched again and quickly filled, hard and there against Bry. Blood pounded in his ears, and as if in slow motion from a great distance, he watched a sweaty man in flannel shirt slowly drift between people, propelled by the crowd’s hands. Bry had always wondered—imagined—what Scott’s cock would look like naked and engorged. It felt… it felt amazing. Bry wanted to shift, wanted to move so they fit together and Scott’s dick nestled between his cheeks. Oh God he wanted to feel that.

He kept his body still, not wanting to do anything that would make Scott realize his very amazingly hard penis was pressed into the rear end of another man. The need to see Scott, overrode the logic, though; he couldn’t help turning his head to look into Scott’s face. The smile was absent, the dimples flat, but Scott’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes, pupils wide, stared straight into Bry’s.

And then that fucker, the same who knocked him into Scott, flew into Scott causing him to break away. Scott gripped the arms of the guy—he was barely more than a kid and high as a fucking kite—and shoved him far into the crowd away from them.

With a foot of empty space between him and Scott, Bry’s sense and self-preservation returned. And still, the only thing going through his head was What. The. Fuck.

Bry risked a glance at Scott, who was looking back at the crowded, then to their right, standing on his toes. “What are you looking at?” Bry couldn’t help asking.

“Trying to see if it’s possible to leave.”

Oh. Bry faced the band. They were playing one of their more mellow songs—a crowd favorite judging by the sing-along going on. It was also one of Bry’s favorites, but it didn’t reach him and grab his heart the way it normally did. Instead, his heart beat out of control against the giant bolder of dread in his stomach. Scott was looking for escape.

Bry hadn’t meant to do anything. He was shoved. Scott caught him. Scott was the one that grew hard. Was it because of Bry? Or was there someone else? Or just the physiological response of dick against body? But Scott wanted to leave. In the middle of one of his favorites bands.

Maybe leaving was a good idea. Some guys got really weird after accidental cock contact (ACC). While Bry did try to get over Scott, try to avoid him periodically, he did enjoy their friendship. He wanted that. But maybe this was better. Scott would avoid him. They’d never speak to one another again. The ACC would effectively do what Bry knew was best: separate from Scott and force Bry to get over the unattainable straight boy.

“It’s packed.” Scott had that wary look on his face that Bry knew well. The let’s-get-the-fuck-out-of-dodge look. He was afraid and he wanted to get away from Bry. The music had become loud noise in the background and Scott wouldn’t look at him.

Well, Bry thought, that is that.

The concert passed. Scott said nothing, only looked back at the crowd every ten minutes or so. To Bry, each song was interminable. Every joke by the singer flirting with the audience a needless prolonging of torture. Finally the show ended. Bry wished, for the first time ever, that the concept of encores did not exist. The band exited. The crowd kept cheering. The band returned. The crowd lost their shit. Two more songs. Ten minutes. It was over. Thank fuck, it was finally over.

To Bry’s surprise, when the arena began emptying, Scott did not charge forward and leave him behind. But, that was probably because Bry had driven them both. Scott hadn’t said anything since The Incident. The silence was awkward and made all the more poignant by the contrast of people talking happily around them.

Once they were outside in the chilled night air, Bry expected Scott to veer off towards the taxis or buses. He didn’t. Instead he stayed right next to Bry as they walked amid the boisterous crowd to the parking garage. Since Scott was willing to be in the same car with him, Bry began to hope that this bit of awkwardness would pass and there would indeed be hiking in their future—because at least that meant Scott still wanted to hang out.

There was nothing Bry could say to a freaked out, macho, not-quite-secure-in-his-heterosexual-masculinity man, so he said nothing. They got into the car. Bry slowly maneuvered the car around people and out of the garage. Scott fiddled with knobs to control the heat, the radio; he even knocked the fucking windshield wipers on when he tried to adjust the GPS map settings.

“Dude,” Bry snapped as he turned the windshield wipers off. “Chill. Out.”

“Sorry.” Scott sat back and leaned his elbow against the car door. Bry couldn’t remember a more awkward car ride. The roads were fairly empty once they got beyond concert traffic, and the night was clear. Normally Bry loved driving in the empty roads in the dark of night. Normally, he wasn’t sitting next to a straight guy whose cock size and shape Bry had mentally cataloged and had revisited about twenty times since getting in the car.

After twenty minutes of stifling silence, Bry pulled into Scott’s driveway and waited for him to get out. This was it. The end of their friendship. The beginning of the end of Bry’s one-sided crush. Bry would have to find a new concert buddy. And he’d have to make sure to return Scott’s skis that were still at Bry’s house. And remove Scott from his twitter and Facebook friends.

“Bry!”

“What?”

“I said, come inside.”

“Oh. Uhm. I don’t think… I need to get home. You know, sleep. Work tomorrow.”

Scott reached over, twisted the keys to the off position and pulled them out.

“Hey!”

Scott got out of the car and marched to the front door. Bry scrambled out of the car and ran after him. “Give me my keys!” Bry said, running up to the porch. “What are you—”

Scott grabbed him, pulled him inside, slammed the door, shoved Bry up against it and mashed their lips together. Bry stared at Scott. His eyes were closed and he didn’t move. After a stunned moment, Scott opened his eyes, looked into Bry’s. They were so beautiful. Deep sea blue with darker striations mixed in. Scott pulled away. Bry opened his mouth to ask— But Scott’s lips were back against his, his tongue sweeping into Bry’s mouth. He now knew what lingering beer and Scott tasted like. He relaxed and sighed into the kiss.

“Scott—”

Scott spun him around and used his body to press Bry into the door. This time, Scott’s cock was exactly where Bry wanted it. Scott’s hips undulated and his cock pressed and withdrew from his crease. Bry reached back to pull Scott tighter against him, but Scott grabbed his hand and held it against the doorjamb.

Bry could feel the precum overflowing from his own dick. Scott sucked and nibbled on his neck and shoulder and Bry didn’t want the sensations to stop. But at the same time, he wanted more. He wanted to be full of Scott and he wanted it now. They were way too many clothes between the two of them, and Scott would not let him move to fix the problem.

“Bry,” Scott rasped. “Can we—”

“Yes.”

Scott stepped back, but didn’t let go of Bry’s hand. He pulled Bry through the dark hallway and into the bedroom. Bry tripped over a shoe right into Scott’s arms. Scott kissed him again, and Bry wrapped his arms around Scott’s neck, determined to never let go. Who cared about work and responsibility? Bry was going to latch onto this man and never let go.

Scott grabbed the hem of Bry’s shirt, which still smelled like beer, and pulled it off. Then the button of his jeans and the zipper. Scott laughed. “It’s a little difficult to do this when you’re hanging on me. Take of my shirt—wait, hold on.” Scott went to the side of the bed, plugged a cord into his phone, and then the sounds of the concert music album filled the room. Scott returned to Bry. “Okay, shirt.”

Bry rubbed his cheek against Scott’s stubble, then quickly pulled off his shirt and pushed down his pants. Once they were both without a stitch of clothing, Scott pushed him to the bed and onto his stomach. He covered Bry with his body, and that perfect, hot, leaking prick was back in its proper place, resting in the cleft of Bry’s ass. Scott thrust his hips slightly, mimicking the motion of fucking, teasing with his cock and massaging with his hands.

Scott stilled, rose up, reached over Bry, pulled out a drawer and then lube and condoms. Scott’s heat disappeared entirely from Bry and he wanted it back. Cold lube drizzled onto and into Bry’s crease and Scott covered him again. “You feel so fucking good,” he said, sliding and spreading the lube between Bry’s cheeks and against his hole. “And have an ass that just begs for fucking.” Scott’s cock head slid up and down over skin, over his hole, bumping against balls.

Positioning his legs between Bry’s, Scott spread his leg and in turn spread Bry’s as wide as possible. In that position, legs spread and Scott’s weight holding him down, Bry had no leverage to push back against Scott’s cock so that it would fill him up and stop the incessant teasing. Scott paid no attention to Bry’s pleas or whimpers, he teased with delicious slowly strokes until Bry fought to get Scott off so he could take what he wanted.

“Shh shh,” Scott whispered into his ear before nipping the lobe. “Stay there, right there, for five seconds.” Bry stilled, willing to do anything to move things along. Scott moved off him for only a moment, then his finger trailed down Bry’s crease. He didn’t tease; he worked on finger in, moved it around to get Bry loose enough, and then recovered him.

He rubbed his cock in the same infernal teasing movements for seconds or hours, Bry couldn’t tell. He wanted. Finally, finally, the Scott’s cock caught against Bry’s hole and stayed there.

“Arrrugh” Bry groaned into the mattress. “Do it already!”

Scott laughed into his skin. “Shush.” Scott barely moved, barely exerted any pressure. Bry pushed back, trying anything to get the cock into him. The slow song about love started playing. “This,” Scott said, as his cock passed over Bry’s hole once again, “is what I wanted to be doing at that never-ending concert.” Bry nodded his agreement. Finally, finally, the fat head of Scott’s prick slid into his body, and then with excruciating slowness, the rest followed.

Next time, Bry was going to ride Scott. There was taking time to savor, and there was slow. Scott groaned as pushed slowly in and pulled slowly out. Bry couldn’t move, only take the measured steady drag of Scott moving in and out of his body. Scott grabbed Bry’s hands, threading their fingers together high above their heads. Never had Bry felt so connected to a lover. Maybe it was because it was Scott. Maybe it was because he was surrounded by Scott, from feet to hands, but this night of passion would ruin Bry for any other.

“Feel that, Bry?” Bry nodded, breathing out heavy whimpers. He turned his head upwards to meets Scott’s lips. They kissed. The kisses matched the slow fucking. Scott’s tongue slowly moved in and out of Bry’s mouth, keeping the languid pace set by the solid, slow trusts of hips. The sweet feeling of sharp pleasure settled in Bry’s chest and belly. He broke from the kiss and dropped his head to the mattress, unable to concentrate on anything other than feeling of his body becoming blissed out by Scott’s movements, which were slowly but surely becoming faster, more insistent.

An upbeat song started playing. Scott sat back, left Bry’s body. Bry whined as his hips were pulled up and his knees bent. He couldn’t summon the energy to raise onto his arms, so he let Scott move his limbs and body into whatever position suited him. When Scott re-entered a new jolt of pleasure rushed along his nerves. This time, he wasn’t slow. He pounded into Bry, skin slapping against skin, moans mingling with the driving drums of the music. Scott’s thrusts became frenzied and then stuttered with a long groan.

He fell forward against Bry’s back, slide one of the lands holding Bry’s hip around a gripped his cock. It took all of three pulls of Scott’s hand and the bliss already overwhelming Bry’s body exploded into brilliance.

Scott fell to the mattress next to Bry. Bry was vaguely aware of Scott moving, pulling off a condom, and pulling a blanket over him. Scott wrapped an arm around Bry’s middle and held them close. Scott’s breath tickled along Bry’s ear and through his hair.

The music went on, another three songs or so. Songs about triumph and tradeoffs and growing up. Bry’s heartbeat returned to normal. The paranoid thoughts of ending friendships and a freaked out Scott were conspicuously absent.

“So,” Bry said once the music stopped. “Just to make sure I’m reading things right… you’re not straight?”

Scott laughed low into Bry’s shoulder. “No.” Scott nipped a bit of Bry’s shoulder. “What put that idea into your head?”

“Kelly Jones’ tits.”

Scott shifted so he half lay on Bry. “Her tits have nothing on your ass. Or that smile of yours.”

Bry blushed and couldn’t help the giant grin that took over his face. Scott gave one in return, one of his mega-watt dimpled grins. Bry caressed the dimple, like he’d always wanted to, already making plans to fulfill every other dimple-related desire.

- End -

Wispy white clouds rushed across the sky. The wind, however, came lightly over the border mountains, as if dancing down the slopes, building up too much momentum to stop, and rushing ever eastward in exuberance. The steady soft breeze traveled over Ejis’ skin, causing the small hairs on his arm to stand up. The blue-green grasses and red wildflowers swung gently to the east, as if they wanted to be carried away with uplifting drafts in the wind. Little tufts of seed drifted by overhead, having successfully detached from the tall green stalks that created them. At times Ejis was certain he heard laughter in the breezes traveling throughout the rabbits’ meadow, and he fancied it to be the joy of souls having found their matches. Nowhere but here did the wind behave so.

The grass under Ejis was matted down with use. He tried to disturb as little as possible, so he came back again and again to the same place to lie on his back. When there were no remaining chores and the animals were happy, he came to this place, to smell the sweet grass and pine of the forest, to be amongst the rabbits and under the bright blue sky.

To his right, two speckled white rabbits moved about the clover and grass, nosing into flowers, eating the greens. Ejis hoped one day they would feel comfortable around him, enough so to come within touch. Few woodland creatures developed enough faith in him; however, simply watching them enjoy the meadow brought joy to his heart.

The rabbits stopped eating, raised their heads, and peered into the distance. Their noses twitched back and forth. They stood on hind legs. They looked left. Right. A loud crunch within the forest sent them fleeing under the gnarled roots of an elderly tree. Now Ejis sat. Watching the forest where the noises came from. Listening to hear their direction. The crunches grew closer, and whatever moved through the trees was heading directly for Ejis. Few came to the meadow; it was noted as a sacred sight. Perhaps a traveler lost his way.

The wind quieted, held its breath, and the only sounds came from the thing in the forest. The leaves fluttered then shook, and a person appeared pushing his way through the dense branches. He wore the clothes of a foreigner. But even so, they were odd and not at all fitting for walking through trees. The drab overcoat had been ripped in numerous places. The man tried to take a step forward, but the overcoat caught on several boney branches. A dark cloth covering his hair was in the same state. Underneath the headscarf, bright white hair glowed faintly.

The man saw Ejis staring and stilled. Much like the rabbits, he peered at Ejis, as if ascertaining whether or not there was a threat. Ejis smiled, and beckoned the man over. He didn’t move. Ejis expected him to turn around and vanish into the dark forest whence he came.

The breeze moved once more, carrying the scent of lavender with it. Ejis laid back into his bed of soft grass and rested his head on folded arms. The clouds moved swiftly across the sky — faster than the breeze on the ground blew. Soon he would have to return home to prepare the buildings for the incoming storm. But not yet. The sun warmed his skin, and the storm wouldn’t be upon them for several hours more.

A soft sound, perhaps the rub of grass against cloth, approached from the forest. Ejis remained calm, still, unmoving, unthreatening. The man hovered over him, a dark silhouette against the bright blue sky. “May I join you?” The man had a deep, scratchy voice. A damaged voice.

“Please.” Ejis gave him a friendly smile, but remained still otherwise. The man seemed skittish in the extreme. He sunk to the ground and gathered his legs close. He rested his chin on his sharp knees. The hand that Ejis could see was directly over a tear in the man’s robes that led to the hilt of a sword. “You’re not going to use that on me, are you?”

The man shifted his arm and gently caressed the hilt with two fingers. “Only if necessary.” On his hand was a simple indigo tattoo that stretched from his knuckles and disappeared under the sleeve of his robe. Its design was of straight lines and sharp angles that had no beginning and no end. The foreigners to the west held tattoos in a taboo light, and to see one was unexpected. “Where are you from, traveler?”

“Northwest. My name is Hondil.” The voice was hard to get used to. The stranger’s face was smooth and fair, with none of the creases won with hard work and worry and age. But the voice… it did not belong with the face. Nothing about Hondil matched what Ejis knew of their northern neighbors. Perhaps there were lands farther north and farther west than they knew of. All the maps he had seen showed a vast ocean north and west of their western neighbors.

“I’m Ejis.”

“You have a lovely meadow, Ejis.”

Ejis laughed. “It is the rabbits’ meadow, and it is kind of them to let me lay here.”

Hondil looked slowly around him. “I see no rabbits.”

“If we are still, they will return. They were out before you came crashing through the forest.” Ejis winked and grinned at Hondil. It was refreshing to speak with someone new. Ejis saw two people on a regular basis, the innkeeper and her son, and he only exchanged pleasantries with them.

“Are you hunting?”

Ejis’ eyes widened. “Hunting?” He sat up and stared at Hondil. He knew he looked like an idiot with his mouth hanging open, but hunting? The rabbits?

“The rabbits.”

“Gods no! Are you?”

“No. I do not eat rabbits.”

Ejis took a deep breath to try to calm his shock. “Good. Rabbits are sacred here.”

“I had not heard that… but I have not been here long.”

“Would you like me to tell you why?”

“Yes.”

Ejis crossed his legs and poised himself to tell the story. He loved the mythology of his ancestors. Thousands of years later, they didn’t believe the stories anymore, but they were nice tales. And the rabbits were still sacred, even after all this time.

“Our ancestors believed that there are a finite number of souls and we live an infinite number of lives on this world.” Ejis looked up to see if Hondil listened and found pale brown eyes fixed on him. Ejis made a weaving motion up to the sky. “As humans, when we die, our bodies are burnt to free our souls so they may rise with the smoke to the sky above.”

Hondil looked at the sky and sadness flashed across his face. “We have a similar belief. Only there is no fire. But please, go on.” Ejis wondered what had happened to make the man’s voice into one giant audible scar.

“Our soul rises to the sky and mixes with the clouds. And the soul waits. As it waits it travels across the sky, circling the earth. Circling and circling.”

Hondil leaned closer to him. “Until what?”

“Until our other half joins us. The clouds…” Ejis pointed at a cloud that was rather rabbit-shaped. “Our ancestors believed that our souls take the form of rabbits in the sky when they are ready to return. They are shapeless until then, running in whips and puffs across the skies. When their other half meets them in the sky, they remember that they can have bodies and live on the ground. And so they join hands—“

“Rabbits don’t have hands.”

Ejis looked up at Hondil through his lashes. Hondil’s lips quirked up ever so slightly on the side. Ejis took a chance, hoping that the gesture wouldn’t be rebuffed, and reached out and ran his finger lightly across the back of Hondil’s tattooed hand.

“In the ancient scrolls their front paws touch as they descend from the sky back to earth.” There was movement out of the corner of his eye. “If you look behind us, you’ll see two of them.” The white speckled rabbits were back, eating clover as if nothing had ever disturbed their earlier meal. “The rabbits come down from the heavens and live together on earth.”

“Aren’t they born?” Hondil was stretched around watching the rabbits.

“They are. Our ancestors didn’t know how to locate their nests, though. So logically, they concluded the rabbits arrived fully formed.”

“How do the rabbits become human?”

“When the rabbits die, as all creatures do, their souls are not set free in flames. The souls wander until they find the seed of a human and take residence there. The souls try to stay near each other, so they may easily find one another in human form.”

“So it’s just a story of how people fall in love? To rationalize pairing two up with one another?”

Ejis shrugged. “People are destined, Hondil.”

“How can you know that?”

“You have a tattoo?”

Hondil held his hand out under the sun. He turned his hand, examined it. “No. This we are born with. We do ink it onto our husbands and wives when we marry, though.”

“Oh. We have birthmarks too.” Ejis rubbed his from atop his shirt. “The current thinking among the scholars is that the marks are a combination of our parents’. And that certain patterns are prevalent in our people. That if you put together certain families, the children will have similar combinations of markings.”

“That’s not really related to destiny or rabbits, though?”

“But it is. The ancestors believed in order for the souls to identify their other half, the souls would cause identical marks to manifest on the people they took residence in. They aren’t always on the same place, though, and can be anywhere on the body. Are your peoples’ always on your hands?”

“Yes. The designs are on our left hands at birth. We think it is the name given to us by the gods. We are not able to understand it, but our greatest mission in life is to live up to the name we have been given.”

“That sounds… impossible.” How could a person live up to something they didn’t know?

Hondil laughed. “I agree. So where’s your rabbit other half?”

Ejis took a deep breath and rose to kneel on the grass. The rabbits at the edge of the meadow scampered back into their tree. Ejis grabbed the side of his shirt and pulled up to show the skin stretched across his ribs. “My mark is very funny in our people. They didn’t know what to make of it. They try to identify who we match at birth. And me? They concluded I don’t have one.”

“That’s… that’s impossible.” Hondil stared at Ejis’ side, eyes wide, head shaking.

Ejis let his shirt drop. “I…” He took a deep breath and let it out. “I didn’t think you’d exist. Anywhere.”

Hondil turned his body to face Ejis and with his unmarked hand raised Ejis’ shirt again. He pressed his marked hand against Ejis’ torso. Ejis hissed; Hondil’s hand felt like ice against his skin.

“My priests would be very interested to see this,” Hondil said. “You are the only one with inexplicable markings?”

“That I know of, yes. There have been others before. They often take vows of celibacy. Devote themselves to the church and the people. They have been our greatest leaders.” Ejis leaned into Hondil’s touch. “I always felt rather sorry for them.”

“Why?”

“How lonely they must have been.” The hand on his side had warmed, and it slowly rotated on his side, probably aligning itself with his own mark. It wasn’t indigo. No, it was brown, the color of a freckle. But it was the same size and shape. “Will you stay?”

Hondil smiled and brushed a chunk of hair aside on Ejis’ forehead. “I will not go anywhere without you.”

- End (for now) -

Now that that’s out of the way! It’s time to revise! I actually have three stories up for revisions. One I’m stalling on because it’s the, oh, 4th book in a series where I have yet to write the first 2. Not a high priority. The other two are my second contribution to the 66 Faces series and a short story for Sam’s Challenge #5.

First and current, I’m revising a little short story that’s primarily a piece of world building. The screen shot below is that story. Isn’t it pretty? After revising and posting the short, I’ll do a first pass revisions on the 66 Faces story. I hope to submit it by March 1st. After that, based on critiques and feedback, I’ll do another revision or two and get the final to the editor-lady. All the while, theoretically writing something new.

Blurb: Simon Carter is a player, and Owen Sanders knows it. As Simon’s best friend, he’s a big part of Simon’s life, and he’s watched Simon sleep his way through random hookups, trying to avoid a repeat of his last failed relationship.

But when Simon turns that fear of commitment and dangerous sex appeal on his best friend and then disappears, Owen decides he’s had enough. He sets out to Minnesota to drag his best friend back and make him see that if he’d just give Owen a chance, the two of them could make Simon’s loveless house into a home.

Blurb: College is not proving to be exactly all it’s cracked up to be for Seth. His only relief from classes, loneliness, and asshole peers is his online friend, Atropos. But even that is a problem because Atropos is also one of the assholes he hates most, leaving Seth confused as to who is more authentic: the asshole from class or the friend online.

Then Seth slips up, and he fears he may have ruined the only good thing he had …

I could say a lot about Seattle. But what I really want to say is that being back is hard. Being in the city itself isn’t. Everything is as familiar as it was two years ago, which kind of surprises me. The only things that’s changed is that 520 now has tolls (I’m told this is a recent development and the traffic is amazing for the time being). This actually presents a small dilemma, because in an upcoming book I refer to that bridge and its fucking awful traffic. And that’s just not reality at this moment in the bridge’s life. The buses are the same old Seattle buses. The streets and people are the same. The buildings. The mannerisms. It’s like I never left. I expected it to feel just a little different. A little like not-home. And yet it’s the same.

What is so hard is seeing the friends I left behind. I don’t make friends easily. I’m wary of strangers. I’m an introvert. I’m shy. Meeting people who I can connect with is rare and amazing and I seize those people with both hands. I have two of those people in Seattle. One I dream about occasionally. And while I should love seeing them, be so happy seeing them, it’s really just hard. I’m overwhelmed by this sense of loss. It was the same loss I felt after first moving away. I wish I felt happy and could chatter on and catch up but there’s loss.

In general, Seattle and I are not compatible. I was not happy here. I will never move back. Except there are these people. I’m thinking Portland would be a good compromise. Easy four hour trip between the two.

I don’t understand how, in the past two years, I haven’t moved on from these people. At least moved on to a place Of distance. Maybe I do understand and the reason is a little disturbing.

“Home is where the heart is.”

My heart is clearly still in Seattle. Oh, the irony.

Blurb:
Simon Carter is a player, and Owen Sanders knows it. As Simon’s best friend, he’s a big part of Simon’s life, and he’s watched Simon sleep his way through random hookups, trying to avoid a repeat of his last failed relationship.

But when Simon turns that fear of commitment and dangerous sex appeal on his best friend and then disappears, Owen decides he’s had enough. He sets out to Minnesota to drag his best friend back and make him see that if he’d just give Owen a chance, the two of them could make Simon’s loveless house into a home.

Warnings: This is not a love story. This does not end HEA or HFN. There is somewhat explicit intimacy contained in this story.

eBook Files: [PDFs] [mobi/Kindle] [ePub]

HEARTBREAK

Rain pelted the window, as if it wanted to break through the glass to drench Leo and clear the way for lightening to smite him. And didn’t he deserve it, Leo thought as he clenched the heavy curtain. He kept watch for a familiar deep green cloak, but he couldn’t see anything beyond indistinct blurs of watery-gray color.

Behind him a servant arranged tea and refreshments like it was just another visit from Avery. Leo felt like a cur. The worst of men. Not even a man. Real men kept their word no matter what. Was that not what his father had impressed upon him all the years of his childhood? And today, at his father’s insistence, he would break his most important vow. Was he a man for doing his family’s bidding? Or was he not for breaking his word? He leaned his forehead on the chilled glass and gave a shuddering sigh. He was a good son and a bad man.

Condensation from the window beaded on his skin and trickled down his face. A slow moving dark blur on the drive approached the house. From his vantage point, the blur was small, like a slow spider creeping ever closer. Maybe a sound would startle it away, and then Leo could put off this task one more day.

Slow down, he willed the blur. Turn around. But it kept moving. Go home. The blur disappeared under the entry way.

Leo stood, back straight and head high. He wiped the water from the sides of his face. He could do this. He would do this. He walked to the table and adjusted the cloth wrapped package so that it pointed straight at the door.

He was wrong; he could not do this. It would be better to unwrap the dagger and apply it to his wrist. It would still be a betrayal of his promise, but he would not have to endure the consequences.

He stood still. He did not reach for the dagger. He could hear his heartbeat amid the buzzing in his head. And he waited.

The ornate brass knob turned, and Avery walked in. Even in the wretched weather he was sunshine. His golden hair, the color of wheat in the August sun, was plastered to his head. He ran his hand through the strands until they stuck out, haloing his head in golden light. The green cloak was absent, but water still clung to and fell from his head, dropping onto the lush midnight blue rug under his feet. White swirls in the carpet reminded Leo of meteor showers and watching them tangled in Avery’s long limbs.

Avery laughed and said, “Leo, Leo, forgive me for raining on your carpet. I took the carriage, but did you know your drive is impassible by the main road? I feel like I should apologize to your maids, too, for the mud I’ve brought in.”

Leo dragged his eyes from the carpet and Avery’s mud-caked boots, up his legs, over his waist, the Adam’s apple at his long neck bobbed once.

“Leo.” The laughter in his voice was gone.

Leo raised his eyes to Avery’s face. His cheeks were flushed from the cold. His pale blue eyes were full of worry. Avery looked from Leo, to the table, and back to Leo. His brows furrowed. “What’s wrong? What is happening?”

Avery opened his arms and moved towards Leo. Leo held up his hand to stop Avery from walking forward. Walking to him. If they touched, he really could not do this.

“Please.” Leo gestured to a chair at the opposite side of the table. “Have a seat.” Avery’s frown grew deeper. He sat in the indicated chair, watching Leo closely. Leo gestured to the small array of refreshments. “Can I offer you some tea?”

Avery shook his head. “Why are you speaking like… so formally?”

Leo lowered himself into the chair. He rested his elbow on the table and put his head in his hand. “Avery.” Leo took a breath, raised his head, looked straight at Avery. Never again would he permit himself to use Avery’s given name. “I am returning this to you.” Leo pushed the cloth-wrapped dagger across the table.

Avery paled. “Return? I don’t understand.”

“I am not going…” Leo took another breath, changing tack. “His grace, the Duke of Devon and my father have signed an agreement that will strengthen the relationship between the two families. One of the terms is that I marry the Marquess of Aines.”

Avery shook his head. His face had a gray tinge, and he looked like he’d be ill. He opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked down at his hands. Leo knew what he was looking at—his scar. Leo’s scar, long healed, on his hand tingled.

“But Leo.” Avery’s voice was small, scared.

Leo shook his head and stood abruptly. He could not do this any longer. He could not watch. Avery was no longer his to comfort. “Take the dagger,” he said. “I am sorry to have caused you this pain. Please have the butler see you out.”

Leo walked as fast as he could without giving the appearance of fleeing. Before he shut the door behind him, he turned for one last look. Avery stared at him, eyes wide. Lost. Helpless. “And from now on, you should address me as Lord Effingham.”

Leo shut the door. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to damage. To maim. To feel blood spatter on his skin. But he walked with outward calm towards his chamber and the comfort of alcohol to be found there. When a servant passed, Leo asked him to show Avery out.

REJECTION

Leo waited in the salon for his fiancé to arrive. The man was late. Leo took a sip of brandy. Avery was never late.

But Avery was past. Lord Dunkirk was present and future. A light drizzle pattered against the glass; the rain hadn’t stopped in a week. It only changed strength. He swirled his glass and watched the amber liquid spin, lamp light glowing through it. Leo would rather have his finger nails pried off than sit through this dinner.

He had not seen Avery since returning the dagger eight days ago. And those were eight days of hell. He had spent four of them in a drunken stupor, hiding in his room. And the other four he had spent every waking moment combing over the estate books. Twice. The eight days were a small mercy given to him while Dunkirk traveled to the city from his home in the country.

He’d only met Dunkirk twice; both times under the calculating eyes of their fathers. The first time Dunkirk was silent. As their fathers negotiated the terms of their arrangement, and the future of Dunkirk and Leo, Dunkirk sat there mute. Leo said little, his input was neither expected nor wanted, but he did draw the line at being the sire of their heir. Dunkirk would take the Effingham name and sire the heir, and that was fine with Leo. The second time they had met was when the contracts were signed. Dunkirk actually spoke then. Leo had never encountered such a peculiar mix of arrogant and bumbling in a man of good breeding.

A quick rap at the door preceded Lord Dunkirk, the Marquess of Aines. He was everything Avery was not, which was a small relief. Dunkirk was short and stocky. His hair was oily and black. Instead of the palest blue, he had eyes the color of horse’s droppings. And he was so darkened by the sun Leo wondered if he hadn’t spent the summer working the land along with his tenants.

Dunkirk gave a quick, perfunctory bow that would not be acceptable in city social circles. “Good evening, Lord Effingham.” And his voice was too heavy, gritty; it grated Leo’s ear and was nothing so sweet as the light tenor of his — of Avery’s voice.

Leo stood and extended his hand. “Lord Dunkirk. I trust you had a pleasant trip.”

Dunkirk grimaced. “Miserable. Today was six hours of abject misery to add to four previous days of abject misery. Coming to the city is quite onerous.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Leo loved the city. So did Avery. Leo couldn’t imagine a more joyous feeling than the last day of travel back into bustle of the city and society. But to him, it was returning home. “I understand you have not spent much time here.”

Dunkirk nodded. He stood awkwardly putting his hands in his pocket, removing them; he didn’t seem to know what to do with his arms. “This is only my third time making the journey.” Dunkirk opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at Leo then averted his gaze out the window. Finally, looking back at Leo, he said, “After we marry, I hope you have no objection to setting up in the country. I know we never agreed on where we would live, but…”

Live in the country? It should have occurred to Leo that Dunkirk would prefer that, but it hadn’t. He had assumed that Dunkirk would move in to his comfortable home, and they would spend their days avoiding once another at their separate clubs and going to different social events.

“Why don’t we discuss it over dinner?” Leo led Dunkirk to the small family dining room. The servants laid the table for two. The lights were dim and the table small. It was the arrangement he and Avery used when dining. He should have informed the servants to add more light and another leaf to the table.

After sitting, Leo snapped his napkin and laid it across his lap. “I find,” he said after a small sip of wine, “that I prefer the life of the city to that of the country.”

Dunkirk looked up at Leo, startled, then worried, then wary. The man seemed to have no skill at dissembling. Then all the worry cleared and he grinned — a grin, not a refined, distant, or even polite, smile. “I’m sure once you reach the open moors you will feel differently.”

Moors? “Moors?” Country was one thing. But moors?

“Of course we will come to the city for the season,” Dunkirk said, waving his wine glass around carelessly. No wonder his manners were so unrefined. Third trip into the city? He had never been in proper society. “It would not be fair of me to keep you so far away. We…” Dunkirk took a wheezing breath. “We must both make compromises.”

Leo wanted nothing more than to take his knife and stick it between Dunkirk’s eyes. The moor was not a compromise. It was a punishment. A threat. Instead of the violence, though, he nodded towards his wine glass, which was almost instantly refilled.

Over the first two courses of the meal Dunkirk extolled the virtues of the “country lifestyle.” At least outside of the city, Leo wouldn’t have to face accidental encounters with Avery. Perhaps he could avoid Dunkirk in the wide open raw beauty of the unrefined countryside. At least until the snows came.

Dunkirk laughed his stupid little laugh. “My apologies, going on and on about myself and my home. I confess I love it so. Tell me, what are your hobbies, Lord Effingham?”

Leo startled at being asked a direct question, but quickly hid it. “Fencing. Blade technique, in general. I belong to the Royal Sword Club and spend much of my free time there.” Except he had stopped going because he couldn’t bear to run into Avery.

“What about the rest?” The intensity of Dunkirk’s gaze put Leo ill at ease.

“The rest?”

“The rest of your free time.”

“Nothing. There is no other free time.” Not now that Avery was forbidden to him. “I manage parts of Father’s estates. And at night?” Avery. “I read.”

“We shall have to do something to improve upon that.” Dunkirk leered at him, and Leo swallowed down the bile in his throat.

“I am quite satisfied with my routine.”

“Surely, Lord Effingham a virile man such—”

“Lord Dunkirk. Please. We hardly know each other.”

Dunkirk rose from his chair and waddled over to Leo. “We are betrothed.” Dunkirk rubbed a finger along Leo’s shoulders. “You must call me Blaise.”

Dunkirk stood to Leo’s right, hand extended palm up. His erection was obscene in his pants. “Let us retire to more cozy surroundings for an after supper drink.” Leo took his hand, only so not to be rude, and dropped it once he was standing. He led Dunkirk back to the salon. Leo hesitated in the doorway; he had a feeling he knew in what direction the evening would go, and it was a direction he was not interested in going. Dunkirk put his hand on the small of Leo’s back and urged him forward to the deep leather chair next to the fire.

Leo fell back in the chair as Dunkirk pushed him. “You are too uptight, my dear Leo. I know you are worried about the nuptials. I shall make you forget them, for now.”

Leo started to protest. But what was the point? Dunkirk was his future. The man to whom he had given his word — whatever that counted for these days — to form a union.

Dunkirk lowered to his knees with all the grace of an ox. He fumbled with the buttons of Leo’s pants with a clumsiness that was astounding. How Dunkirk managed to hunt, or even to write, was unknowable.

With no teasing, no seduction, Dunkirk pulled out Leo’s cock. The eager look on Dunkirk’s face reminded Leo of the whores in the gambling hell that his fencing partners occasionally dragged him to. Never, until this moment, had he accepted the services of one with such a look. It was appropriate, he supposed, that now Avery was gone he receive the attentions of one. Although, a whore wouldn’t have been so God damn inept at the simple task of sucking cock.

Dunkirk tried, once again, to aim Leo’s cock at his face. His hands were like ice against Leo’s skin, and they shivered incessantly, making Dunkirk all the more incapable of handling Leo.

Leo closed his eyes. He couldn’t watch a man not Avery do this. He tried not think about Avery. Not to picture the way his pale pink lips would stretch over the head of Leo’s cock. The way Avery’s pale blue eyes would gaze up at him through the thick veil of black lashes that fanned his cheek. Not recall the way his elegant fingers would spread saliva down as he pulled his mouth up.

He tried, so hard, not to imagine how it felt when other fingers ghosted over his bollocks and then oh so lightly, just a whisper of touch really, feather over the entrance of his body. And he was absolutely not thinking about how, with Avery, that meant as soon as he became aroused again, after Avery’s warm, sweet mouth brought him off, that Avery would lay him out on a soft surface, arrange his limbs in whatever manner pleased him most that moment, and take his body with slow, torturous, deliberate moves. And while trying not to think of this, the purity and joy of his love with Avery, he came, pleasure washing through his body and into the mouth of a stranger.

He opened his eyes to see Dunkirk’s flat face staring up at him. Any lingering ease washed away in a torrent of nausea. Dunkirk opened his swollen, shiny mouth to speak, but Leo grabbed his sloppy cravat and hauled him up until they were nose to nose. Dunkirk’s breath smelled of wine and his release; Leo thought he might actually vomit. He swallowed and breathed through his mouth so not to encounter the putrid odor again. “That was an unwelcome advance. Do not do it again.”

“But—”

“Listen, Dunkirk. You are not to touch me until the wedding. I do not spread my legs for anyone ever, and I think it’s best if we see as little as possible of one another until we exchange vows.”

Two red splotches colored Dunkirk’s pudgy cheeks. His eyes were shiny with anger and probably a touch of shame. “How—”

“Enough! Leave. Now.” Leo threw Dunkirk to the floor. His large posterior cushioned the fall just fine, allowing Leo to forgo any sense of guilt over the act. Leo stood, righted his pants, strode to the bell pull, and yanked it. He was lucky it didn’t come off its tug. A moment later a butler appeared. “Please show Lord Dunkirk to his carriage.”

Dunkirk glared at him as he stalked out of the room. Leo couldn’t bring himself to care a whit. Dunkirk was not Avery. He lived on the fucking moors and expected Leo to as well. He took liberties that he should not. This was a terrible beginning to what should have been happy years of comfort and safety.

BETRAYAL

Avery was in hell. And hell, it turned out, was a wedding. He had every intention of being out of the county until the Crown Prince said that he looked forward to seeing Avery at the event.

That bastard.

He knew. They had grown up together — Leo, him, and Alexander. So what does the high and mighty Prince Alexander do when Avery relates the moments when his entire world reshaped itself into a warped and gnarled throbbing ball of pain? He says, “See you at the wedding.”

Bastard.

It was a gorgeous day for a wedding. Warm, sunny. Flowers were blooming, birds were singing. The occasional white, puffy cloud floated serenely across the cerulean blue sky. The church bells rang out with jubilation and children ran playing in the yard. Many years ago, he, Alexander, and Leo had run around at a different wedding. Avery sighed for the passage of time and the changes it wrought upon them.

Avery nodded politely to the Dowager Countess of Shelty, one of Leo’s aunts. She was slowly making her way to him, head held high, cane piercing the soft grass with each step. “You must be very pleased,” she said, “to see your boyhood friend so well settled.”

Avery smiled the appropriate smile; the one that communicated polite appreciation of the fortuitous circumstances for which they were gathered. “Of course. An alliance between the duchies will benefit them both. I wish them the greatest of happiness.”

Lie.

Avery wished a pestilence upon their lands. But that was not the correct thing to say, especially at a wedding. He looked around for Alexander, hoping to sneak away before he was dragged to the reception by the bastard. Seeing the happy couple dance would be too much. Avery barely kept his temper in check through the ceremony. Love. Honor. Companionship. Leo had as much interest in Lord Dunkirk as Avery had in a slug. Perhaps less. But to the world, Leo and Aines were the picture of joy. They laughed. They smiled at each other.

The Dowager Countess smiled and gave a decisive nod. She turned and moved on to more important people than Avery. They loved to rub in how beneath them his family was. He was barely important enough to be mingling with the nobility. Only his family’s ties with the crown had recently granted his father the title of Baronet. Despite how close their families were, Avery was surprised he was included on the invitation. He had a sneaking suspicion that Alex was responsible for that.

Avery finally spotted Alex. But not before the bastard had spotted him. Avery changed his smile to one of welcome and walked to meet Alex.

“Lovely wedding, aye, Avery?” Alex loved to say aye Avery. Avery thought it stupid. Much like the whole dismal day.

“The loveliest there could be.” If he had to stand around and make more inane conversation about the loveliness and the joy and the prestige and whatever lofty adjectives people applied to the marriage he would do serious harm to someone.

Alex frowned. “Avery… I know this is—”

Avery cut him off with a swipe of his hand. “I was going to be out of town until you ordered me here,” he hissed. His facade had slipped, and try as he might, he could not force his face back into distantly amiable. He turned away from the crowd. The last thing he needed was his peers gossiping about his snippishness with the Crown Prince.

Alex laughed and bumped Avery’s shoulder with his own. “I didn’t order you.”

“When the Crown Prince says, ‘see you at the wedding,’ that’s an order, and you know it.” Avery took a deep breath. He fixed his face back into some degree of pleasant, and turned back to Alex and the rest of guests.

Alex shrugged. “It is good for you to have closure. And stop calling me the Crown Prince. Anne has as much chance of being named heir as I do.”

“That was not closure. That was grinding my innards to a pulp on the ground.”

“Oh Avery.” Alex waved as if shooing off Avery’s words. “You’re always so dramatic.” Somewhere amid the guests, Leo laughed. The deep, happy sound carried across the distance and sliced away another little piece of Avery’s heart. “Avery,” Alex said softly. The sympathy in his voice was enough to slice another little piece off. Alex touched Avery’s arm. “I have a proposition for you. A change of scenery.” His voice was cheerful again, as if that little moment of sympathy hadn’t happened.

“Oh?” Avery stuck his hands in his pockets and balled them into fists. Alex’s propositions were rarely good, at least not for anyone other than Alex.

Alex looked over the crowd of people. “One of my… assistants… recently retired, and I require a new one.”

“What do you mean, assistant?”

“He assists me with things I need kept quiet.”

No. Avery didn’t want any part of it. He just wanted to retreat the lakes and lose three months to the haze of brandy. “Alex… I really was planning to—”

Alex rolled his head around and smirked at Avery. “When I said proposition, you really didn’t think you had a choice, did you?”

Avery narrowed his eyes at Alex. First Leo breaks their promise. And now Alex uses his position, twice, to control him. Funny, he’d thought them friends.

He looked back at the gathered guests and his heart started pounding. Leo and the Marquess of Aines were heading towards them. Avery looked left and right, hoping they could be heading towards anyone else. No, they were definitely heading their way.

“I will expect you at this address, 10pm tonight.” Alex handed him a slip of paper. “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.” Alex nodded and sauntered off towards Leo and his new husband.

Avery fled.

* * *

Avery ran the pad of his index finger along the supple hilt of Leo’s dagger. Out of twisted need to be reminded of what he had lost, Avery had taken to carrying it instead of his own when he was out. At the moment, he was glad he had a sharp weapon, period.

He was surprised at the unsavory area in which Alex had asked to meet. The moon was new, so the night was dark. Even the occasional street lamp did little to improve visibility on the street. Avery eyed dark doorways and even darker alleys, alert for any sign of movement. A dog barked nearby and a loud crash preceded a high pitched yelp. Avery quickened his pace to a brisk walk. The street grew even darker. So much so that he almost missed the turn onto the narrow street that was Avery’s destination.

When Avery knocked on the townhouse door, he was surprised that Alex himself opened it. He’d always had servants or guards to perform such common tasks. Also a surprise was the rather dilapidated state of the building.

“Avery!” Alex grinned and clapped his shoulder. “We could set clocks by you. Come in, come in.” Alex stepped aside to allow Avery entrance.

“Evening Alex.” Avery slid out of his light jacket and draped it over his arm. The entry way was dim. Alex held the only source of light, which was an oil lamp. It smelled of pungent, cheap fuel.

“The reception was lovely, but of course you don’t want to hear that.” Alex could be an evil bastard when the mood struck, as it apparently had tonight. Avery chose to ignore the comment and concentrate on not discussing the fact he wanted to string Leo up by his bollocks and leave him dangling until vultures packed out his lying dead eyes.

Alex chuckled; what humor he found Avery could not say. “Follow me.” Alex led him down the hall. There were spider webs throughout, and it was clear that the house had been empty and untended for some time. Before opening the door Alex said, “There’s a man here to meet you. His looks tend to startle people. Be nice.”

“Of course.” He wasn’t the one poking at someone’s open wounds with a salty blade.

The hinges creaked as Alex opened the door. Truly, Avery could not figure out why they were in the run down excuse of a town home. Avery’s apartment was in much better repair, but Alex treated it like a hovel. Yet here he was. Unconcerned. Perhaps it belonged to the stranger they were going to meet. But if that were the case, surely it would be less dusty.

Avery saw no one in the room, which probably was a sitting room. At one time in the past, at least. Only a single candle provided light for the room. The corners and walls were cloaked in shadow. An old, threadbare carpet covered the wood floor. It might have been green at one time, but now it looked like it would disintegrate should a strong draft move through the room. Three old chairs surrounded a thick table. Avery approached it and stopped. Deep slices crisscrossed the wood. There was a subtle red tint to the otherwise light, unstained wood.

A shadow shifted, and it was then Avery realized the shadow by the window was actually a very large man. Avery looked at Alex, who was completely at ease with the world, then back at the man. He stepped forward. His hair was wild, long, and unkempt. His beard had not been cut in perhaps years. Avery couldn’t see his eyes. Or anything beyond his impressive mass. The man had to be twice as wide and half a head taller than Avery, and few were taller than Avery.

“Avery, I’m pleased to introduce you to Dillon Ratcliffe.”

Avery’s jaw dropped. “The Earl’s son?”

Dillon bowed and the manners ingrained in Avery forced him to do the same. “But you’re missing.”

Dillon shrugged.

“Dillon, here, has been one of my trusted assistants for several years. His partner is who recently retired, and as such, Dillon is now my only trusted assistant. You will take the place of Dillon’s parter.”

“Enough of the vagaries. Alex, what is going on?”

Alex sat in a chair and crossed one long leg over the other. He gestured to the other two chairs. Avery sat. How Dillon managed to fit in the chair was a mystery. He looked like a giant, disheveled turkey perched on a narrow fence post.

Avery realized Dillon watched him stare. Avery quickly averted his eyes and focused on the table. Up close the scars in the wood were rusty red. There was nothing subtle about it, this table had seen a lot of blood. Avery hoped it was animal, but suspected human. He did not want to ask and have his fears confirmed. He was skilled with blades, yes, but he took care to never do any real harm. Not until Leo’s betrayal had he considered it.

Alex tapped the table in a slow, steady rhythm with the tip of his index finger. It disturbed Avery that Alex would touch the tainted surface.

“From now on,” Alex said, “you two will work together.” His gaze was steady on Avery as he spoke. “Avery is quite adept with a knife. But he is not very stealthy.” Dillon grunted. “He could be though.” Soft candle light caused subtle shadows to dance on Alex’s face. He gave Avery a fond smile, reserved only for when they were among close friends and away from the watchful eyes of society. “Anyway, here is the next thing I need assistance with.”

Alex looked away from Avery and held out a paper to Dillon. Dillon read it. He held the paper over the candle flame until it lit. The paper flared bright, and in the light, Avery could make out a jagged scar along the left side of Lord Ratcliffe’s face. His wild black hair hid most it.

“Aye, it’s an ugly thing.” Lord Ratcliffe’s voice was slow and gravely. It and the scar gave him a distinct tinge of danger. And the hair added an element of wildness. Avery would not want to be on the receiving end of his ill will.

“The crown appreciates your help in the matter. Dillon.” Alex stood, nodded to Lord Ratcliffe. Then he looked at Avery, the fond smile back. “Avery, we will catch up when you return.” The he turned, and he left without another word.

Avery turned. Lord Ratcliffe was staring at him. “So,” Avery said. “I guess we are working together now.”

Lord Ratcliffe shifted. Despite being mostly covered in hair, his demeanor managed to communicate extreme skepticism. “It would appear so. Try not to get killed.”

End

That said, I’ve been thinking about what qualities the perfect small publishers would have for me as an author. I’ve been trying to find that perfect author/publisher relationship where I feel comfortable and confident that there will be much success. I know this perfect publisher is a fantasy, but a girl can dream.

Disclaimer: This list is not the result of my experience with any one publisher. The basics are standard best practices in e-commerce. Most of the items beyond basics are just me thinking about how wonderful the world would be if. I’ve worked with several publishers and they each have their own process that works for them, and I respect that (it’s also really neat to see the different ways different people accomplish similar tasks). Successful relationships are about meeting each other with the tools you have and using them as best you can. I have had many wonderful and successful experiences with the publishers I’ve worked with and look forward to continuing to work with them.

The Basics

The basic things my perfect ebook/print publisher would have are things that I want as a reader and an author. I want them as the author because it helps the reader find and purchase my book and have a good enough experience that they return to the publisher to buy more books.

1. A usable website. By this I mean a website that can be easily navigated. Books are easy to find. Books are easy to buy. All links work. All buttons work.
2. An up to date catalog on their website. All new releases should appear on a new release page. All releases should be accessible from the main catalog page.
3. A website that has content that targets the intended consumer audience.
4. A website with good, clean design. Okay, here’s where I start asking for the moon. The publisher’s website has to look good. Pixel perfect. All of the images are crisp and appropriate. There is consistent alignment among elements. The style is modern. There is consistent branding.
5. Checkout process is easy and the publisher accepts paypal.
6. Well-designed covers. If there are people on the cover, they are correctly proportioned with respect to all parts of their body. The lighting for all elements of the cover in consistent. Elements of the cover look like they belong in the same plane. Book title and author name font and color have high contrast against the background.
7. Ebooks with impecable typesetting and formatting. PDFs have pages that are standard book size (6″x9″ or smaller) with a serif font with appropriate whitespace and line spacing. ePubs and mobi/prc files are split into chapters for easy navigation, also use serif font. Bonus points for whimsy when appropriate (graphics in separators, drop caps, etc…)
8. Bundled ebook formats for sale, ie the customer buys all formats of the book when they purchase the book

Beyond the Basics

Basics are met, and I’m happy because I am confident the publisher has the ability to market and sell ebooks. Now, my perfect publisher has a few more delights behind the scenes

Submissions

1. Have clear, accurate submission guidelines.
2. Allow online submissions
3. Has an online submission tracker that I can log into and view where my manuscript is in the submission queue.
4. Accepts Scrivener manuscripts

Document Exchange

1. Uses an online document signing service (e.g. docusign) to send and receive contracts.
2. Has clear contract completion expectations such that the information needed from me is obvious
3. Has a contract that details exactly what I will give them as well as exactly what they will give me.
4. All forms they send to get additional author information are perfectly formatted. Good alignment, good text contrast, good document design. I want to see that they can format their documents with as much class as they do their ebooks.

Process

1. Online system where I can see the progress of my book through the publication process
2. I am consulted on and approve all blurbs, bios, covers
3. Every time I send back information requested, they send confirmation that my feedback is received.
4. They draft initial blurbs

Polishing

1. Content Editors (highly skilled)
2. Copy & Line Editors (highly skilled)
3. Proofreaders (highly skilled)

Marketing

Coming soon

Communication

Coming soon

That’s it for the moment. What do you get from your perfect publisher? Pie in the sky, no limits?

Based on the grocery list on the table, I believe the husband is making Okonomiyaki for dinner. Yum. Yum yum yum. Okonomiyaki is a Japanese dish that translates into something like “Make it how you like”. You mix okonomiyaki flour with egg, mayonaise, and whatever you like. Shrimp, pork, beef, veggies, rice crispy treats, cheese, whatever. Then you cook it on a griddle. So, I guess it’s like a thick, crazy pancake. It’s one of the major food things I miss from Japan (right under real ramen). We’ve never tried to make our own Okonomiyaki before. Hoping for the best!

On Facebook, it seems like many of my friends didn’t have a very good 2011. There’s many “Thank God it’s Over” and “Looking forward to a better 2012″. I hadn’t realized that so many had not had happy years. Maybe I’m not paying attention, or maybe they’re a very vocal minority, I don’t know. I hope their 2012 is better though.

My 2011 was just fine, and I’m happy with it. It had its ups and its downs. I had stable employment, shelter, food, a wonderful dog to keep me company. As of now, I’ve got four stories contracted for the coming year, and at the start of 2011 I had none. So yay. I gained 5lbs, which is really annoying. But running kind of took that off (but nothing more).

I’m not sure what 2012 will bring. It’s likely we could be moving to a new state again. I give it a 50-50 chance. Definitely not until March. I might look for a new day job, regardless. There are three weddings I’m really looking forward to in the summer. As I mentioned before, at least four stories will be published. There are quilts to finish. Maybe I’ll make a new friend or two.

My New Year’s resolutions are in place: Be a better communicator, be a better writer, be a better creator–but in the form of an achievable, measurable goals.

2011, it was great. 2012, I’m ready for ya!

The series revolves around a website where people go to video chat with strangers (or text chat, their choice). Sometimes the website will play a critical role in couples hooking up, sometimes the connection will be tangential. But that’s the cool thing, it’s a universe with this common thread and so many people in so many places. And video chat! Oh the voyeuristic possibilities! Anyway. I’m rambling about the universe when all I wanted to do was say Casual (Sex) Friday and 66 Faces has a home!

Deep down, Cory longs for two men to make his life complete, but the world tells him that he only gets one. While he’s trying to find his one Mr. Right, he watches other couples on 66 Faces love each other. What Cory doesn’t realize is there’s a couple on 66 Faces who would gladly be his Mr. Rights if given the chance.

Lately, I had the idea for a new story, but I didn’t start it! (I’m patting myself on the back, here.) I might still attempt it. It would be short–maybe 10k. But that’s 10k words of writing time I could be putting towards one of my other already started stories.

After I finish the current chapter in Lorne that I’m working on, I’m going to revisit a 66 Faces story I started very tentatively called The Menage. That’s definitely not what it will be published as, but it’s what it is now. I haven’t worked on The Menage in a very long time. Months. I closed the scrivener project long ago. But recently, it became clear I really need to finish it. So today, I opened the manuscript again. And read what I have. And fell in love with the story all over again.

I love when that happens. It’s fun to rediscover this idea that at some point in the past I believed in enough to put fingers to keyboard and bring a couple characters to life.

1. Get through WIP list–either write it or kill it. Decide on action by March. Complete action by December 2012.
2. Improve on description. Description is a very weak point for me. Ideally I’d like to be at the skill level where I can achieve a better balance of description/action/dialogue/exposition in a first draft.
3. Finish The Artist’s Way (11 weeks of 12 left for 2012)
4. Submit to two publishers I have not previously submitted to. By June. 12/30: I’ve rethought this. Publisher submittal will continue to be on a case by case basis.

Photocredit: Dragon at Dusk by *Randee

Last night I turned in the 2nd round of edits on Owen’s Home and Garden. And other than that, I’ve been working on random paperwork associated with other projects. Still dotting i’s and crossing t’s there. I’m super excited about all those i’s and t’s, though, and I can’t wait to share.

I’ve mentioned before, the last WIP I finished was a real bear. So much so, that I’m afraid to really focus on anything for fear or repeating the bear encounter. Mur Lafferty has recommended The Artist’s Way several times. I’m trying it. Because I don’t know what else to try. Writing exercises that focus on craft scare me (due to bear). I’ve realized the thing that used to motivate me is absent from my life now. So yeah. I either have to do something or not write, and that’s not what I want.

Last night I opened up the long-closed Lorne file. When I showed it to my critique group (like ages ago) the reception was positive, but there was also an overwhelming sense that it needed more. Lorne is the first of three, maybe four, related books. And Lorne is the low-key one. I’m not sure it can be longer than 6k and be interesting. But by golly, I’m going to try. Lorne is the isolated one. He lives a relatively isolated life with his mentor and gets into pretty innocent hijinks. So last night, I opened it, and decided i was going to try to flesh it out by adding some episodic chapters, and laid out what they would be. The only one I’m unsure of is “Lorne and the Swimming Lessons.” One of my weaknesses is getting setting and description and emotion fully fleshed out. Because of that, I’ve set each chapter goal for 5,000 words. So basically, each capter is a short story. I can do short stories… right? I’m not sure how this is going to go, but I have a goal. Anyway, here is state of Lorne:

Also with the last blog post, I managed to jinx the dog, because this morning she had the starts of a skin infection on her stomach. She gets a couple recurring infections, and I’ve learned to just head in to the vet ASAP. We spend 45 minutes at the vet talking about food and airborne allergies and came home with some medicated shampoo and conditioner that should manage the itchiness and clear up the (so far mild) infection. Last time she got an infection, she was on 10 days of steroids to stop the itching. It was so wonderful. I loved seeing her not itch. But I have no desire to permanently medicate the dog–it’s just not healthy for her. I was sad when we stopped the medication and she started itching again. I really hope this works.

Also today! I got the next round of edits for Owen’s Home and Garden! Not too bad, the editor had some really good word choice suggestions, and I have to decide how I feel about colons in prose–I should say, I have to decide how much I care. I’m not really  a fan except under very specific circumstances.

The weather around here is warming up. Thankfully. We had a couple days with lows below zero and highs around 10. When it gets cold enough I need to keep the water dripping, that’s just too cold. But, like I said, it’s warming up, and the snow is melting. It’s almost all melted form the sidewalks and streets. Melt faster!

That’s all I have to say today. Onwards!

Photocredit: Basket Case by Wander

I’m happy to report that the dog is still a positive in my life. She’s healthy, happy, and adorable. I don’t know what I’d do without the dog. She’s my main source of companionship.

I’m trying so hard to not focus on the negatives in my life that I had been ignoring for the past couple of weeks. It’s hard. I am pretty sure not focusing (aka ignoring) is not going to help anything. But that doesn’t really matter, because as soon as I stop listening to podcasts or focusing super hard on work, my mind drifts back to the negatives. I’m always two bad thoughts away from tears.

I get like this occasionally. I can usually fix it with a binge of warm and fuzzy or a good shoujo manga. I think that means I need to break out some Megan Derr when I get home. Or maybe some favorite anime. Stellvia anyone? How about Mai Hime?

After the house is clean, I’m planning to dive back into my fictional worlds and do a bit of editing. Lorne and Victoria will get their next revision. Yeeees. Lorne is a nice warm and fuzzy. I’m looking forward to expanding that. I need to study some of my favorite warm fuzzies to see how the relatively simple plot and relationship is fleshed out to a reasonable length.

Okay. Lunch over. Time to get back to work and try not to think.

Photo credit: A Sad Smiley by Jonas John

In an effort to try to figure it out, I’ve been considering my own feelings, expectations, and traditions. I know this is not everyone’s experience, but it’s mine, and it’s what I understand.

The Kiels family celebrates Christmas. My husband’s family has several very set traditions. Whereas my family’s only tradition is the lack of tradition–no that’s wrong.

My family has had a fake Christmas tree since the year my first brother was born. I can’t blame my parents. Real trees have their complications. And they’re expensive. Every year my dad would drag the tree from the garage. For many years dad and I would assemble the tree. Then it was just me. Like it was a chore, and it would be Evie’s chore. That’s okay, I like putting up the tree. And just because I’m 5 ft tall doesn’t mean I can’t figure some way to string lights on an 8 foot tree.

I feel guilty for complaining. I wish my dad helped. I wish I didn’t feel like the tree duty was dumped on me. But he didn’t and it was. So I took care of it. Good or bad, it’s was part of my Christmas. Every year. But here’s the thing. I do like putting up the Christmas tree. I love transforming the big green tree into a multicolored, lit, sparkly green tree. I love rediscovering my favorite ornaments that I seem to forget about every year. The ornaments are a constant over the years, and as a result the tree is a big tree of nostalgia.

My husband’s family gets real trees. They prefer “Charlie Brown” trees because they want to put up every ornament their three children have ever made. Putting up the tree was a family affair. They’d go to the tree obtaining place, find the perfect tree, have it cut and wrapped, drive it home, let it bush out. My husband has a love-hate relationship with this process because they have to get, seriously, every ornament he and his brothers ever made. As well as his grandmother’s ornaments. And a few of his great grandmother’s. And then there’s the tinsel. I love it. Putting up the tree is like reading the story of their family. And it’s social. The in-laws put on holiday music and it’s fun.

Other traditions…

My family is very laid back. We used to visit my grandparents on Christmas Eve for a family Dinner and family gifts. That stopped when my grandfather got sick. He passed away several years ago. I’m not sure there’s a tradition there any more. They just play it by ear, whether there will be dinner or not.

On Christmas morning, Dad makes cinnamon rolls and coffee. We eat the cinnamon rolls while figuring out who gets to distribute gifts. The dog gets his gift first. Somehow he knows which is his, and he just rips into it. If my dog is visiting he opens her gift too because she just doesn’t get it.

We open gifts and then spend the rest of the day lazing. Dad has started making the omg best rib roast ever for Christmas dinner. And that’s it.

My husband’s family, Christmas last 4 days. I kid you not. Three days before Chrismas there is smorgasbord. A menu is planned. There are traditional items. My favorite? Swedish meatballs and saffron bread. There are traditional cookies. It is a day of cooking. At least. And there is glogg. The day before Christmas they have a white dinner. And I’ve only been with them on Christmas day once… I don’t remember what happens. I do remember rice pudding. And leftovers the next day. Whew!

Between you and me, I prefer a mix of the two. If I could, I’d do smorgasbord with the in-laws and Christmas with my family. I suppose I’m biased to that.

The husband and I are slowly creating our own traditions. We buy a real tree. I bought a Charlie Brown tree this year. I’m quite pleased with how it turned out. Unfortunately my husband was not in town when I bought and decorated it, but that’s the way our Christmas schedule worked out. Either I did it myself last week or no tree. I opted for tree. I rediscovered some favorite ornaments–always fun. The dog made her obligatory pose under the tree for the camera. We had a small gathering last year for a mini smorgasbord. I hope to repeat that this year. We try to visit family. This year we will attempt to go to Ohio to see my family if the roads are clear. As you can tell, the traditions with my husband are tenuous and not set. Maybe if we have kids that will change. Who knows.

That’s what Christmas is to me. It’s family, how the personalities of our family combine to bring about Christmas.

There are other factors. The incessant Christmas music everywhere. The beautiful lights that the cities put up. The sales. Omg the sales. The men in department stores seem to be dressed extra spiffy around the holidays. Last year they were particularly dapper in vests over button downs. People outside, though obviously freezing, seem to have an extra bounce in their step, twinkle in their eye, puff in their scarf.

I love how stores and restaurants decorate with pretty lights, garland, and ornaments. I love the classic Christmas movies, too. Their tales of redemption and hope and goodness and met potential.

It’s more than just a date. There’s this undefinable thing in the air that’s just a little more wonderful. That’s Christmas. It’s this underlying thread of happiness that runs through everything.

But how do you capture that in a story? I don’t know. But there must be more than just the date and some snow.

Alfred didn’t know it, but this was one of those pivotal days, a day that set one’s life path in a distinct direction. A cause of effects. A day to remember. But it started out innocuous enough.

He was staring out the kitchen window, watching a seagull stand stone still on a utility pole—a seagull! What were seagulls doing in Denver?

“ALFRED!”

“What?” Alfred turned his head slowly, leaned his upper body to the side so he could see into the hall. Charles was standing in front of the washer-dryer combo holding in front of him a pink shirt with some sort of logo. Yikes.

“This is Mike’s favorite shirt!”

“I’m not sure what you want me to do about it.” Alfred straightened up and looked out the window again. The seagull was gone. Which actually made things look a whole lot more normal out. Seagulls in Denver. Made no sense. What part of sea did the bird not understand?

Charles stalked into the kitchen proper and flapped the shirt in the air. “This is your fault.”

“Unless you were washing my clothes, I doubt that.” And he wasn’t—washing Alfred’s clothes, that is. Charles often came over to laundry. His apartment didn’t have laundry, and Charles often came over to watch football. It was a convenient arrangement. Charles got to do his laundry. And Alfred got to watch Charles do laundry. Someday he would figure out how to tempt Charles into a furious fuck and then a relationship. But until then, he had an excellent view of Charles’ rear end as he stood at the washer-dryer combo. Well, when he wasn’t staring at sea gulls.

Charles stalked back into the hall and dove into the dryer. A moment later, he emerged, and had in his hand—

“What do you call these, huh?”

Alfred snorted. “Your lucky red boxer shorts with ninja hello kitty on them?”

Charles looked at the boxers. “Shit.” He walked over, threw the boxers down onto the table, and fell into the chair opposite of Alfred. “I’m so screwed. I’m supposed to give Mike back his shirt tonight. It’s his favorite shirt. From when his high school football team won the state championships.” Charles leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “And I made it pink.” Then Charles yanked up the boxers, eyes still closed. “With my lucky boxers, no less! Pink.”

“Just tell him it was a mistake,” Alfred said. Shirts get turned pink every day. Sure it was unfortunate that it had sentimental value.

“This is killing my plans.”

“Plans?”

“Dude, Mike is like famous for his—I’ve been trying to hook up with him for weeks. And finally have the perfect opportunity tonight. Give him back his shirt. Watch some Football. Drink way too much Tequila.” Charles nodded. “Oh yeah.”

Hook up? Watch football? But they watched football together. But it wasn’t like Alfred was Charles’ exclusive football watching partner. And the fact that he was even thinking of this. Jealous over football, for fuck’s sake. He watched football all the time with other people. But still.

“So you’re worried,” Alfred said evenly, “that because you turned his shirt pink, he won’t, what, fuck you?”

“Worried? There is no worry. I know. Of all the… pink.”

Alfred studied Charles for a moment. Sometimes Alfred hated how he’d set this up. He identified Charles as a person of interest. So what did he do? Became his best friend. Not best fucking friend. No, just best friend, because there was no fucking. No fucking at all. Alfred was a moron. Hey can I suck your dick, would have been a much better offer than, Hey, you can use my washer if you want. Sure it got them to hang out regularly. But there was no dick. And now he was going to keep being the perfect friend.

“Just tell him I did it,” Alfred said. “He can’t hold it against you then.”

“I don’t know,” Charles hedged. “That just doesn’t seem—”

“Who cares? Tell him it was me, and make sure he doesn’t come kick my ass with his former football self.”

Charles looked at Alfred. “Oookay. You think it’ll work?”

Alfred shrugged. He didn’t really want it to work. He wanted Charles to stay and watch the Buffs game with him. He had a bottle of tequila. Hell, he had limes. And salt.

Charles took a deep, cleansing breath. “Okay. I have to give the shirt back… or do I?”

“Not giving it back is an option.” So was not going.

Charles got up, leaving the boxers, and went to extract his clothes from the dryer. He brought the laundry basket back and started folding clothes, piling them in neat little stacks on the table. “What are you doing tonight?”

Alfred looked back out the window. “Oh, watching the Buffs game, I guess.”

***

Alfred was cold, but too lazy to get up and raise the thermostat. It was eight pm—kind of late for a Buffs game. The indoor-outdoor thermometer said it was sixty-eight inside, and thirty-nine outside. He was sulking. Definitely sulking. He stared at the bottle of vodka. He had every intention of opening it. Really. But that required effort to lean down, pick up the bottle and a glass, open, and pour.

And the Cougars just scored. “Fuck,” he said to the empty apartment. That was it. The game was effectively over. Three minutes left in the fourth quarter, and they were down by twenty-four. Just fucking great. His game buddy abandons him. His team loses. What else could go wrong? His mom showing up for an unannounced visit?

And then there was a knock on the door. It couldn’t be… could it? He talked to Mom yesterday, she seemed firmly at home in Tallahassee. He got up, a little weirded out. It’s like thinking of a visitor conjured a visitor—hopefully not Mom. Not that there was anything wrong with Mom. He loved Mom.

He leaned up to the peephole and looked out. He stepped back and opened the door. “Charles?”

“Hey.” Charles smiled. “Game still on?”

“Game being a relative term. It’s a fucking massacre.” Alfred turned and walked back to the couch. “There’s about two minutes left.” Alfred fell back into his Alfred-sized depression in the center.

Charles looked pointedly at the full and unopened bottle of SKYY. “Yeaaaaah.” He bent down, picked it and the unused glass up, and took them to the kitchen.

“So what happened with Mike?”

“He called you an inept housewife.”

Alfred looked at Charles, brows scrunched together. “Wow. My pride. I’m so wounded,” he deadpanned.

“It sounded a lot worse when he said it.”

Alfred smirked. “So you what? Blew him to see his mammoth cock and left? I find that hard to believe.”

“Nah. I just left.”

“Moron. I thought this was your perfect opportunity?”

Charles sat down so close to Alfred that their legs pressed tightly together. He leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. It was a cute habit. And it exposed the long line of of his neck and prominent Adam’s apple.

Alfred really wished he’d had some of that vodka. Then maybe he’d lean forward and lick that long neck. That would make Alfred’s wishes clear very quickly. And Charles? He wouldn’t turn down sex twice in a night.

But Alfred was completely sober.

“I was looking forward to tequila shots.” Charles sighed, like it was a terrible loss. “You have the stuff.” Charles leaned his head towards Alfred and opened and eye, looking straight at him.

“Sure do.” Alfred glanced at the tv. The game was over, and sometime in the final two minutes the Cougars had scored again. Because winning by more than twenty points wasn’t good enough, they had to win by thirty.

Charles’ mouth turned down into an unimpressed frown. “You need to grow a pair, Al.” Charles got up again and went back to the kitchen.

Alfred did not need to grow a pair. He just… didn’t know how to move forward. “I have a pair!” Alfred planted his face in his hand. Excellent grade-school retort.

The fridge door open and shut, a knife was pulled off the knife magnet with a twang, and five minutes later, Charles returned with a plate of lime wedges, salt, two shot glasses, and tequila.

The disappointed sportscaster droned on in the background. Alfred turned the tv off. He was relieved when Charles poured the shots. Even more when he picked up the salt. And surprised when Charles moved towards him with the shaker.

“Body shots.”

***

Alfred yawned and scratched his stomach as he stared into the fridge. He grabbed the cranapple juice instead of the orange juice. After drinking a glass, he started a pot of coffee.

“Alfred,” Charles called from the bedroom. “Where are my lucky boxers?”

Alfred filled his glass with water and took another drink. “You mean my lucky boxers?” He turned, and Charles stood in the doorway, smirking. He sauntered forward, hooked his finger in Alfred’s lucky ninja hello kitty boxers, pulled it back, and let go. Snap. “Not nice.”

Charles just laughed and bit Alfred’s shoulder. Charles gave it a firm lick then stood back. “Yeah, well that’s fine. I’ve got a new lucky shirt now anyway.”

End

Work is either feast or famine, and after the first week in November it became feast. Although feast sounds like a good thing–it was not a good thing. One project didn’t have enough supporting requirements and another project is in its part of the development cycle when the developers throw down and say NO. I won’t bore you with further details. I’ll just say, work life has been stressful and frustrating in the extreme. Next job? Agency. Seriously. Going through process is sucking out my soul.

And daylight savings time ended. And my husband left town for a month. And I’ve been having the worst dreams. And I’m falling behind in running. Hear me now, I am never again signing up for a half marathon that requires serious training Oct-March. It is not happening. Ever. Again.

November got progressively more and more overwhelming, both at work and at home. I am fairly good at separating work and home, but not this time. I spent a lot of time sleeping. It’s not that I wanted to sleep. I needed to sleep. And sleep some more. And I’m still doing it, and I really wish I could get enough energy to make it through the day without a nap. Also happening, Owen’s Home and Garden started moving along. Which is super exciting! But did I mention how much I need to sleep?

About a week ago, I started feeling that awful, heavy, terrible feeling that I’m disappointing people and my actions are self-sabotaging (because I’m napping, not doing). This is the huge cue that I need to suck it up and get shit done.

Due to the holidays, and the end of year, and a no-carry-over vacation policy, work is now abruptly famine again. And then I have the 4-day Thanksgiving Holiday. It’s Saturday night of that holiday. My goals for this holiday have been to get obligations done. This has happened. I turned in the cover spec sheet for Owen’s Home and Garden, I took care of some other logistics. I just have two huge things hanging over my head still. And, go figure, the muse is finally peeking out and wants to work on neither of those two huge things. Tomorrow, I am going to take care of one of those. And hopefully get a good chunk done on the other. I plan to have them done by Dec 1.

Starting immediately, I want to try and get back a more Zen existence. I’ve been growing increasingly cynical and grumpy. I must channel my feelings more towards positive, proactive, and amiable. I’ll let you know if and when I figure out how to do this. (see, still being cynical)

So, looking forward to December, here is my plan:

1. Run! Omg Evie, pick up your training! For the love of finishing half-marathons, run more!
2. Take in more protein. I suspect half of the sleep thing is a lack of protein. No blow job suggestions, please–this is serious.
3. Get back on a regular, no-nap sleep schedule. Regular training should help with this. So will better adjusted diet.
4. Edit and submit trans f/f piece. It needs 7.5k more words to meet min word count at target publisher. There’s a lot of fleshing out to do, so I’m not worried about the word count.
5. Submit Casual Sex Friday. There is an agreed upon 12/1 deadline to query series to collaborator’s first choice publisher. If that deadline is not met, I am free to submit to my first choice publisher. I will do one more edit before that submission, should the situation arise.
6. Write every day. Editing counts.
7. Work on perception of self as writer. “I am a UX professional who also writes.” not: ”I’m a UX professional who dabbles in writing.” No dabbling! No dabbling at all. I dabble in quilting. Not writing. I write.
8. Finish YA piece. (~40-50k words to go)

I brought the topic up with the group of people I talk reading with. Several months ago, I was really worried to tell them that I had contracted some writing, because our little reading group was founded on one fundamental rule–no authors. My work was contracted well after the reading group was formed. So when I told them, I was fully prepared to leave, sad as that would be. We compromised on we wouldn’t discuss my books in the group and I get to stay. Yay. I’m glad, because I value their friendship.

I try not to talk too much with them about writing concerns I have. But lately, I brought up my quest for a new pen name for YA books. It was nice to discuss merits of gender and non-gender identifying names, as well as the use of initials. Even though we are n0-author, it made me feel so accepted that they would talk with me about this. They are all well-read, and have a wonderful perspective on many things reading-and-authors.

The acceptance I get from my small group of reading ladies is wonderful. I’m not exactly the easiest person to get along with, but I’m thankful that they’re willing.

The time to commit to the YA pen name is fast approaching. I try to find names that are unique, because that makes creating an online presence easier. I don’t intend to have a strong online presence for this name, and by that I mean I don’t intend to interact with other people very much.  Just have a website and reserve a twitter identity. I don’t plan to make YA my main genre, and I don’t have the mental capacity to be multiple people and interact with multiple circles.

I was listening to a podcast interview with Mignon Fogarty (aka Grammar Girl). She was on I Should Be Writing talking about her plans to enter into writing fiction. And she shared a fear that I really empathize with and have a lot of that fear in myself:

I’m really worried that I’ll write something that sucks and that people will let me publish it. I’m most worried that I won’t be able to do it, but they’ll let me do it anyway. -Mignon Fogarty

So we’ll see. The ratings will tell. I wish I could avoid reading and seeing reviews, but unless I completely disconnect from goodreads and stop reading, I just don’t see that happening.

I wrote a first person, present tense, slice of life with commentary story that egregiously breaks the 4th wall between the writer and her intended audience–her Creative Writing teacher. I can’t think about it too much because … it’s just too complicated. I like what I wrote. At the very least, it was a good character exercise. I realized that my character’s first person voice is very different than her limited third person POV voice, and both are worlds away from the dialogue she gives to others (that I knew, and it was intentional).

One part of me thinks the story, which doesn’t have a whole lot of story or character movement, is good. It’s about a stagnant life, cycling, waiting. The character’s life isn’t moving very much, neither does the story. On the other hand, it’s 1st person, present tense, and the writer talks to the audience. That, by definition, makes it crap for publishing. Right?

So I feel like I wasted this entire day on 4.5k of words that can’t go anywhere. But, I think I’ll be able to return to my NaNo novel with renewed energy. I hope.

Next year, when I say I’m going to do NaNoWriMo, talk me out of it. There’s just something mental about it that makes it a disaster.

1. The first draft sucks. Most of my first drafts are bad, but this is really bad. And I don’t feel like I have time to fix it. This is bad because…
2. I really believe in this novel. I think it could be really good. But I know, with my plans for it, it will never be really good because I don’t have the time I need to put into revising it, because…
3. I’ve promised the first 20k of it to an editor by Dec 1.

I’m tempted to write him something else and give this the time and care it deserves. But then I’d have to think of something else and whip out 10-15k very good words.

Crap. Crap, Crap, Crap.

So yeah. I’m feeling like a terrible writer right now. Nothing I write is any good. Blah blah blah. Self-Doubt. Negative Self-Esteem. Negative Self-Confidence. Blah fucking blah.

After I am done with current writing commitments–mainly NaNoWriMo–I think I am going to take a step back and really try to focus on improving my writing craft. Just a little bit. I’ve stopped reading books I know to be not good, writing-wise. I just can’t imagine reading these things that have mediocre plots and bad writing is doing me any good. I need to stop. Take a breath. Think. And start again. Why do I realize this during NaNoWriMo?

The pattern of my life is so different when he’s not around. Honestly, I like having the house to myself when he’s out of time for small chunks of time–and by small I mean three to five days. I eat dinner a lot earlier, I run errands on week days, I take my laptop to bed and write until I’m ready to fall asleep. I don’t worry about him being fed, happy, gas in the car, or having clean clothes. (He’s very good at feeding us and kind of good at washing our clothes, but if he’s around it’s just something that’s always on my mind.) In some ways, it’s kind of nice. I really like crawling into bed with the laptop. I love eating earlier. I love having a car at my disposal. But I still miss the husband. While my existence is much more fine-tuned to me and my preferences, it’s also more empty and quiet. And a month of empty-quiet is a long time.

Jorinde and Joringel Part 1 of 3
Jorinde and Joringel Part 2 of 3
Jorinde and Joringel Part 3 of 3

Image Credit: Burst of Red Flower by fishin widow.

I’ve been doing a bit of getting organized lately. In addition to writing, rawr, I took care of the blurb for Owen’s Home and Garden. I organized my email. Responded to anything outstanding. Deleted a bunch of unneeded email. Including emails from one of the most frustrating submissions ever; I feel so unencumbered. My email is so organized. I admit, I might have spent a moment just gazing in admiration at the organization. *_*

I also cleaned the living room. It was cluttered, dusty, and in need of a vacuum to the point of constant distraction. Distraction removed!

And now I need to go write more.

Which is all fine and good, but it’s time to stop frolicking with shorts and take a serious walk with:

• Y/A piece w/a trans protagonist. Need to finish by Nov 1 so I can focus on…
• NaNoWriMo (still debating whether I want to write about a man who manages a country or a space ship that exchanges POWs. This will be m/m)
• Editing the trans f/f piece (yeah I never expected to write that either, but two of my most beloved characters wanted their story told)

I wrote this in response to the Less Than Three’s EIC’s Challenge prompt: “Savor the Sting”. It had a lot more to do with savoring and stinging when I started writing. 4.5k words.

This ficlet is available to read on Goodreads. Alternatively, you can download ebook files here:

• Download Sound and Shape (pdf)
• Download Sound and Shape (epub)
• Download Sound and Shape (mobi) for kindle

So I asked my husband, “How do you know it’s Valentine’s day?”

His response, “Roses are more expensive.”

I had no idea this was the case, but I’m not surprised. Like him, the only outward signs I notice that it’s Valentine’s Day are the gobs of Valentine’s Day stuff in the grocery store. Candy, cards, balloons, flowers. Outside of grocery stores? Not a whole lot of clues. Maybe a couple more hearts in store windows. But there is no feeling in the air surrounding the day. Maybe a few more jewelry store commercials.

On the day, people exchange tokens of affection. Which is nice. My mother normally sends out Valentine’s day affections. The husband will typically do something small and sweet. I probably bake some heart shaped cakes. Maybe that’s “all” Valentine’s Day really is. At least for me. A day to acknowledge relationships and affection.

This blog is my personal journal. Up to now, I write it for me. I’ve been a little torn over the fact that it has no focus, but until I signed book contracts, I haven’t really cared. Now, I have books coming out, so my blog should be focused for the reader, right? If I want someone to read it, it should have a specific audience, right? Yeah, probably.  Does that mean I’m going to focus up my content? Probably not.  But I still feel like I’m doing something wrong.

As a professional in the user experience design community, I know that in order for people to read this, there must be a focus and I must offer some sort of value. That everything I do online paints a persona (a brand) to people who see the content I put out. That if I did a good job, I would have a strong brand message. It would be unified. When people think “Evie Kiels” they would think “Amazing Author and Blogger and Observer or Life.”  But at the same time, I don’t know if I can have a blog with focus and maintain a professional brand. I don’t think it’s in me right now.

So rewind a couple of weeks to when I was reading Nathan Bransford’s very very excellent blog focused on the publishing industry. (Nathan Bransford is a former literary agent turned middle grade author and CNET dude.) He wrote a entry last week that absolved me of all this worrying. The entry is called On the Internet There Is No Such Thing as a Brand. There Is Only You. This goes against years of professional experience and observation. But, you know what, I don’t care. I will listen to Bransford in this instance. He summarizes his post with 

My advice for people who are trying to carve out their own space in social media is not to think about what you think your blog or your Twitter presence should be, but rather to embrace who you really are. Be yourself. Let your own voice shine through. Lots of people have ideas about what you should be, but you can only be who you are.

- Nathan Bransford

I read that and felt freed. An authority in the domain of publishing and social media just gave me permission to be myself and not worry about the rest of it. Thank you Mr. Bransford, I will do just that. And on twitter, too.

Bright afternoon sun spilled in through the translucent gauzy curtains, illuminating dust motes and the pale yellow silk draped over ladders and chairs and boxes, sloping down to meet dark skin and even darker hair. Anikit’s eyes were closed, and he breathed calmly. He was still except for an occasional twitch of muscle in his leg or shoulder. He looked as if he were experiencing the most pleasant of dreams, but I knew he was awake. What was he thinking of to bring such a peaceful smile to his face?

The silk glowed in the daylight. Anikit, in turn, glowed in the silk. I never imagined when I hung the cloth that it would illuminate Anikit’s skin so. I lifted my brush and applied the faintest strokes of pale yellow to the canvas so that the man in paint was surrounded with a halo of light.

Anikit shifted slightly. I looked back at the man and my breath grew shallow at the pure beauty of him. “Do you need to rest?”

“No thank you.” His voice was quiet, but carried across the ten foot gap clearly. “I am enjoying your silk.”

I smiled and set down the brush. “Then you can have it once we’re done.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Nonsense. I had no idea what to do with it until now. It was a thank you from a previous commission… and what am I going to do with that much yellow silk? It must cost a fortune, but I still don’t know what to do with it.”

“Well,” Anikit opened his eyes, smiling mischievously at me, “if you insist.” He closed his eyes again, flexed his neck, and then his shoulder; his arm and then stretched his torso slightly. If only I could make the colors on my canvas move, make the shadows and light play on the painted skin as they did in my studio. Finally he tensed and relaxed the muscles in his leg.

“You look like you wish to consume me.” He wiggled his toes and my gaze swept back to his face. Not long was it on his face before it moved to his hips. They glowed on top but fell quickly into shadow. The smooth skin leading down to a dense tangle of dark hair. While he was stretching his cock had been flaccid but now was stiff and curling up onto his stomach. A clear drop of precum at the tip caught the light and it was all I could do not to walk over and lick the drop away.

Instead I forced my gaze back to his face, his impish levity. “And you look like you wish to tempt me.”

He broke his position for the first time that hour and stretched his arms over his head. He rubbed sinuously against the silk, and a sound of mixed relief and pleasure carried across to me. My heart thudded in my chest in anticipation of rising, going to him, and eliciting the same sounds with very different methods. His chest expanded as he took a deep, satisfied breath. He stretched out his arm and hand towards me. “I am bored, I wish to move. Am I tempting you? Is it working? Are you ready to put away that canvas for the day and permit me to move?”

I untied the apron covering my skin, hiding my own arousal, and dropped it to the side. I would give him anything. He held still again as I approached. I stepped carefully on the silk so as not to slip. Honestly, what did a person do with this much silk? Maybe he would allow me to turn them into bed sheets after this painting finished.

I took his hand and raised it above his body, sliding onto the platform to face him. We laid against each other, toe to forehead, just a mere inch apart except for our cocks, which caressed one another with our every breath. His eyes and smile softened, and his thumb ran along the edge of my hand.

“You have tempted me thoroughly, as you well know. But I believe I have a few more poses to try you out in.” I guided his hand gently so that his arm bent and rested above his head, stretching his side long and lean. I touched my mouth to his briefly, placed my hand on his waist and moved him so that he was on his back. I lifted his other arm above his head and crossed his wrists over one another.

“Beautiful,” I said as I ran my hand from his wrist, along his arm, the ticklish skin where his arm met his body, down the taut side and onto slight hip. I leaned over and kissed him, the silk letting my body slip easily to reach him. I restrain myself to a gentle, teasing kiss lest I overwhelm him like I was overwhelmed with the feelings of love and lust coursing through my body for him. “I think we should see how this pose works, don’t you?”

He moved under me, aided by the slippery cloth, his skin was soft and dry and felt much like the cloth did. He nipped at my bottom lip playfully. “Yes. And really I’m not sure about this pose. We should test its usefulness thoroughly.”

End

Casual Sex Friday

This story is submission ready, and as such, I’m getting it ready for submission.  I need to write a query letter. I’ve been struggling with a good hook for the story for about a week, but with feedback from various sources, I’ve think the hook is good. If this were not part of a series I was working on with another author, my plan would be to submit it this weekend. However, as there is another author involved, even though I would like to submit it this week I envision actually starting the submission process in a month or two.

Unnamed Outpost World (Shuu)

The plot for this story came upon suddenly at work. I have the entire plot outlined and set up in Scrivener. We are at the “butt in chair, hands on keyboard, just get the stupid words on the stupid page” stage. I try to have a publisher in mind for a story as I write it, but in this case I have absolutely no idea who I am going to shop this to. This has a larger cast of character than is typical in romance, and one of the love interests (as the outline stands) doesn’t show up until the 25% mark. My plan is to get this draft out once I finish The Menage.

Holiday Story

My heart simply wasn’t in this one.  I am one of those people who can’t get into the holiday spirit until the holidays actually are upon us. I like the characters, the plot is a little meh right now. Actually, the plot is fine. I am just not in a place to write this. My plan is to put this piece on hold until, at the very least, winter rolls around and it’s not 100 degrees outside. I hope to be able to offer it as a freebie around the holidays.

Servant’s Scent

I really really want to expand this.  It’s a 5k short that is warm and fuzzy, and I wish I knew how to make it longer. I have a couple related stories planned. I’m tempted to weave the stories together. Plan: When the inspiration strikes, write! Otherwise: Work on The Menage.

The Menage (working title)

Another story set in the world of 66 Faces.  This is going to be a bear to write. Since the stories in this series are all intended to be around 16k in length, I think I can whip out a first draft of this fairly quickly.  My goal is to get the first 50% down and the first 25% revised by Tuesday so that I can put it to my critique group.

I won’t be tedious and relate in detail the events of my vacation. I thought, especially the first place I went, that it would be a peaceful and relaxing place to just exist. I did get a couple hours of that. But it was more a time of visiting with family. Seeing these people I’m connected to but see so rarely. And I got the chance to visit with a great uncle who is unlikely to see another spring. So yes, all the family visiting was great.

I had a small bit of writing productivity on said vacation. I wrote 4,500 words of a Christmas Story. Unfortunately, they’re 4,500 rather dull words. But hopefully a revision will brighten them up. Or not. We shall see.

After all that vacationing, it turns out that my home, my sweet, silent home, is actually that peaceful and relaxing place to just exist. So what if I had misc chores? I did them and then I went outside and existed with a book and the dog at my feet (despite it being 90F). It was lovely.

After the audiobook completed, Orson Scott Card came on and started talking about Ender’s Game and its 20th anniversary. He said a couple things I thought quite interesting. The first (according to Card): Scifi has rivets. Fantasy has trees. A Scifi book cover has sheet metal and shiny surfaces (often with rivets); fantasy books have covers with trees. I got a kick out of that as the rule to determine which genre a book belongs to.

The other thing, not as pithy or amusing, was that Ender’s Game was originally a short story. He didn’t write the novel until he decided to write Speaker for the Dead but needed more out of Ender’s Game. So the novel was written. And is awesome. And then Speaker for the Dead, which is awesome in an entirely different way.

I find it interesting that this book that I think is amazing, captivating, thrilling, exciting, was created only because Card needed it to support an even more brilliant book. And that book could not be as amazing had Ender’s Game not been fleshed out to what it is.

I think that’s enough rambling from the passenger seat.

p.s. In case you’re wondering, Pastwatch: The Redemption of Christopher Columbus is a close 2nd in terms of awesomeness to [Ender's Game/Speaker for the Dead] in my all time top 10 scifi fantasy list.

We went to Gray’s Peak. We chose this peak because it is within driving distance of where we live, and it is considered to be one of the easier 14ers to attempt. Due to weather patterns this time of year, it is very important to be off mountains by mid to late afternoon (lightening danger). As such, we left at 3:45am, arrived at 5:20am (parking lot full!), and started hiking around 6am, just after there was enough sunlight to see by. The hike was 7.5 miles roundtrip, and took us about 7 hours (my fault, I’m slow).

On this particularly hike, I learned several things:

• I am not in good enough physical shape to attempt hikes of this difficulty. (P90X workouts, here we come!)
• It may be coincidence, but state parks seem to have much better maintained roads leading to them and parking lots.
• The road up to Gray’s Peak is for the most part “good” (where good is “technically passable”), but there is a quarter mile that is absolutely terrifying. Terrifying.
• Colorado’s beauty continues to amaze me
• Fun fact: Gray’s Peak is the tallest peak on the continental divide.

The area around the Gray’s peak trailhead is gorgeous. To the west is the continental divide, and a lovely stream of water running off the mountains. The trailhead is just at the tree line. There is vegetation for the first couple miles going up hill, but not trees. Mostly short grass, wildflowers, and eventually just mosses. I loved the wildflowers sprinkled every where and the babbling of the creak. If the trailhead were easier to get to, I would love to go back just to hike on the first mile or so of the trail.

Probably due to our timing (Saturday at the end of July), there were many other people hiking with us. Though it was crowded, hiking in a crowd is always kind of a fun thing. Everyone is nice and says hi to you. I had a conversation with a woman about my hat. People look out for you and make sure everyone’s doing all right. It’s like this little oasis of good, kind people, where you have all formed a close group by virtue of being on this mountain.

I have accepted a husbandless vacation and am planning how I will spend my time. The place where I’m going is the place I based Simon’s hiding place on. I’m driving a route I’ve never taken, and I’m looking forward to experiencing this route that I (briefly) described Simon taking in OHAG. I love traveling by car through this country. It’s amazing how different and beautiful the land is as you move east to west, north to south.

I haven’t been there in four years, and the last time was bittersweet. In the sweet vein, we were all there–my extended family. But we were mourning the loss of a family member, seeking solace in this peaceful place of our childhood that seems to exist outside the reality of normal life.

While there, I plan to do a whole lot of nothing and ficlet writing. By nothing I mean photography, motor boating, walking in the woods, star grazing, swimming, and generally just existing.

Why? Well, I’ve been trying to figure out what was the catalyst for this. And as I sit in the back seat, being driven on nauseatingly windy roads to Rocky Mtn National Park, it came to me. A photo blog of a college peer piqued my interest, but what really did it… I wrote a character who photographed his hikes. I think that’s where it started.

This must have been building in my sub-conscience for a good year and a half. Immersing myself in this knowledge makes me feel closer to the best friend I left behind when I moved to Denver. She is a photographer and always with her camera, sharing her work with me. I still miss her terribly.

Omg. In other news, we arrived at our destination and realized none of us have cash to pay the parking fee. Fail. Now to Nederland to find a bank.

Today’s disappointment was my husband telling me he wouldn’t be joining me on vacation next month. A couple weeks ago he expressed interest in going, indicated he would like to go, and would if the opportunity presented itself. It presented. I knew there was still a strong possibility he’d say no. I tried to prepare myself for it. He said no, and I find myself quite disappointed.

But that’s okay. Really. I’m bummed. It was his choice, I let him freely make this choice, and because of that I certainly can’t try to make him feel bad about it.

I love where I’m going. I will have a wonderful, peaceful time. And because he’s not going, I’ll even take a side trip and see my parents before flying home. Yay parents.

I don’t think I’ve talked about Fairytale Fusion much, but it’s a piece I’ve been posting on goodreads at a slug’s pace. There is a prologue and three chapters up. The current storyline is based on Rumplestiltzken, and, spoiler alert, it’s not going to end as easily it does in the traditional version.

So yes, productivity is way down and I have three things I absolutely must finish tonight. I’ve had to start taking my laptop to work to write over my lunch break. This violates my belief that home work/life and work work/life should be absolutely separate. It’s a slippery slope from here.

I have nothing else to say. Except Scrivener is awesome.

It occurred to me that perhaps instead of showing sadness I could attempt to develop a strong sympathy from the reader for sadness.  Manipulate the reader into feeling the emotion that I cannot show.  How do I do this?  Not sure yet, but it must be easier than showing an emotion I have so little ability to articulate.

It’s a tricky nut to crack in this particular case because the sadness comes out of nowhere for the character.  He has no idea why he’s sad.  So how do I get the reader to feel sad? I’m back to analogy or simile as a solution. Kicked puppies, anyone? Those are very sad.

This led to a moment of “I have no idea what to do!” The character experiencing sadness is the POV character. It is written in close 3rd person, which means that the POV is intimately inside of the character’s head. And I have no idea how to show that character’s sadness. The only thing that comes to mind would be to employ an elaborate analogy or simile. It is not difficult to show other characters being sad (or other emotion), because the POV character has the benefit of observing their body language.

But showing one’s own sadness? I have only my experience to draw from, and I’ll be the first to admit I’m not exactly in tune or capable of processing and speaking articulately about emotions, much less my own. If I’m really sad, it hurts, literally and figuratively. If I’m desperately sad, I’ll often use physical pain to deal with the emotional pain. All I know is that I’m sad, and I need it to stop. I want to sleep. I want to be unconscious or unaware of the sadness. And those are literally the thoughts that go through my head. I cry, my torso is tense, and if I’m at that point, some part (unseen to observers) on my body probably feels physical pain I deliver, and that physical pain is wonderful and soothing.

So that’s all I’ve got. How do I show a POV character feeling sad?

Being the child of the net generation, I turn to Google. Unfortunately, I didn’t find anything that addressed my specific issue. However, I did find a nice resource for showing emotion. These shows, however, I would consider entirely appropriate for non-POV characters, and partially appropriate for POV characters. Sadness… a couple of ideas were helpful. Rapid swallowing, constricting throat and chest muscles (probably the most used I’ve seen in writing), falling face.

Perhaps I need to step back the POV and take it a little farther out of the head of the character? Something to work on in the future.

The resource for emotion is from a blog back in 2009 by Jacqui Murary. She splits up emotional shows alphabetically into three entries:

1. How to Show (Not Tell) an Emotion–A to D
2. How to Show (Not Tell) an Emotion–E to O
3. How to Show (Not Tell) an Emotion–S to Z

Anyhoo. Courtesy of a few self pep talks, I seem to be getting words on screen. In the past two days I’ve added ~9.8k to one story. All to the soundtrack of Fleet Foxes’ Helplessness Blues. Tomorrow, I’m writing a ficlet. I am. (To the soundtrack of Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman”) Rawr.

I have a ficlet in mind.  But I’m in a funk, remember? It’s about a piano player who plays the loveliest rendition of Sinnerman (as made famous by Nina Simone) at one of the outdoor pianos downtown. Watch for it soon.

Shipping from Sk’lher took far too long. Yeah, so it was inaccessible by human means. So it was in the middle of the mountain continent. Three months was simply far too long!

Avery stared longingly at the delivery cart that passed by his door without stopping. He heaved a great sigh and tore himself away from the window.

“Still waiting?”

Avery jumped. Father hadn’t been there a minute ago—had he? With such a huge stack of books in his arms, Avery would have noticed—wouldn’t he? “It’ll come soon.” He nodded for good measure. It would.

“I still say it was foolish to spend your money on such a frivolous piece.” His father didn’t even look at Avery when he talked, he just slid books into their proper places on bookshelves. Eventually the stack was gone. It was quiet in the house. Mom was at work, and his brothers and sister were long gone. Maybe he could go to the manor and see if Leo was free. “Have you finished your studies?”

“Yes father.”

His father looked like he wanted to say something, but then came a knock at the door. It probably wasn’t… but maybe? Avery ran to the door and threw it open. The postman stood there with a stack of envelopes and a wood crate about half Avery’s height.

“I’ve got a box for you, Avery.”

It was here! He could barely contain he glee. “I’ve been waiting forever for this.” Behind the postman, Leo was there, trying to peek around him at the box. Of course Leo would be there. He always was around when the good stuff happened. And never around when the bad stuff did. Lucky bum. The postman handed Avery a stack of letters, tipped his hat, and left.

He set the letters aside—just updates from his family, no doubt. Leo stood on the other side of the crate, poking at it. “Father is it all right if Leo and I go open this?”

Father made a noncommittal sound while leafing through the mail.

Avery grinned at Leo, and they picked up the box together and took it around back to the edge of the woods. A couple swings of the hammer and it was open.

“They’re gorgeous.” Leo reached out and caressed one of the daggers. Avery shivered. He knew how those caresses felt, and he knew how much he wanted to do that to the weapon.

Leo removed his hand and Avery gently lifted one of the daggers out of the straw packing. It was perfectly balanced and just the right weight. “Amazing.” He ran his hands over the polished hilt and gleaming blade. The hilt was wrapped and supple leather dyed emerald green and midnight blue. The grip didn’t slip at all in his hands. He brought it to his nose and inhaled, but the odor of the straw packing overwhelmed the aroma of leather.

Leo was doing very similar things to the other dagger. They were twins except for the coloring. The hilt blade Leo held was wrapped in red and black leather. Leo looked up at Avery, a very serious expression settled on his face. “Shall we test them?”

Avery swallowed and nodded. They had discussed this in detail. They were still too young to commit to each other in the eyes of the kingdom—at least without their parents’ blessing—so this was their promise to each other. They took the daggers and dragged the blades through their palms. The skin parted like butter under a hot knife. Blood welled up and he ran the blade through it. Leo did the same. Holding the dagger by the blade, he held it Leo. Avery took the hilt of the blade offered to him in his uncut hand.

Holding their own daggers now, they clasped hands, letting their blood mingle. “I am yours, Leo. And you are mine.”

“As you are mine, Avery, I am yours.”

They leaned toward one another and kissed a chaste kiss to seal the promise. Avery inhaled the scent of Leo before drawing back. Their hands were still clasped, and a little smile floated on Leo’s face. There was probably a very goofy smile on his own.

Leo squeezed his hand. “We should bandage these.”

Avery nodded.

“Then we should begin our study of these.” Leo turned his dagger, testing it.

Avery swooped forward for another quick kiss. “Yes! I have a target set up in the woods.”

Leo pulled two white pieces of cloth out of this pocket and they bandaged their hands. Then they ran into the forest to begin practicing their new weapons. A beat of lust moved through Avery as he watched Leo run ahead of him. If they got side tracked, that was okay too.

End

My last meeting of the day had finally ended. It was only two-thirty in the afternoon, too. Instead of getting some much needed work done, though, I was going home.

It was a crappy day—clouds were coming in low over the mountains, lending a pervasive gray feel to life. It had snowed briefly earlier and was expected to snow again in the evening. Humid, cold, and May. I wanted to spend the weekend sunbathing, but instead we’d be holed up inside the house shaking our heads at the stupid weather.

Well, I hoped we’d be holed up in the house.

The roads were blissfully undersaturated, and I made it home in record time. There was a strange car parked in front of the house, and we had a crap-ton of furniture for Goodwill taking up my parking spot in the garage, so I parked in front of the neighbor’s house.

I unbuckled the seatbelt and reconsidered, yet again, my reason for being here. I could be wrong. It could be nothing. There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation why Jordan would wash the sheets in the middle of the week. We hadn’t had sex in a couple of weeks… so there wasn’t the need to remove the film of ick that normally resulted. That was really the only time I saw him wash sheets—after sex. For all I knew they weren’t washed otherwise.

It was irrational. Totally, completely, paranoid. But once the idea had entered my mind, it took root and would not be dislodged.

I went in the house quietly. It was silent. No lights were on. The TV was off. No music playing anywhere. Very different from what I normally came home to in the evenings. I stood in the living room listening for Jordan. The intermittent sounds of his voice carried to me—he was in our bedroom. I took off my shoes and walked toward the bedroom. I was not creeping. Yeah, so I avoided the known creaks in the floor. I just didn’t like the creaks. That’s all.

I was right outside the door now. It was cracked open. Jordan was standing with his back to the door folding clothes. His head was tilted to the side holding a phone between his shoulder and his ear. I shouldn’t eavesdrop.

“Mmm, yeah I could probably do that. Take a week off in August.” He listened to the person on the other end. “No, James has some crazy project that won’t end until November. Any vacations for me are… well they’re not with him this year.”

I was dying to know who was on the phone. Who would Jordan go on vacation with? None of our friends were the type to vacation with other friends.

“Things with James are the same… For the love of Christ, no… Whatever.” Jordan heaved a giant sigh. “I really don’t want to talk about him.” My eyebrows raised of their own volition. I fought the urge to go pick up another phone to hear both sides of the conversation. “Yeah. Okay, look I’ve got to go. I need to take care of some things.” Classic Jordan phone abandonment strategy there. “Yeah… Yeah… Okay, I’ll check my calendar and let you know. Yeah… okay. Love you, too.” He dropped the phone on the bed and picked up another piece of laundry.

I pushed the door open fully and it banged and rebounded against the doorstop. Jordan spun around, his hand (clutching my boxers) over his heart. “Holy shit, James, you scared me.” He lowered his arms and dropped the frog-patterned underwear on the bed. I don’t know why I let him buy my underwear, but he takes great joy in finding the dumbest fabric patterns.

He took another breath. “Why are you home?” He must have thought it sounded accusatory, because he rushed out, “Not that I’m complaining or anything. Are you sick?”

“No, I just wanted…” to see if there was anyone else here; and who was on the damn phone? “My afternoon freed up and I thought I’d come spend it with you.”

“Oh.” He got the cutest goofy grin across his face.

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him in a hug. He leaned into me, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It eased my mind a bit. “Who was on the phone, babe?”

“Oh, mom.”

I was pretty sure by now that I was definitely just being a paranoid bastard.

“She asked me if we wanted to go on vacation with them this year. I said you couldn’t… but I think I will.”

“Where are you going?”

Jordan shrugged in my arms. “Dad’s always wanted to do an Alaska cruise; I think this is the year.”

“Sounds nice.”

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to go?”

I wished I could say yes. But he was right, what he told his mom. There was no way I could leave work for more than a day or two. “I wish I could. Next year, I promise, we’ll go somewhere.”

He sighed. “Okay.”

I racked my mind trying to think of how to find out about the sheets. I was almost one-hundred percent sure I was just being paranoid. But I needed to know. I gave him a quick squeeze. “You’re just a laundry machine lately. First the sheets, now clothes.”

Jordan chuckled. “Yeah. Shocking, isn’t it?” It really was, given how much Jordan hated laundry. “I didn’t sleep much two nights ago, and my pillow case smelled like old drool. And I knew when I crashed yesterday, I wanted it to smell like rain, or whatever the hell the detergent is supposed to smell like… And then I had no underwear this morning. I had to borrow a pair of yours.”

Yes. Call me paranoid-James. I felt embarrassed and a little guilty. I wanted to apologize, but it would be stupid to tell James the real motivation behind coming home. He would be hurt, and it wouldn’t help anything. But I could still make it up to him. “Done with work for the day?” I wanted to see which pair of boxers he borrowed.

He looked at the clock. “Yeah, I could be. I was just taking a break, but… yeah.”

I kissed the top of his head and he tilted it up, so I kissed his lips gently.

“I’m glad you’re home. It’s a nice surprise.”

“Mm Hmm.” I kissed him again and started pulling his shirt up, caressing the skin over his stomach and chest as the shirt moved away.

“It becomes messy, you’re changing the sheets.”

“Deal… And very messy.” I pushed him onto the bed, shirtless now, kissing and licking him everywhere that skin was bared, and got to work at ensuring some very dirty sheets.

End

OHAG is still with a beta reader. My diversion of The Park is stuck. I’m can’t decide whether ch 3 should include yet more sex or not… and it’s preventing me from even getting started.

Original opening for a ficlet that will be adapted for angel piece:

Last night I dreamed of the ocean. It felt like I was still there, when the truth was it’s been so long. Years. Almost a decade. I long for the ocean—it’s vast, deep blue waters lapping at the short. I fear the ocean—it’s endless, black water racing from the ends of the earth to the land, pounding into the cliffs.

I woke breathless and terrified; lonely and empty. Even half the day later, I still felt subdued and… wrong.

I’m really unimpressed with this blog theme’s blockquote styling. Will have to address that next time I’m tweaking the theme.

The Park is moving along.  I’ve got the whole thing plotted, just gotta actually write the words.  That’s coming along.  I think the first draft will end up around 8k, and I’ll expand it up to 16k.

One of my favoritest tiniest publishers has a submission call for angel-related short stories.  I’m really tempted to write something for it.  But there’s a teeny tiny problem.  I have zero creativity when it comes to expanding upon the angel sub-genre.  So I’ve been trying to come up with something interesting.  So far I’ve thought about an adaption to classic lit to incorporate gay angels (apologies to the author spinning in his grave right now).  Angel games. And… crap, I just now thought of one and i can’t remember it.  Crap crap crap.  Well, that story’s gone.  Oh phew, remembered.  And the other idea being angels as the protagonists of the story based on a traditional Scottish folk-song.  The first idea probably wouldn’t be short–it would be well well over the 25k limit.  The second idea has promise, need to think on it some more.  And the third idea… I love the song and I think it could work… but to be true to the song it would be better suited to DSP’s bittersweet dream collections…  So also need thought into that.

Angels angels angels.

One of my critique partners, Mr. Cooper, showed us a story he’s working on now called Brothers with Benefits.  I was absolutely enchanted by the catalyzing factor in the brothers’ relationship.  We’re talking after our writing group meeting about the possibility of other stories with the same catalyzing factor… and I kind of got carried away with plot ideas.

But!  He says that I can write in that world, and I’m super excited.  I’m working on a story right now tentatively titled The Park. It’s about two co-workers, Ben and Calvin.  Calvin wants Ben, Ben thinks Calvin is boring.  But then, Calvin catches Ben doing something naughty.  Dun dun dun~ I’m hoping for a 15k-er. I’ve been working on it between revising OHAG.  Hopefully I can get that revision done soon and off to some beta readers.

It’s April, and spring is trying to make itself known in Evie-land.  I woke up this morning and there was snow on the ground!  Last year, I killed large patches of weeds in the yard that should have been grass.  I tried to reseed the area, but did so too late.  So now, the husband and I have been clearing weeds in the yard and planting grass.  (why didn’t we pay someone to do this??)  This weekend I bought a whole bunch of flowering annuals and have been putting together a container garden.  I’m not a huge gardener–my grandmothers and mom and brother are.  Simon and Owen have been on my mind as I go about these gardening tasks.  Trying to make a yard pretty and respectable is hard work!

Micro-blurb: Grant ran away from home months ago. So why is his sister looking for him after all this time? And what’s he supposed to do about it? 

This is a short (4.8k words) and sweet little ficlet I wrote back in March. Much credit to my critique group for helping to improve it.

This ficlet is available to read on Goodreads. Alternatively, you can download ebook files here:

• Download PDF: Lost Boy (pdf)
• Download ePub: Lost Boy (epub)
• Download mobi (Kindle): Lost Boy (mobi)

• I am still working on the 52 in 2011 resolution, but I’m behind!  Yikes.  This month is catch-up month.
• For the past four months I’ve been reading a lot of books on writing craft.  I think I’ve run out of books that interest me in this niche.  However, I’m currently reading … something with Engineering in the title (it’s late, my brain is on strike).  It was just released and I am looking forward to it.
• I’ve started serious revisions on a WIP.  It’s my primary focus right now.
• I’ve started a couple of stories that may or may not work out.  One is a story with parallel time lines, and I’m not sure it can work in written form.  The other is story about werewolves.  Yes, that’s right, Evie is trying wolves.  Anyone familiar with my bookshelves knows this is a love/hate genre for me.

That’s all for now.

Dustin walked down the street, searching for the right looking window. This one was a children’s store—with red-themed toys displayed just so. Little heart-shaped cut-outs gave the idea of raining hearts. Be mine. I love you. Little dolls dressed in red with angel-wings floated in midair. He signed and moved on.

The next window was a… lingerie store? Next to a children’s store? Same theme, but this time it was silky heart-shaped pillows floating in midair with a larger than life sized woman, in every way, “dressed” in a red thong and red gauzy top thing, whatever those were called, and the image was completed with fluffy white angel wings. He shook his head.

Last year had been so much easier. Flowers—check. Dinner—check. Flavored lube—double check. All well, good, and appropriate. But then Trav gave him a piece of chocolate, Dustin returned the wrapper folded in the shape of a heart. Trav grinned like Dustin gave him the world and kept it in his wallet ever since. Well until he showed up.

Three weeks had passed since he showed up—since the end of Dustin’s happily ever after. The irony was not lost on him that here he was, the day before Valentine’s day, shopping for an appropriately romantic gift for him. What does one get his nemesis for Valentin’s Day?

He looked ahead, a large Barnes and Noble cafe jutted out from the recessed stores. If he couldn’t find anything in there… he’d make a cake. And not poison it, tempting though the idea was.

Dustin walked passed the cafe and turned into the entrance of the bookstore. He spotted the section with note cards and journals and all sorts of useless boxes and lights and oddities that people must like, because a large section of the store sold them. Walking around the non-book area in the bookstores, he dismissed the note cards, dismissed the reading light—who know if he even read—he rolled his eyes at the sticker section. Sparkly pens? He ended up staring at the blank journals and diaries. If he didn’t read, or write, maybe he drew? Or something. He picked one somewhat at random—a modern design lacking in any image that could be taken as a message or symbol of some kind.

Waiting to pay at the register, Dustin looked at the gift cards. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d get one for him. It would probably be seen as too impersonal for a mate, though. Even a hated one.

He paid. He rushed to his car, and he sat in the parking lot otherwise known as I-25 hoping that he wouldn’t be late to the stupid party. The party that was thrown just for them. The alphas were trying to mediate, or something. Mediate? More like meddle in his life. So here he was, foot on and off the clutch, trying to get to his alpha’s house for a “Valentine’s Dinner”. Even the name was stupid. The only rule was to bring your made and bring a gift for your partner.

Dustin gritted his teeth and clenched his hands around the steering wheel. The fury leaked out of the box Dustin had shoved it into and invaded his body. He took deep breaths. He tried to get his arms to relax. Staring at the license place in front of him, he did math problems with the numbers to try to forget and push the rage back. He started calculating the powers of two in his head. Thirty minutes and a mile north later (what was wrong with this traffic?!), he had mostly succeeded.

He turned on NPR and listened to the world news like his life depended on it. Mindless. Eventually he arrived at his alpha’s house. The lights were on, and by the number of cars around the house, he was probably the last to arrive. Just great. One more thing to criticize him for.

He parked and hurried in to the house, present included… did he take the price tag off? He walked in to five other people staring at him.

“You’re late.” His alpha, Charlie accused.

Dustin hung his coat with the other coats. “Sorry, the interstate was a parking lot.”

“We were getting worried.” Of course he would worry. Dustin was a big boy, damn it. He didn’t need him to worry about his safety.

But he forced on a smile and sought eye contact and said in what he hoped was convincing and not sarcastic, “I’m sorry, Dax. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Dax frowned, and maybe Dustin hadn’t been as convincing as he’d hoped. The group was silent, Dustin had no idea what to say, he didn’t want to be here and he didn’t want anyone to know how much he really didn’t want to be here. He glanced at the other people—the alphas, their wives, and Dax. They each looked as ill-at-ease has he felt.

Finally, Dax’s alpha’s wife, whose name he didn’t know, cleared her throat, “I, um, think that dinner should be almost ready.” A ding sounded from another room and she gave a relieved smile.

Dinner was not awkward, but it wasn’t easy, either. Tracy, his alpha’s wife, was clearly very proud of her decorations. Hearts and roses and cupids of varying shapes and sizes all over the place. Dax politely complemented the decor. It was a lie. Hearts and flowers and cupids had no place in his life right now. He wanted to rip each one to shreds and feed them through a paper shredder… or a wood chipper. Yes. Wood chipper.

The visiting alpha’s wife, whose name turned out to be Jan, kept asking him about his family, life, past, job, present, hobbies, future, and whatever else came to mind. It took him forever to eat, and why wasn’t anyone else on the spot? Tracy took away their plates, he wasn’t anywhere near full, but what could he say? He was telling Jan about the hiking trails in Northern Cascades. And she looked so interested.

He glanced around telling while telling them about the wildlife and the others were listening is supposed fascination as well. Dax had propped his chin on his hand and had a stupid smile on his face. It became bigger when he realized Dustin was looking at him.

Dustin quickly looked back to Jan and started talking about the snow fall patterns. Riveting stuff.

Tracy, who very appropriately had donned angel wings, carried in a large heart-shaped chocolate cake. “Why don’t we have some cake!” She winked at Dustin and cut him a huge slice of the cake. “And we could also exchange Valentine’s gifts now too.” Everyone else agreed; Dustin dug into his cake, determined to eat it all before someone made him speak again.

One by one they gave their gift, they were all sweet and meaningful somehow to each one. Well, Dax apparently had the same problems he had. Dax gave him a gift card to the movie theatre. “I…” Dax blushed, “I was hoping we could go sometime?” As if Dustin wanted to go out with him. But he put one a smile and said things like “of course” and “that’s great” and “thank you.” Thankfully, his alpha looked like he believed Dustin was sincere. And damn it, that meant that at some point he actually had to go on a date with him.

He handed Dax the journal and, really? Dax laughed. “How did you know I needed one of these?” He turned the journal over, opened it, felt the pages. “This is perfect! Spiral bound, heavy blank pages. Thank you.” Dax grinned and flipped through the pages. He looked sincere. Then again, Dustin hoped he looked as sincere as Dax did. Who knows. Dax probably hated it.

The other two couples started talking about how they had met each other. They were cute stories, and they were all very much in love. Trav’s face flitted through his head and Dustin shoved it back into the Trav box. He couldn’t think about Trav. Not here. Not today. Not with his alpha watching him so closely.

Jan turned to Dax, “How did you two find each other?”

Dax grinned at me then looked back at Jan. “I was walking down the street one Sunday morning, and there he was.” He looked back at me.

I nodded, looking at Jan. “There I was.” With Trav.

The party wound down, thank god, and Dax stood with Dustin saying goodbye to their alphas and their wives. Correct pleasantries were exchanged and finally they were released.

“Thanks again for the notebook.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I know it’s not our normal night,” I glanced at him and he must not have liked what he saw on my face because he stopped talking and his whole body kind of slumped. Yeah, I felt guilty. And maybe I should say yes, come over, let’s fuck. But I couldn’t. I still wanted Trav.

He walked with me to my car and as I opened the door he said, “Well, I guess I’ll see you Friday.”

“Yep.”

“Bye Dustin.”

“Bye Dax.”

I drove home, feeling even worse than when I’d gotten there. The fury had broken out of it’s box again and somehow meshed with the guilt I felt towards Dax. I needed a drink in the worst way. What an awful Valentine’s Day. And the first of how many? Something had to change.

End

“Know how they say black cats bring bad luck? Well they’re absolutely, totally, one-hundred percent correct.”

The man whose general vicinity I’d spoken in stared at me, wide-eyed and confused. I nodded at him then looked around the almost empty reading nook in the bookstore.

“Bad day?” he said. I hadn’t actually expected a response.

“You could say that. And again.” I fell back into the cushy reading chair. “And it all started with that mangy cat,” I mumbled. Yeah, I might be sulking a bit. There was no point to staying except to thaw out a bit before braving the elements again.

“Is it still snowing out?”

Why does this guy keep talking to me? I guess I started it. “It’s let up mostly. But there’s a good two inches of powder on the sidewalks, and the streets are sheets of ice.”

“Hmm. Were you here for the book club?”

“Yeah, wasted trip.”

“It was my first time tonight—at the book club.”

“Ah. Did you read the book?” I really like talking about books. I love book club. It’s not about the social aspect, of getting out, or seeing friends. It’s about the book.

“Most of it. I’m finishing it now.” He held up the book that had been obscured in his lap. Sure enough, it was our book. “Would you like to get some coffee in the cafe?”

“Now there’s an idea. Yes.”

We got up and made our way to the cafe. “My name’s Walt, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Nick.”

I ordered a hot chocolate, and he ordered iced tea. I held onto the cup, soaking in the drink’s warmth. If it tasted as good as it felt, I’d be in hot chocolate heaven soon.

“So tell me about the black cat.” He looked at me curiously.

“Sadie. Nothing has gone right since she ran across my path—my car’s path—yesterday. I hit a light pole.”

“That is bad luck. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. The car isn’t. It’s in the shop. Sadie—that’s the cat—she didn’t leave the scene. She sat there all proud of herself, reg—“

“You honestly believe the cat was proud of causing your car accident?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Sorry I interrupted, please go on.” He waved his had, inviting me to proceed with the rest of the story.

“Then it’s just been one disaster after another. Missed the bus, got a paper cut, burnt my lunch, stubbed my toe, missed the bus again, it snows, miss book club.”

“You met me, though.” He grinned at me and his voice was suggestive; my train of thought screeched to a halt. Was he flirting with me?

His expression starts to fall and I realized I’d been silent too long. I laughed to try and cover the faux pas. “You are an unknown, still. Whether or not you’re bad luck remains to be seen.”

He smiled, and a little part of me was relieved. “I’m good luck. Don’t worry.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I searched for some other topic. He’d already said he’d joined our book club. “How far are you in the book?”

“Yoshiro just regained consciousness—after taken to the Yakuza boss’s stronghold.”

I nodded. “Good part.” He nodded and I checked my watch quickly. It was later than I thought, and I had five minutes to get to the bus stop. “Sorry to cut out so quickly, but I need to get going. It was really nice to meet you.”

“You too, Nick.” We stood and shook hands. His grip lasted a little too long. Definitely flirting. “If it’s not too forward of me, do you want to,” he glanced out the window and then back at me, “I mean, do you want to talk more about the book? Over dinner?”

I couldn’t contain the happiness, I grinned. This good looking stranger wanted to have dinner with me. “Sure. When and where?”

“Suzy’s at 7, tomorrow.”

Wow, not even a day in between. “I’ll be there—assuming I don’t fall and break my leg. I really gotta go.”

We said our goodbyes and I, by some small mercy of the god of black cats, made the bus. The next day dragged slowly.

I was only fifteen minutes late to Suzy’s. I hoped Walt would still be there. Sadie’s curse continued to follow me. I ran into Suzy’s and looked around. I finally saw Walt, blending into the shadow of a back corner booth. I hurried over and sat down.

“I’m so sorry I’m late—my shoe lace broke after getting off the bus.”

“Sadie, still?”

“How could it be anything else?” A waitress came and rattled off the specials and took our drink orders.

We sat in silence a moment. Waiting for the other to speak first. “So… you have a wife at home?” Walt asked oh-so-non-chalantly.

I laughed; I couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry. No. Of course not. I thought you knew I’m gay.”

He shrugged looking a little sheepish. “I guessed. Single?”

“As a dollar bill.” It was corny, but it got a laugh. The waitress returned with our drinks and took our orders and menus. I took a sip of my martini. “So, how’d you like the book?”

“The ending was great,” he said. “I don’t know how I got to sleep last night, I was so wired.”

“I know! What a rush. I can’t wait to read the sequel.”

“Does that mean we need to set up a next date to discuss it?” He leaned forward, holding eye contact and smiling flirtatiously.

“Yes. But no promises Sadie doesn’t kill me first.”

Walt reached his hand across the table and gently traced line on mine. “I think I should have a word with this Sadie.”

“Tonight?”

His eyes widened and mouth opened slightly. “Tonight?”

“Well, I know good luck when I see it. And damned if I’m gonna let it get away.”

End

Note: Sora is from Sand and Glass; and it turns out Shuu has his own story, Sea and Glass.  WIPs both of them.

Shuu.  Age 18.  After bucket conversation.

Shuu wandered into his room, arms hanging limply at his sides.  They swung slightly back and forth as he walked, shaking with exhaustion.  Three hours of bucket holding.  That was harsh, even for Old Man Prasad.

“You okay?” Sora asked from his bed.  He was laying back, reading a military tactics manual, ankle propped on his knee.

Shuu flopped down onto his bed, sprawling out lazily.  “Yeah.” He wouldn’t be able to lift his arms for days.  Or until he had to do it all over again tomorrow.

“Why do you antagonize Old Man?”

Shuu sighed.  “I don’t know.  If he wouldn’t… keep needling I’d be able to keep my mouth shut.”  But Old Man just kept at him.  What do you mean?  You have a look.  Why did you laugh?

Shuu turned his head to watch Sora.  Sora was gorgeous.  His small, lithe body and dark hair complemented Shuu’s more muscular form and light blond hair.  Shuu often considered the beauty of their contrast in the mirror in the morning when they brushed their teeth.  After they turned twenty-one, he had every intention of pursuing Sora.  It would be a hard time, at first.  Sora would be crushed, of course; his dream was to be a guardian.  But Shuu would be there for him.  Console him.  Love him.  Show him what a wonderful life they could have in the outpost.  He estimated a 75% probability of successfully wooing Sora.

Sora was quiet.  His foot was bouncing nervously on he knee, and he chewed at his lower lip.  After some more moments of silence, “Shuu?”

His eye lids were so heavy.  He slowly blinked.  “What?”

Sora sat up and crossed his legs into the lotus position. “You don’t really want to be a guardian, do you?”

“No”

“Then why are you still here?”

How could he explain to Sora?  Sora was so focused on being a guardian that he understood nothing else.  “Well, you want to be a guardian right?”

“More than anything.”  Sora’s face softened—he must be thinking wistfully of his nonexistent traveler again.

“What happens to people who train to be guardians, but aren’t chosen?”

Sora looked pensive, then said, “Well, they become the leaders of the outpost.”

“I want to be one of them.”

“Oh.  What if you’re chosen to be a guardian?”

Shuu smiled.  “I won’t be.”

***

Shuu.  Age 20.  2 months left.

Shuu watched warily as Old Man Prasad poked angrily at his dead watermelon vines.  Based on Old Man’s level of agitation, Shuu estimated a 72% probability that they would be holding water buckets within two hours.

It wouldn’t be a random activity.  No.  It would be punishment for failing to do something insanely difficult.  Like herding cats.  Shuu sighed.  At the prospect of water buckets, he actually envied Sora in the world with his traveler.  And then he thought that in two short months he’d be free to pursue his own dreams in the outpost, while Sora lived out his outside of the outpost.

Two months and there would be no more water buckets.  Two months and he could take a lover.  Two months and he would not longer be eligible to be a guardian.  Two months and he cou—

“Excuse me.” A small hand tugged on his shirt.  Shuu looked down and frowned.  It was Adam, the outpost leader’s son.

“What?”

“Dad wants to see you.  He’s in his office.”

Shuu looked at Old Man Prasad stalking angrily towards them.  He looked down at Adam and grinned.  “Great timing.  Let’s go.”

The outpost central office was, aptly enough, located in the center of the outpost.  Old Man Prasad’s house was on the far west edge.  The walk was long, but Shuu was used to long walks.  Since they started training outside the outpost in the environ-suits, Shuu had developed a great appreciation for walking free in the outpost.

They were in the end of their summer season.  The weather was cooling by 13% per week and the rain being increased by 20% per month.  One third of the population had been temporarily reassigned to harvest duties.  He loved watching the outpost function.  It was like a living, breathing organism.  Internal systems being meticulously maintained to weather the harsh outside.

Two more months and he could take his place in shaping the future of the outpost.  He had so many ideas on how to make it healthier and happier.  He’d been studying the histories of both their own Shino’i outpost, as well as the histories of the other outposts, and found some ingenious improvements that other outposts had made.  He might not want to be a guardian, but he was sure glad they existed.  Without the travelers and guardians they would be so ignorant of so many things.

“Shuu?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you going to be a guardian?”

“There is only a zero-point-oh-oh-two percent chance of that happening—so I doubt it.”

“My dad says you’re going to be a guardian.”

What? Shuu stopped, too stunned to keep walking.  “Why—“ He cleared his throat.  “Why does your dad say that?”

Adam stopped walking and turned around.  “Why’d you stop?”

“Adam, why did your dad say that?”

Adam shrugged.  “Cause that’s what he said.  Come on.”

His feet felt heavier as he dragged one then the other forward.  He had a bad feeling about the world now.  The day wasn’t quite so beautiful, and did it feel a little too chilly for this time of year?

Eventually his slower but longer strides caught up with Adam again.  “Did a visitor come today?  From outside?”

Adam ran ahead and jumped around grinning.  “Yes!  He came in all by himself in a hovercraft and then all of our drivers went out. I want to be a pilot one day.  Hovercrafts are soooo cool when they zoom and whoosh…” Shuu kept walking slowly, ignoring Adam’s excited chatter.

Two more months.  That was all until he could have his dreams.  Two more months and someone else could be guardian.  Except now, all his plans were moot, and he’d have to refocus on the unknown man.

Adam ran farther ahead to stand by his father.  His father was talking to a short man in tattered clothes. Weariness hung on the man link a drenched bed sheet weighing down a clothes line. The first piece of the equation that was his new future glanced at him and frowned.  He crossed his arms and shook his head at Adam’s father.  Great.  Just great.  Not only did he get a traveler, but one who didn’t want him.  He couldn’t wait to see what surprises the next day held.

End

Sora. Age 15. The cut.

Over my holiday break I didn’t do a lot of writing.  I started two stories.  I retired one to the trunk.  I read about writing. I read.  I don’t regret not writing, I haven’t been in a writing place.  But I am now… If only little bit.

My focus right now is revising Owen’s Home and Garden (formerly Ordinary Coward).  It took a while for the right title to show up.  It was kind of a joke at first… but it’s stuck.  I’ve had a lot of luck identifying problems when reading this thing on my iPhone.  I loooove the Scrivener -> ePub feature.  As well as Scrivener -> mobi.  So awesome.  So convenient.

Today I started a sci-fi/fantasy… post-apocalyptic fantasy?… book tentatively called Sand and Glass. If you’ve ever seen Ergo Proxy it’s sort of like that.  Sort of not.  A pair a gentlemen travel their way around a post-apocalyptic Earth recording what is going on in the various remaining human groups.  Believe it or not, the inspiring image for the whole thing came from National Geographic’s documentary on Stress.  It’s taken a while, but the whole thing’s fallen into place and I’m looking forward to writing it.  Definitely a low priority project at the moment.

A couple of weeks ago I started filling in the outline for what is tentatively titled Fork.  The inspiration for Fork came from a self-help book on how to avoid disastrous situations brought about by bad attempts at communication.

I have retired Ordinary Love to the trunk.  Maybe someday I’ll self-publish it with lot’s of Warning, Danger, and Beware messages before the story actually starts.

My writing resolution for the 2011 is to write a ficlet every week of 3k or less.  Or more.  But somewhere between 500 and 3000 words.

And that’s all I have to say for today.  Happy 2011!

I’m working on a piece more suited as a bit of serial fiction than novel… Its working title is Fairytale Fusion.

I had some mentally draining weeks at work, and instead of reading and writing I gorped out on the couch watching Fairytale Theater on Netflix. And then I started imaging what-ifs and such. And questioning the shallowness of the prince charming characters and… Yeah.

I’m not sure what I’ll do with it. A friend wants to start “publishing” a free serial m/m magazine of sorts… And I know of other established places that do stuff like this. Or maybe I’ll just post it as a free read. Who knows?

I’m also still working on getting Simon’s story ready for submission. There are 3 chapters left which need overhauls… And then I’ll unleash it… And see what happens.

Fun times.

The plot is still elusive.  I’ve been identifying plots that I’d like to put in future books, but that wouldn’t be right in this book. For instance, a mole in the hero’s ranks.  Something to set up… but not really something to deal with here.

This week at Chez Evie… reading and writing!  *deep breath and a sigh of relief*

So in light of that little plot problem, I decided to do some planning.  It’s at this point I realize how complicated this is.  This is the first book in the series, and the series has the over-arching plot of revolt.  In each book there will be a unique main plot… which I haven’t really decided on yet.  And then the situations the characters find themselves in.  In this particular book we have James, who is the primary revolter.  And then there’s Edward who supports James.  As this is situated within the M/M genre, there is going to be the required boy meets boy, boy falls in love with boy, boy loses boy, boy gets boy back.  So… I’ve amassed all of these qualities and characteristics of the story… but I still don’t have that critical driving plot line that will yield a climax.  Ugh.  And instead of dedicating the majority of my free time to figuring this out…

This week at Chez Evie–the pungent aroma of mold permeates the house.  My body can’t decide whether to go into migraine mode or trouble-breathing mode.  There will be much cleaning and keeping clean for the next couple of weeks.  With vinegar and baking soda by my side, I will prevail–rawr!  Oddly enough, the smell is everywhere but the bathroom where the carpet got soaked.  It is especially problematic in the kitchen and in my bedroom.  So awesome.