Friday, May 11, 2012

Five Bullets, a Without Wings fan fiction

Title: Five Bullets
Author: K. Writerly
Artist: Yappichick
Link to Art:
Fandom: Without Wings (a novel by K. Writerly)
Characters: Chez (Charles "Chez" Zimmerman) & Owen
Summary: In the jungles of 1966 Vietnam, a stranger becomes the only ally Chez can count on.
Warnings: T for swearing, violence, and gore
Spoilers: None - you don't need to read the novel to enjoy the story

IMPORTANT NOTES:  For this fic, I thought to myself: "Is it possible that Chez and Owen met prior to their first encounter in Without Wings?"  So, yes, this is an alternate universe fic, but it could still work in the universe I've created in Without Wings.  In fact, it might actually explain a few things from Owen's side of things.  Possibly.  I might be hallucinating that, though.
Other Notes: Written for the 2012 Five Times Big Bang on Live Journal
Word count: 12600

Available in eBook formats at

Read Five Bullets on Live Journal :: Wordpress :: Fiction Press

The Ally
The Tunnels
The Crossroads
The Rescue

Theme music for Five Bullets:
“Long Way Down” by The Goo Goo Dolls from "A Boy Named Goo"
"The Bird and the Worm" by The Used from "Lies for the Liars"
"Name" by The Goo Goo Dolls from "A Boy Named Goo"

Thursday, March 22, 2012

From Book to Blurb

This month, I’d like to pay homage to Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass.  I love his wit and wordplay more than is healthy.

The Line: “If you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you.

Notes: Chez and Lasca are foster brother and sister.  They star in my novel, Without Wings.  Here is a moment from their past.  Enjoy!


We'd both known this day was coming.  Hell, it’s been written on the kitchen calendar in big, fat, red letters for months.  Somehow, I still knew she’d cry.

“Oh, c’mon!  Stop with the waterworks already,” I practically beg as I pat her shoulder awkwardly.  “This is supposed to be a happy day for me.”

“I know.  I’m doing my best to ruin it for you,” she explains, wiping at her eyes with her shirt sleeve.  Hey, wait a minute.  I recognize this particular plaid…

“Great.  Now you’re abusing my clothes and I’m not even gone yet!”

That wins me a wobbly smile.

“You’re gonna be OK,” I counsel.  “I’ve taught you everything I know about self-defense.  If anyone gives you a hard time—”

“I’ll take it out on the freshmen.”

“Now that you’re officially a sophomore, you have that right,” I allow.

“You should cancel this army thing.”

“Can’t,” I tell her.  “They don’t cancel inductions.  And it’s the Marines, not the Army.”

“Whatever,” she grouches.

I grin.  “Tell you what, Lasca,” I say, bracing my hands on her shoulders and leaning down so I can look her in her reddened eyes.  “If you’ll believe in me, I’ll believe in you.”  Ugh, how corny.  I can’t believe I just said that.

She gives me a suspicious look.  Yeah, that had been pretty out of character for me.  She demands, “Is that the best deal I’m gonna get?”

“Sure is.”

“It’s crappy.”

“Take it or leave it, pop tart.”

She takes it.  I knew she would.  She’s my little sister, after all, and big brother always knows best.  She doesn’t even squirm when I give her my biggest bear hug.


“Yeah, squirt?”

She speaks into my collar, “If you get hurt, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.  Slowly.  With toothpicks.”

I chuckle.  I wouldn’t put it past her.

SOURCE: Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll
Chapter Seven: The Lion and the Unicorn
Read the book for free on

Saturday, March 17, 2012

And I said, "Hearken unto me, muse!"

"There will be authorship type stuff of Awesome this evening!" the writer proclaimed.

And it was so.  (^__~)

No, really.  I wrote 2100 words more on the sequel to The Last Legend.  Yay!  Of course, tomorrow will be the real test when I read it again and either hate it or fall in love with it.  (^__~)

Here's a blurb if you would like a taste of what sort of warriors the Fianna of ancient Ireland are:

The race begins as is always has and always will.  Running feet whisper in the night like a pulse.  Labored breaths echo like the susurrus sound of the wind.   The darkness itself clings like a skin.
Some wear it better than others.  One in particular becomes the night; at last, after a day of half-truths and civilized posturing, she shows her true face in the shadows.  Kellan follows her progress from where he crouches upon the bough of a tree.  The deer trail beneath him is empty, but it will not remain so for long.
She is approaching.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Five Photographs by K Writerly

Title: Five Photographs
Author: K. Writerly
Artist: Yappichick
Link to art: 
Fandom: Without Wings, a novel by K. Writerly
Characters/Pairings: Lasca/Gianni
Summary: Follow our intrepid photographer, Lasca, on her quirky quest to document the Gianni, a rare and intriguing species of lover.
Warnings: Rated T for sexual innuendo and implied sexual situations
Word count: 4200
Spoilers: none (although there are a couple of references to events in the book, but nothing too revealing or vital)
Notes: Written for the 2012 Five Times Big Bang on Live Journal

The following events never happened in my novel, Without Wings, and unfortunately they can't happen. This is an ALTERNATE UNIVERSE in which Lasca and Gianni get to be a couple in San Francisco for several months. 

Enjoy! (^__^)    

Five Photographs

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

A Picture and a Thousand Words: March

Well, a new month has arrived, so I have a new short story to share. Once more, I'm borrowing heavily from Greek mythology. This time, it's Poseidon's turn to be an ass bask in the spotlight.

The Tale of the Tides
The sea may play upon distant shores so long as it obeys its master's commands.

Warnings: rated T (Teen) for heavy angst

Note: This is a re-write of one of my first stories ever in which I tried to explain a natural phenomenon (i.e. the ocean tides) using Greek mythology.

And yes, it's free!
@ Smashwords
@ Fiction Press

You can also read it here, just click the little link below:

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Read an eBook Week!

According to Smashwords, it's "Read an eBook Week".

My first reaction to learning this was wholly cynical: "Um, what won't they do to promote their products?"  We all know about the commercialized holiday fad which is becoming increasingly less of a fad and more of a cultural practice.  Ugh.

My second take on it was: "Oh, cool.  They're trying to help us sell our books."  (Yeah, that's a far more generous thought to be having.)

So, I signed up.  I mean, of course.  Both my novels are 50% off until Saturday the 10th.

Without Wings
“This doesn’t make any sense! Why can’t I touch you?” I demand, massaging my throbbing fingers. “You’re human, like everyone else... aren’t you?”

I'm doing my part to put more smart, supernatural stories out there. This one comes complete with quirky characters, romance, suspense, and action. Whoo yeah baby. (^__^)

The Last Legend
One legend still survives in the wilds of 14th century Ireland, and one young man who seeks the truth is destined to cross her path.

Painstakingly researched and exploratory historical fiction.  Personally, I love it when the mysteries and legends of the past to have their own chance to shine and be real.

Other things in the works for this month:

  • A Picture and a Thousand Words (my March short story)
  • From Book to Blurb (got an idea, I just need to start writing and see if magic happens)
  • Five Photographs, an alternate universe story featuring characters from my novel, Without Wings
  • The Last Legend has been entered in a book cover art contest (we'll see how that goes)
Um, that's all for now!  Have an awesome day, everyone, and read an ebook!  (Heh heh)  (^__^)

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

New Work of Awesome by Laura Josephsen

Now here's an intriguing read to add to my Must Read List. Give it a look!

Congratulations, Laura!  (^__^)


All Alphonse wants is a quiet summer at home before his final months at university. What he gets is a half-dead stranger on his doorstep and the task of delivering a package to the leader of his home country. Not long after he boards a train toward the capital, he's attacked by knights, elite soldiers of the neighboring king.

Alphonse is temporarily rescued by Mairwyn, a mechanic with a haunted past and a deep hatred of knights. Together, they attempt to carry out Alphonse's urgent errand, only to learn that if they fail, countless people will die.

And even if they succeed, they may not be able to prevent the war that lurks on the horizon.

Rising on Amazon eBook
Rising on Amazon Paperback
Rising on Barnes and Noble
Rising on Smashwords

Sunday, February 19, 2012

You Gotta Read: Book Trailer Contest!

I entered the book trailer for The Last Legend in the You Gotta Read Reviews' Monthly Book Trailer Contest!  I'm so excited!!

Not only am I able to share a few of my characters with a wider audience, but I can also shamelessly pimp the original music which was created by the very, very talented Elana de Gleria Clark!!  (Seriously.  You want to make sure you have the sound on for this.  It's sooooo wonderful!)

I'm up against some great competition, so I hope you'll stop over and give them all a look.  Voting will open on February 21st!

One legend still survives in the wilds of 14th century Ireland. The last surviving member of the once proud and mighty Fianna is either a heroine or a murderess, and one young man who seeks the truth is destined to cross her path.

Savor the book trailer here at: You Gotta Read Reviews' February 2012 Book Trailer Contest

I'd love to hear what you think of it!  (^__^) 

Tuesday, February 14, 2012


Today, I just logged onto Smashwords and checked the stats on my books.  Both Medusa and Compromises have been downloaded over 100 times each.


What a great gift that is!  People may not leave comments or feedback for me, but they've shown their love of my short stories in other ways: number of downloads and Facebook likes.

It's truly humbling.

Other short stories to date:

Novels I hope people will enjoy as much as I've enjoyed writing them:

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

A Picture and a Thousand Words: February

I was planning to unleash torrents of angst for this month's Picture and a Thousand Words, but, actually... I think I'll go with snarky romance instead.   (^__~)b

You might recognize this story from about two weeks ago. It's the one I wrote for Auntie Tara's January writing prompt, but I've since added a couple of lines near the end which I feel round out the story better (but would have put me over the 750-word word count limit set in the original writing prompt) and some lovely cover art!


Everyone knows that relationships are one compromise after another... except for when they're not. Snark abounds in this short, romantic comedy.

More photos are in my Gallery on my website.

If you like, there's an ebook available now for you to download for free on Smashwords here: Compromises

Or if Fiction Press is more your speed: Compromises

Or, if you'd rather read (or re-read) it here on Blogger, you can do that, too!   (^__^)

*~*~*  Compromises *~*~*

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

From Book to Blurb

So, as a way of keeping things fun and fresh around here (why is the writing of novels such slow work?  whoever decided that it must take a human of good health and high spirits weeks, months, or *gasp* years to produce a coherent book should be shot), I've decided to recommend a book and pay homage to the author in my own bizarre way. Basically, I'll post a line from the book and then add between 100 and 200 words to the blurb, changing the context and making it completely different. Today, I'd like to share a line from one of my favorite books, A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson.

. . . .

The Line (copyrighted to Bill Bryson): Life simply wants to be.

My homage to Mr. Bryson's work:
Warnings: alcohol, depression
I couldn't say no to a fourth glass of wine.  I didn't need it, but the bottle was glaring at me.  Or winking at me.  Maybe singing dirty limericks in my ear.  It's after midnight so, really, anything is possible.  Except the possibility of making this moment - fuzzy and warm with the taste of apricot and honey on my tongue - eternal.  Work will come in the morning.  A grumpy spouse with a rushed schedule.  A packed bus and claustrophobic train.  People smoking their cigarettes on the street, uncaring of who gets caught in the cross-fire.  A noted lack of excuse-me's and thank-you's.  This is a city.  Life simply wants to be.  Ego-centric, frantic, and (momentarily) free.

. . . .

Originally, this line is an expression of awe as the author marvels at the tenacity of simple life forms to exist despite never doing anything interesting at all.  In my contribution, the mood is quite different. So, if you'd like to give it a try, please do!  Just grab a book off your shelf, go with the first line that grabs you and you're all set!

SOURCE: A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson
Line taken from Chapter 22: Goodbye to All That

Friday, January 27, 2012

Auntie Tara's Short Story Prompt

Although I only just joined Blogger and met Tara a few days ago, her short story prompt wiggled its way into my headspace and made itself comfortable on the couch humming that line from "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."  You know the one: we won't go until we get some, so bring it right here!

Right, so here's my short story.  I hope it gives you chuckle or two, Tara.

Back by popular demand, I give you snark à la Keru.

Prompt: Write a 750-word (or less) short story using the words "evil", "crowd", "harp", & "waterfall".  Deadline: January 31, 2012.

Disclaimer: To my knowledge, the following events have never occurred to anyone, anywhere... which is a real shame because I think it would be pretty neat.

Evil-Crowd-Harp-Waterfall, a.k.a. Compromises
word count: 747  (le gasp!) 

“This is the worst idea on the planet.”

“Oh?” George looks up from testing the lines, ties, and cords.  “Is that so?” he challenges.  “It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever had?”

“It’s the worst idea anyone, anywhere, has ever had!” I insist over the rush-gush-crash of the nearby waterfall  the 100-meter-tall! waterfall which roars white fury into the slippery-rock-ringed tide pool far, far below us.  I resist the urge to let my gaze stray downward.  I will not be mesmerized by the frothing water beast again.

I shout, “Didn’t you see that thing on the news about that bungee jumping accident in Africa?”

“Hush!  You’ll jinx us.”

“We’re already jinxed.”

“Oh, that’s a great way to start a marriage.”

“How would you kno—!”  I stop, cough, and sputter.  “Marriage?  What—?”

He shrugs one shoulder and glances over the edge of the precipice.  “How else did you think I was going to work up the nerve to ask you?”

“That’s nice,” I reply in a strangled tone.  “Forget getting down on bended knee.  Forget the crowd of on-lookers.  Oh, no.  You’d much rather face certain death!  Asking me to marry you is the only marginally better alternative?”

“Well, you’re not exactly the easiest person to live with.”

“That’s not true and you know it.  You’ve met my mother.”

“And you harp on and on at me about the dishes.”

Which reminds me!  “Did you get a lobotomy or something when you were a kid?  Or is there some other reason for why you seem to think that dirty dishes are coffee table ornaments?”

He laughs.  “You are evil.”

“And you’re still planning on asking me to marry you?”  Clearly, we’re dealing with a problem far more disturbing than a fear of popping the question, here.  I mean, he’s obviously not in his right mind.  Hm, maybe he’s in his left, trapped there by the lobotomy.


I shake my head in disbelief.  I’d say I was marveling, but I’m not entirely sure what it is about him that has me mesmerized.  His gumption?  Masochism?  Stupidity?  All of the above?

I suggest very helpfully, “You could just ask me right now and save yourself the concussion.”  Which I’m sure he’ll get if he makes this jump.

“And ruin the fun?”

“Fun?”  I’m sure I must have heard that wrong.

“Fun,” he insists with a persuasively charming wiggle of his brows.  “I want you to remember this moment.”

“Oh, I’ll remember it.”  The time I talked my future husband off a cliff.  Oh, yeah.  This is one for the scrapbook.

He shakes his head.  “No!  I mean...”  With a sigh, he reaches out to gently twist a wayward lock of hair behind my ear.  “I don’t want to be the only one sweating bullets.  I want us to do this together.”

“Wet ourselves, you mean?”

He rolls his eyes.  “Take the plunge, feel the thrill, burst with jubilation—”

“I’m already thrilled, so we can pack up this stuff and drive back to civilization now.”  I forget my earlier resolve and glance at the pit of watery despair beneath us as I confess, “I think I need to use the little fiancée’s room.”

“You work in an office.  You need a little excitement in your life.”

A little excitement.  I gape at him.  “OK, now you’re just being a typical meteorologist and overcompensating.”


“If this were tornado country, we’d be out chasing one of those,” I predict.

“That’s not a bad idea, actually…”

I resist the urge to shake him.

Something in my expression must be slightly alarming because he raises his hands, palms open in defeat.  “OK, all right, fine.  We’ll do it your way.  Flowers and wine and bended knee.”

“No tornados, no cliffs,” I add.

He sighs with incomprehensible regret.  “No tornados, no cliffs.”  He gathers up the hardware and lengths of bungee cable and then informs me with a grin, “At least one good thing came out of all this.”

“Oh?”  I can’t wait to hear it.

“You’ve already said yes.”  He winks. 

I watch him navigate the overgrown, wooded trail back to the car on the service road and shake my head.  That man is scarily devious… and he’s all mine.

George still refers to that day as “the day you agreed to marry me.”  I still call it “the day I talked you off a cliff.”  You know, sometimes marriage is about compromises and sometimes it just isn’t.


OK, so my question to all of you is, was there ever a compromise you were really pleased you made?  Like, it worked out so much better than you ever thought it would, in the end?  (Completely unlike our intrepid couple above where there was a very smart not-compromise?)

Thursday, January 26, 2012

A Picture and a Thousand Words

Larua Josephen's Favorite Character Blogfest was awesome and I'm so glad I stumbled onto Blogger in time to take part in it.  I've met so many great people and read about so many fantastic characters!  Truly, epic times were had.

Now it's back to work, glaring and thinking evil thoughts at the blinking cursor which refuses to budge.  (I think you know the one I'm talking about.  He has lots of cousins and there's a strong family resemblance.)

OK.  Right.  Back to work it is!

So, I do this thing every month (or I'm trying to, anyway) where I take one of the photos languishing on my ScanDisks and write a 1000-word (give or take, but mostly Give with a capital "G") short story based on it and then use the photo for cover art.

I started this project in November in response to Lulu's NaNoWriMo short story contest with a nostalgic piece called The Groundskeeper of Kylemore Abbey.  Then continued with a comedic follow-up act in December: Doolin's Second Pub.

Now it's January and I'm feeling the dregs of holiday cheer so I figure this is a great time to post the horror-esque Medusa.  I have high hopes that this will be a full-length novel one day in the future (after I get done with dabbling in medieval Ireland/Spain and once my urban supernatural series, Without Wings, has had its way with me.)


Gorgons are not born.  They are made.

Word count: 1350
Publication date: January 2012
Published on Smashwords (and cross-posted here on Blogger)
About the photo: Taken by yours truly at Palacio da Ajuda in Belem, Portugal (near Lisbon) in Janaury, 2011... Yay for second honeymoons!!  (^__~)  More photos are HERE in my Gallery.

Note: No authors were harmed by any serious encounters with research material during the making of this story.


“Do you know my name?” I wonder aloud, challenging my guests.  “Do you know why I am here in this wasteland?”

I receive no answer to my utterances.  The wind outside my ramshackle stone hut shrieks, enraged that I would dare to pose such questions.  It howls as if I am the one who must answer its summons.  It is tempting to shriek back, gods-damned creature that I am.  Tempting, but I refrain.  I may be a creature, a beast, a murderess, but I am not an animal.  I will not howl my rage uselessly into the wind.  I will wait for my fury to cool, to temper, to harden and sharpen like the blade of a knife.  My anger will serve me.  I will not serve it.

I ignore the wind and continue my tale, “I was a priestess of the great Temple of Hera.  I was a healer.  I was the very vessel of the goddess herself.”  Yes, I was all of those things.  I was blessed with divine purpose and power.

“I was sought out by women for my skill at wielding Hera’s gifts.  The gift of children.  They came to me, begging, wanting only to conceive and carry their husband’s child.  The priestesses at Aphrodite’s temple offered only pleasure and the satiation of desires.  The Temple of Hera offered so much more: immortality through birth, through motherhood.  These women gave their trust and themselves to Hera through me.  I touched them.  I taught their bodies how to bear fruit.”  I pause and consider my own form, clothed as it is in rough wool.  My body will never know that ripening.

“It is difficult to believe, I know, but I was beautiful once.”  I speak to my captive audience but they do not inundate me with curious questions.  They do not scoff or shift.  They do not sigh or cough.  Once, people had been enchanted by my voice alone, but no longer.

I look down at my hands in the dim, flickering light.  I no longer shudder at their unnatural deformity; I am accustomed to them now despite the fact that they are hideous, like the rest of me.  Terrible, but unmercifully still serviceable.

To what end?

The question haunts me.  Once, when these hands had been youthful and smooth-skinned, pale and soft, they had touched princesses and paupers’ wives.  They had healed women of politics and ladies of prostitution.  I had turned away no one; my hands had served Hera’s will.  Now, they heal nothing.

“Once, I gave the gift of life,” I whisper to the shifting darkness that creeps close to my meager hearth.  My guests do not refute me.  They do not commiserate with me.  They say nothing.  Just as the ones who have come before them say nothing.

“I hope you will like my garden.  It’s very peaceful,” I tell the men crouched and huddled near the fire.

Turning, I study what I can see of my garden through the open doorway of my stone hut.  Indeed, it is very peaceful, although I find no such reward there, not among the stones that stand where gently swaying trees should be, nor in the burnt remains of fires where gently scented flowers ought to grow.  This mountain pass will tolerate no such beauty.  At long last, I have decided to respect that, honor that.  Harshness can be compelling, seductive, irresistible.

“There is beauty even here,” Zeno had told me.

“That is an easy thing for a shepherd to say,” I’d accused him.  His flock had been slowly scattering across the hillside, cropping relentlessly at the scraggly, undying grass and gnarled weeds.  “Sheep will eat anything.  As long as their gullets are busy they care for naught else.  When their wool grows, you see profit.  Many men find that beautiful.”

The shepherd had laughed.  I’d watched his gray-streaked beard sway in the ever-present mountain breeze.  “A reluctant mistress this mountain may be, but she is lovely.  Come here again before dawn tomorrow and I will show you.”

Zeno had kept his promise.  I’d sat beside him in the dark, sharing the stories of the stars.  I’d warmed my wind-whipped skin in the first light of dawn.  And then I’d stared in awe as Zeno had pointed to one outcrop of rock after another and sculpted with words.

“Do you see that one there?  She looks like a nymph, yes?  Twisting up toward the sky.  And that shadow there, that’s her lyre at her feet…”

Stone by stone, Zeno had taught me the beauty of the mountain.  Thereafter, she could no longer hide her loveliness from me and this angered her.  In retaliation, the mountain stole Zeno away, took his soft voice and raspy breath, leaving me alone once again.

At first, I merely wanted to have his likeness with me so that I might have a form or figure to speak to at dawn.  I’d taken out the tools of my father’s sculpting trade and set to work, my hands remembering the way of it slowly but surely.  With the chisel and hammer, I’d created Zeno’s likeness. 

But the other shepherds who lead their flocks through this pass had not seen a memorial.  They had seen their old friend turned to stone.  They’d been busy rumormongers indeed, those ignorant shepherds; the glory-seeking young men had come the very next spring, armed with swords and shields.

When I’d first seen their approach, I’d nearly laughed.  What could they possibly have to fear from a mere woman?

But I had not laughed.  What indeed did a man have to fear from me?

I remembered the vile speeches of the metropolis’ new governor, condemning me and my ways and my temple, ignoring the fact that his own mother, aunts, and sisters had been petitioners to the priestesses of Hera.  I remembered the fire that had destroyed my home, my hands, my life.  I’d looked at my hands as my self-appointed enemies had drawn closer and I’d realized…

These hands no longer serve Hera.  They do not give life.

In that case, perhaps they should take it.

Their own fear had worked against the warriors as a fire-scarred and mangled woman stalked them on the mountain.  The first one was felled by a rock.  I took his sword and, one by one, his companions perished, burned, and were remade from stone, chisel, and hammer.

Thanks to the talkative shepherds, the rumors grew.   My enemy came to me in increasing numbers.
But no, the men who have fallen at my hand were not my true enemy.  They were the sons of the men and women who had destroyed Hera’s temple and cast me out.  If I reserved my wrath for them alone, it would be wasted.  But now I have their children, the very children I’d helped them create and nurture.  The very children I had given life.

Now, I take it away.

I regard my silhouette on the stone wall.  The fire behind me hisses and spits like a nest of serpents.  My shadow flickers and my hair writhes.  Perhaps they will say I have snakes on my head next.  Perhaps they will say I have been cursed by Hera herself.  Perhaps they will say I dwell on the road to Hades.

Perhaps they are right.

But let them come, these self-proclaimed heroes who seek my head.  Let them set foot within my domain.  I am Medusa.  My claws are sharp and my bite is poison.  My garden is crowded with men of stone and the soot of pyres.  Let them come.  I have only just begun to do battle.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Favorite Character Blogfest Entry

In response to Laura Josephsen's Favorite Character Blogfest, I'd like to present one of my favorite original characters: Lasca Grimshaw, a photographer in her early 30s.

Why Lasca?  Well, she's quirky and contradictory.  (How many professional artists are there who hate having the spotlight shined on them?)  Mostly, what I adore about Lasca is her tilted-taco mindset.  It's this quality of hers that keeps her strong when she must eventually confront her most fantastic and frightful talents.

Book: Without Wings
Author: K. Writerly [homepage]
Publication date: December 2011
Excerpt from Chapter 1
Word count: 207

 * * * *   

“You’re famous in here!”

Translation?  Well, I’d rather not think any more expletives than absolutely necessary.  I’ve far too many other vices already.  I imagine Paul says, “Please return to your art show and talk to your adoring fans.”  Yes, that’s what I’ll assume he really means.  Something motivating.  Something to distract me from the critics and snobs. Something to keep my mind off the fact that there’s a war zone on the other side of that door and, to make matters worse, I’m not allowed to actually drink the glass of wine Paul is waiting to shove into my hand.  I reflexively lift the cigarillo and take a last drag, forcing myself to focus on my lovely little fantasy.

“I’m famous in the occasional backseat, too,” I can’t resist pointing out, if a bit half-heartedly.  In all actuality, it’s been ages since the last time I acquainted myself with the unique and challenging dimensions of a backseat.  You see what steady employment does to your sex life?  It’s criminal, I tell you.  Absolutely cruel.

I can feel Paul’s scowl reach out and smack me on the back of the head.

“Backseat gymnastics do not pay for film and frames.”

Facts.  Bah.

Temperamental gallery owners.  Double bah.

* * * *   

And that, in a nutshell, is Lasca Grimshaw.  (^__~)

Monday, January 23, 2012

Book Preview: The Last Legend

Kellan mac Couhlan will risk everything he holds dear to discover the truth about one woman: Bowen Blair, the last of Ireland's legendary warriors - the Fianna.

The wilds of 14th century Ireland is no place for a boy alone.

When Kellan mac Couhlan’s father dies, he loses the only person he has ever believed in. Grief consumes him. But then, he hears the story of Bowen Blair. She is courageous, strong, good and true. She is the last of Ireland’s legendary warriors, the Fianna. Her existence proves that myths he had thought long dead are real. Young Kellan has found his heroine.

As time passes, Kellan’s obsession with Bowen Blair grows until news of her latest adventure - a grisly murder - tests the very foundations of his trust. He embarks on a quest to understand this enigmatic woman who is a savior, a fighter, and a killer. Who is Bowen Blair? Are the stories true? What is fiction and what is fact? And, most importantly, is Kellan ready for the truth?

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