Random Musing

I sometimes wonder if we've been thinking outside the box for so long that we've forgotten what was inside to start with.

Kantu's Heart - A Time Travel Romantic Suspense Story

Kantu's Heart, part of Decadent Publishing's Western Escape line, became available to readers today.

I hope you enjoy this look at my latest romantic suspense story.
Thanks so much for stopping by!

BLURB:

Before the ice age, warrior Kantu lost his tribe, his mate Sanda, and his life to a vicious band of cannibals led by his most powerful enemy. He awakens in a world beyond his comprehension only to find his mate in the arms of her killer. Misery and strength meld into one goal—to win back his heart and kill his enemy.

With a nudge from her gentle guardian, Sandra Harn travels to Freewill, WY, looking for bargains at the annual rummage sale and, hopefully, answers to her mysterious past. Once there, visions of a time before the town existed make her question her sanity. When an exotic stranger with flowing raven hair and a body she can’t resist tries to kill her companion, logic tells her to run, but her heart and body have other ideas.

Buy Links:
Decadent Publishing
Smashwords

EXCERPT:

A shift in the slight breeze carried a faint hint of animals mixed in a pack. The wrong animals. Tware, sconta, and garrel did not travel together, did not feed or birth their young anywhere close to each other. Kantu jerked his head from side to side and inhaled short bursts of air. The draft rolled and turned as if a child at play in a stream’s mud, and the scent escaped his track. He closed his eyes and slowly faced the four corners of the winds in the hope the beings above and below would give him the wisdom to understand why these plant feeders had gathered without reason. Or had they come together?

At the base of his neck, a ball of heat bore into his body and slithered to his brain where it crumbled and floated through him until lingering once more under the skin on his forehead. With the sensation came the scents. The odd mix of smells dripped like melting icicles into his nose. Kantu quickly layered the traces. Garrel to his left, tware in front, sconta right. A stench remained. Sweat. Man sweat.

Kantu opened his eyes and shifted his gaze to the gray sky rocks where he had left his people…and Sanda...more than a day ago in the caves, in safety while he found a garrel herd’s trail. His tribe weren’t warriors. Man hunters would find the caves and feast on his people, then wear the hides and skins Kantu and his hunters provided the clan. That was the mix of the animals—man hunters clad in their stolen hides and skins. He traced his fingers over the long, bumpy lines from his left shoulder to his right hip. Only he bore the three claw marks of a warrior.

“Sanda!” he screamed to the sky rocks. Kantu gripped his spear sticks and ran.

His father had brought peace between the peoples following the garrel. So much land, so much food. They didn’t need to fight each other. When Kantu became the leader, he hadn’t trained his young in the warrior ways. He taught them to trail the garrel herds, to skin their hides for robes for the cold and white rain, and how to preserve the meat. But his beliefs that tribes needn’t war KevaD 2

wouldn’t protect his people and Sanda, his mate, the one who owned his heart, from man hunters.

Each stride carried him closer. Each blade of knee-high grass placed him one blade nearer. As he ran, his long hair pulled at his scalp. The skins tied to his legs and waist tightened against his body. Night fell across the plain; the moon taunted him with its yellow laugh on the sky rocks still so far beyond. He swallowed his fear, his grief for what he knew lay ahead and ingested the emotions for food to give his muscles the strength to continue. Water coated the grass when the sun rose behind him and warmed the ground. After transferring his spears to one hand, he raked his fingers through the wetness and sucked the liquid from his skin as he continued his trek. Briars appeared at the edge of the plain and tore at his hide leggings. Pain stabbed his body, each breath shredded his chest and throat. Finally, the sky rocks slopes passed under his feet.

He scaled the jagged rocks, gripping the cracks to climb toward the hollow that contained the caves and his people. Staggered, but stark and bitter, wafts of burnt meat passed his nostrils. He sucked in the stench and welcomed it into his head, chest, arms, and legs. The stink wriggled and balled to hate inside him. Pain and exhaustion melded to a need to avenge those killed, butchered, and roasted on spits.

Over a flat of stone, he focused on the overhang of slender trees that marked the twin caves in the hollow below. Traces of burned wood and meat hung like insect clouds in the air. A want to scream his anguish, to release his grief and guilt to the beings of the sky surged through him. But the offer of his life would have to wait until he knew if any below might yet possess breath. He leapt to an outcropping then jumped to a path of dirt that led to the caves.

Three rings of stone contained the shadowy remains of the fires. Blackened strips of flesh clung to charred spits. White and yellow bones rested wherever they had been thrown. Blood painted the rocks his clan members had sat on to share their meals and soaked the small breaks filled with dirt. His hunters and the young, the bodies that hadn’t been cut apart and devoured, lay naked in a pile. But not the females. A flint spark of hope pulled Kantu to the caves. But for the beds of hides, the shelters were empty. The women had been taken. Whether Kantu’s Heart 3

for food or to birth the man hunters’ own young didn’t matter. The women of Kantu’s people, and Sanda, still lived.

Kantu walked the edges of the hollow, staring at the rocks and dirt for signs. The man hunters had eaten here. They had taken their time, maybe even slept on the beds after they shoved their seed into the women. He forced back the hate. Hate could lead his vengeance, but he needed his hunter calm to find this human pack. He would slaughter them as they had his people. Then he could grieve. He kept his eyes from the stack of men he hunted with, laughed with, and the children he had held, fed, and clothed. Their memory would be the power in his arms and legs, the death in his weapons. Until then, Kantu couldn’t afford to allow his mind to be trapped in the past.

A glint of white in a rock’s shadow caught his eye. He jogged to the spot. A fang as long as his middle finger. Only Sanda wore a necklace of fangs. It had been his father’s gift to her the day she and Kantu vowed their lives to each other. The fangs had been passed from father to father, carried from the times of old when stories of cats with teeth the length of a child’s arm were shared around the cook fires.

Sanda had left him a sign, a path to follow.

Kantu gripped his spears and studied the breaks in the distance, the curves of the stone. The man hunters had chosen a smooth path worn by waters that ran after the white rain turned to tears. At the crooked peak, a half day’s journey, the eaters of men would turn their shoulders toward the sunrise and leave the sky rocks for the dirt and grass. Their trail would speak to Kantu. And Sanda would help him by encouraging the clan’s women to slow their pace.

Zee Monodee on Writing and Living on a Tropical Island

Hi, all. KevaD here.
Zee Monodee is a truly nice person and wonderful writer.
She also lives on a tropical island.
No, I don't hate her. I'm just a tad bit envious and hoping the earth shifts its axis to make her island one of the poles.


Until that unlikely event, here's Zee and her forty degree winters.
Brrrr.


Oh, yeah....She's also discussing her latest books, which are really, really good. =)

                              

                                Hi everyone!

Wonderful to be here today! DA’s been nice enough to let me hop here, and he had a strange request when he accepted to host my guest post – Did I believe whether spring weather was more conducive to writing than icy winter?

This got me thinking, and also analyzing how my reality, and consequently the weather, will be a lot different from most of you US folks. 

You see, I live on a tropical island called Mauritius, located in the southern Indian Ocean. Before you start cursing me for living in a scenic paradise, let me just tell you that life on a tropical island is not always the postcard sunny, warm, and uplifting weather most people associate with the tropics. If you live on the coast (and are super-rich to be able to afford a house there and be able to pay the taxes!), that might be the case (but anyway, here – you need to so filthy rich to even be able to have a house on the beach that money is not a problem for you. And we all know, money isn’t happiness but it makes things easier, lol!).

But if you’re like me, one of the 1.3 million inhabitants simply toiling away to get on with day to day life, you most probably happen to live inland, in the big towns on the upper plateaus. There’s also a slew of villages scattered on the lower plains, but the biggest concentration of the population lives in urban areas. And urban areas mean upper plateaus, where, the farther up you go, the more you move into clouds and rain catchment areas.

Where I live, the highest inhabited point inland, a town called Curepipe – well, let’s just say they could’ve shot Twilight here. No vampires would’ve sparkled. We almost always have rain, wind, mist. Occasionally, in summer, we can get bright, sunny days. Temps are on the lower side, topping at 85F in summer, dropping as low as the mid-40F in winter. Not terribly cold, by you guys’ icy standards, but winter weather here seeps in, because our houses are built to withstand heat, not cold.

Each one of summer and winter brings with it a load of adaptation. The summer heat, since we’re so not used to it, drains much of our energy and make our legs feel as heavy as lead. Winter is so cold and drafty your bones hurt, and all you wanna do is curl up and sleep. Hibernate, in other words.

Neither extreme is exactly conducive to invite your muse to let loose on your WIP. But the trick is, if you’re a writer it’s your job to write. Sun, rain, summer, winter, heat, cold – it’s all a day’s work for you.

But that being said, I do find the muse and inspiration more cooperative when the weather is between those extremes. For example, I wrote Before The Morning (Corpus Brides: Book Two) between the months of September to early December. This is pretty much spring, and early summer – the brunt of the heat happens in late December, January, and February. About 105,000 words in 3 months for that one.

Comparatively, Once Upon A Stormy Night, my latest release and part of the 1NightStand line at Decadent Publishing, is a short story just shy of 11,000 words. It took me close to 4 weeks to finish that one. Why, when it’s so short and should’ve been a piece of cake? It’s because I wrote this one in the late weeks of December, during a heat wave, on days when I considered it a feat if I could string two thoughts together in a way that makes sense.

So, yes – I suppose the weather does influence a writer’s output. But still, nothing quite beats the order to “park your arse in the chair and write!” *grin*

Thanks for letting me ramble here today, DA! Dear readers, I hope I haven’t made you mad now.

From Mauritius with love,

Zee

Bio:

Zee Monodee

Stories about love, life, relationships... in a melting-pot of culture

Zee is an author who grew up on a fence - on one side there was modernity and the global world, on the other there was culture and traditions. Putting up with the culture for half of her life, one day she decided she'd stand tall on her wall and dip toes every now and then into both sides of her non-conventional upbringing.

From this resolution spanned a world of adaptation and learning to live on said wall. The realization also came that many other young women of the world were on their own fence.

This particular position became her favorite when she decided to pursue her lifelong dream of writing - her heroines all sit 'on a fence', whether cultural or societal, in today's world or in times past, and face dilemmas about life and love.

Hailing from the multicultural island of Mauritius, Zee is a degree holder in Communications Science. She is married,mum to a tween son, & stepmum to a teenage lad. 

Buy Links:

BEFORE THE MORNING (Corpus Brides: Book 2): An action/adventure, romantic suspense tale on the backdrop of a clandestine espionage agency - come read the story of Rayne, a spy who leaves that life in the name of love, & Ash, the man who changes her world! https://www.nobleromance.com/Books/420/Before-the-Morning

WALKING THE EDGE (Corpus Brides: Book 1): Currently FREE - A romantic suspense novel, wherein an amnesiac woman is on the quest for her forgotten memory... Escape from London all the way to Marseille, France, and discover the secrets, deceit, danger, & the powerful love, she uncovers during her search! https://www.nobleromance.com/Books/304/Walking-the-Edge

ONCE UPON A STORMY NIGHT (1NightStand): On the paradise island of Mauritius, British billionaire Lars Rutherford isn’t looking for a woman, & corporate law executive Simmi Moyer isn’t looking for a man. But when a matchmaker pairs them together on a blind date, both face open doors towards a future they refused to contemplate... until now. http://www.decadentpublishing.com/product_info.php?products_id=553&osCsid=joff4lkh610umgtpmk3mg4qvr4 

Contact Links:

Blog: http://zeemonodee.blogspot.com/

Facebook & Goodreads: Zee Monodee

Twitter: @ZeeMonodee

How Many POVs Should A Writer Use?

First of all, for crime and police drama readers, we’re not talking about Privately Owned Vehicle as POV is known in those genres and the law enforcement world. 

The POV we’re discussing is Point of View, or, basically, through which character’s eyes we are seeing the story unfold. Now, that doesn’t mean we’re always in the same character’s head. The POV can switch from character to character, though most of the time a writer limits the storytelling to one or two characters. 

Crime drama and suspense/thriller authors frequently utilize a first person POV (I did this, I did that) for the hero/heroine, and a third person POV (he did this, he did that) for the antagonist/bad guy. That way, we the readers are riding shotgun with the detective or whoever as he works to stop the bad guy, and yet we are privy to the criminal’s motives and actions, thereby adding an air of intrigue in that we have information the hero doesn’t. And, quite frankly, that technique adds considerably to the book’s length. Bet you never thought about that aspect. Crime authors will also inject POV into a character about to be murdered so we readers become connected to the victim (how she volunteers at the humane society, cares for her little brother after their parents died in a plane crash, ties a blue ribbon in her hair because her fiancé’s favorite color is blue, drinks her morning coffee from her grandmother’s favorite cup, etc) and root that much harder for the bad guy to get his in the end. 

But, what about romance? 

The easy answer is it doesn’t matter, yet, for some, it will matter. 

Readers accustomed to third person POV – Jack and Jill, he did that, she did this – aren’t always comfortable with “Hi, I’m Joanie, and I think Clay, the bagger at the grocery store, is hot, and I wonder if he likes me.” “Clay looked at the blonde asking for triple bags and wondered if the drapes matched the carpet.” That said, most readers will come along for the ride if the author does what we should be doing every time we sit down to write a story – write the best damn story we can. 

However, romance authors like to infuse information because it’s critical we readers fall in love with the two characters destined to be together. We need to know as many details about them as possible, without drowning in those details of course. So, first person POV, if not done well, can come off a bit like an Alcoholics Anonymous dating site:

“Hi, I’m Joanie, a five-four blonde, well brunette in my high school picture but don’t tell Clay that LOL, and I enjoy kittens, walks in the park, and unicorns.”

vs

Joanie clomped into the bathroom and shoved aside the porcelain unicorn her mother had given her the day of the plane crash. Her kitten Lucky followed along like he did every morning. “Damn it,” she cursed at the brunette roots under her glistening blonde hair. 

Yeah, I know. The examples are extreme, but hopefully I made my point that we authors need to know what we’re doing before we start to write the story, and not experiment on the readers. Readers aren’t lab rats. 

If a romance author wants to try a different writing style, that’s great. By all means, go for it. Just make sure you research the new style. In other words, read romance books utilizing the style, then, practice, practice, practice, before beginning that next story. If an author doesn’t do that, it is almost a guarantee the author will question what he or she is doing and switch back to what the author knows best, or start asking other authors what he or she should do. Generally, when that happens, a great story is doomed to the “I’ll get back to it another day” pile, and won’t ever see the light of day. 

Back to the original question of how many POVs should be used in a story. Well, as many as necessary to tell the story. It’s as simple and complicated as that. While we readers may want to know what Joanie and Clay are thinking as Joanie proceeds through the checkout line, it probably isn’t necessary that we know (or care) that the cashier is wishing she hadn’t dropped her panties in the tanning both. Unless…. Unless a portion of the story is unfolding through the cashier’s eyes as she tries to bring Joanie and Clay together. In that case, the cashier is an integral cog in the tale. Otherwise, her thoughts are irrelevant data we readers have to sort through. 

If an author is writing about two couples, then a minimum of four POVs might be appropriate. However, be careful. We readers can only absorb so much information before we begin to confuse details. Was it Joanie who had the kitten named Lucky, and Jeanie has the dog named Plucky? Did Clay break his arm falling from a tree and not when he was run over by Trey delivering newspapers? 

And just why did the cashier want her vejayjay tanned?

The Erotic Escapades Anthology - Coming soon from ERAuthors

                                         http://www.erauthors.org/

My short story "One Night Minstrels" is my contribution to the ERAuthors' anthology Erotic Escapades.
ERAuthors is a a critiquing and writing group I'm very proud to be a member of.

Here's a brief excerpt from Chapter One:

No one had seen him come, no one would see him go. Gaines pulled in his lips and sighed. Hell, no one would even remember his name. The gig had been unexpected. A fill in spot for a band whose only singer came down with laryngitis. He’d happened on the club when he stepped out of a truck that had picked him up hitchhiking. Another sip of Jack Daniels camouflaged inside the coffee cup burned his throat. He lit a smoke, allowing the tar and nicotine to claw into the tatters of a voice that could carry a tune – once upon a time. A long breath pushed the smoke between his teeth.
Brushing back his graying hair, he watched the cloud rise to the plank ceiling. There had been a day…. A morose chuckle rattled in his chest. There had been a day when he believed his fame would rise. But like the smoke, it disappeared into sour, booze laden air too. No roadies, no managers, nobody to find him work. He snorted. Shit. No band anymore. He took another hit off the cigarette before grinding it out under his boot toe and settling onto the wooden stool.

One more sip of his road companion, the one friend that remained, and Gaines strained his eyes to view the tables in the hazy backwater bar. When he’d played his first song, the dump had been filled with customers. Standing room only. Plaid shirted men in cowboy hats and farmer’s caps had lined the walls. Bared navel women had gyrated on the dance floor under the men’s watchful eyes. Now…. Now the chairs sat empty at the round tables. Warped paneling covered the walls instead of bodies. Empty beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays provided the only evidence he’d played to a packed house.

In the blue glow of a neon beer light, the bartender scrubbed the bar at the far end of the room.

Gaines raised his chin. A swell of the old days squared his shoulders. He leaned into the microphone atop a chrome stand. “I had ‘em tonight, huh?” His voice echoed in the desolation. “Damn good show.”

The bartender shrugged and tossed some bottles into a bin. Glass clacked and cracked. “We’ve had a lot better crowds. Stayed longer and spent more too. Guess we got what we paid for. Nothin’ much.” Then he slogged out of the room.

The insult bulldozed over him. Gaines bit back the loneliness and reality the bartender had spoken the truth. Half the place had hit the exits before the end of his first set. His jaw quivered. “Damn good show,” he mumbled, and swiped a tear.

“You didn’t play Whispers,” a woman’s voice rasped.

Gaines dragged his palms over his eyes and stared into the gloom. “Who’s there?”

Fifty Shades of Curiously Grey by KevaD

Please refrain from any negative comments regarding the book by EL James. That’s not what this post is about.

I sold antiques at a flea market this past Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Naturally, I set a few copies of my suspense/mystery novel Whistle Pass out for sale as well. 

Once ladies learned I had written Whistle Pass, the conversation invariably turned to Fifty Shades of Grey, usually with this line as the icebreaker:

“I’m reading that book I shouldn’t be reading.”

A quirky smile then appeared. 

It didn’t take too many of these conversations for me to realize that the majority of women I spoke with weren’t as interested in the book as they were the idea of doing something edgy, maybe even bordering on taboo, something risqué and a bit devilish, with nothing really at stake. It was the thrill of the bragging rights that they had obtained a copy and were reading a book that they wouldn’t even say the name of in public. Or at least said they were. 

My point is that for a number of these ladies, claiming to be reading the book (not a one of them said they had finished it – they were always “reading” it) set them apart from what had been mediocrity and initiated them into a group of faceless literary daredevils walking the razorblade of the forbidden. It was the “act,” not the book, that sent shivers up their spines, reddened their ears, and provided the courage to share with a complete male stranger the provocative thing they were doing. 

Interestingly, in all of the conversations I had with these ladies in this unique setting, not once did the reader talk about the book at all. Not once. Their focus remained on the act of possessing and reading the novel. After the first couple of ladies, I started asking if the person had plans to go see the movie when it came out. The answer was always “no.” Maybe they were being honest, maybe that was something they didn’t want to answer. I don’t know. 

I do know what one lady gave as her reason for not planning on seeing the film version. She said in effect, ‘I wouldn’t want to watch the movie because it probably wouldn’t be like I’ve imagined.’ Her answer made me smile. What she described is the goal we as storytellers strive for. She said the story took shape in her mind, and she didn’t want to lose that imagery.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the power and joy of books.

Homophobia is Contagious – Gay Isn’t

To begin, I dislike the term “straight” as it implies the alternative is crooked or deformed. I’m heterosexual. Het. 

I’m old enough I was raised in a society where homosexuality genuinely was considered the deformed alternative to being straight. When I was four, the federal government officially declared homosexuality a mental disorder and began a purge of homosexuals. The churches and public schools I attended embraced that ideology and ensured our young minds were properly educated to the dangers of the predatory insane lurking on every corner for the opportunity to take advantage of a child. 

In my later public school years, no one ever did make a move to refute the idea that homosexuality equated to insanity, including my parents. That is, until a voluntary, pay for it yourself “field trip” took place in my senior year of high school. The school provided bus transportation and chaperones to an evening performance of HAIR. 

For those not familiar with the topics addressed in that musical, I recommend renting a video of the musical, not the movie. At the time, interracial sex, not to mention same-sex sex, and public nudity were the demons sure to plunge our world into the pits of hell. HAIR has all of those and more. 

There were two things in particular that struck me that night at the performance. The first being, how the young lady on the back of the stage during the nude scene had the most beautiful set of tits I’d ever imagined to exist. Yes, I still remember them, and everything else about her. I hope her life without me in her arms turned out well. 

The second was the scene where a white man (fully clothed) had sex with a black man (also fully clothed). Holy hell. They were just actors playing roles, but the scene’s message bore into me. It was the first realization that what had been ingrained into my brain might not be reality. 

When I tried to discuss that scene at school, with my friends, and at home, I was quickly reminded HAIR was a play, not real life, and there was no need for further discussion. 

Wrong. 

Place something in front of my eyes that stimulates my mind to question the ideals implanted in me, and I’m damn sure going to talk about it. 

That was when I understood very few people in my circle of life understood me or the world in general. And, for the first time, I wondered how many homosexuals I had met, maybe even known and hung out with, who felt they had to keep their sexuality hidden from me. The societal beliefs I had grown up with began to disintegrate, but it would be years before I fully understood how much of a hold those beliefs had on my mind. 

A year after high school, fate introduced me to an openly gay couple. Nope. They weren’t insane, and no one they shook hands with developed an obsession for the color pink. In fact, we had a lot of common interests and went to beaches and did a number of things together. Yeah, the evening one of them said how if I ever wanted to explore, they’d be open to a threesome scared the beejezus out of me, but no friendship lines were ever crossed. Note here that I also have and have had female friends who I never had sex with, though the opportunity existed if we chose to cross that line. Friendship is and was far more important to me than the sex that was so readily available during that era. I soon enlisted in the army to break away from the sex, drugs, and rock and roll lifestyle I’d been living and provide for my family. 

In the army, I learned one of my friends I drank and bowled with was gay. He got publicly ‘outed’ during something that happened in the barracks he lived in. I never did know the full details. Within a few days, he’d been transferred (we were in Germany) back to the states, and the few of us who’d been his friends were questioned. 

During the interrogation, I was told my friend had made it beyond clear that I was not gay, nor had any knowledge whatsoever that he was, though in truth, I did know as he’d told me shortly before whatever happened at the barracks happened. He’d protected me with what little he had to offer. You must understand the army at that time. Being gay was akin to being a traitor – those in the “circle” were presumed guilty by being in the circle. I strongly suspect my friend could have lessened whatever punishment he was to receive by sacrificing one or two others. He didn’t do that, opting to stand up for his friends to the very end. He was one hell of a man who happened to be gay. 

I think that was the incident that shattered the hold my childhood indoctrination had on me. I became a man who happened to be het, others happened to be gay. That was how life worked, and, in my mind, still works. 

Eventually, I began writing professionally. How my first published book was about two gay men is something I’ve discussed other times, other places. Whether the characters are het, gay, or lesbian isn’t an issue for me. For some folks, though, it is. I’ve heard from hets who wonder what the hell I’m doing writing books with gay men in them. I’ve heard from gays asking the same question. And then, there are some female readers who get upset because my stories in which the characters are gay men, don’t always have sex, because as one very nice lady asked, if the men don’t have sex, “What’s the point?”. 

So, while I offend idealists, bigots, and an occasional reader, I’ll continue telling my stories without worrying about the sexuality of the characters. For you see, that’s how I live my life now. Why should I be concerned what sexuality my fictional characters are, when I couldn’t care less what sexuality my real life friends are? 

“Oh, so you’re one of those heterosexuals who likes to say how he has gay friends.” 

No, I’m saying my friends’ sexuality isn’t any more of your damn business than it is mine. 

A gay person is born gay. A homophobe is trained to be homophobic.

That’s right…homophobia is a disease born of ignorance. Fortunately, there’s a cure. It’s called education. Be smart and get smart. 

‘Nuff said.

Courage & Vassily the Beautiful - Angel Martinez

What makes the Hottentot so hot? What puts the "ape" in apricot? What have they got that I ain't got? ...Courage – The Cowardly Lion, Wizard of Oz, MGM, 1942

That’s the thing, isn’t it? What is it that compromises courage? The Lion is told at the end, and rightly so, that he has as much courage as the next person, even when he reacts with fear. Yet, when someone says “a man of courage,” we don’t picture the Cowardly Lion, we picture a traditional hero, steadfast and fearless.

Courage – the firefighter rescuing the mom and baby from the blazing third floor. The helicopter pilot who braves enemy fire to rescue downed comrades. The Coast Guard captain braving the storm to reach the crippled fishing boat in time. All very rousing and heart-in-mouth inspiring, but this sort of courage, powered by adrenaline and endorphins and often an odd sort of eye of the storm calm, is only one very narrow type of courage.  

At its heart, courage is doing when you are afraid and fear comes in all flavors, not all of them born of physical peril. It’s often doing the hard things, the right things, the things the make you uncomfortable. Sometimes it’s the things that make others uncomfortable. Sometimes it’s as simple as admitting you were wrong, or admitting things have to change.  

Courage is standing by a parent sinking into Alzheimer’s. It’s hearing the diagnosis that will change your life and forcing yourself to ask “what steps do we take now?” instead of falling apart. It’s taking the walk down the red carpet with your lover. It’s admitting to addiction. It’s recognizing you have dreams and finding the strength to chase them.  

The big, brash, loud flavors of courage are fine for the big screen, but most of the time, courage soldiers on quietly, without fanfare or recognition, without explosions or gunfire, evident in a thousand small choices and a thousand mindful acts.  

Courage, as Baba Yaga says, is not a thing you have, but a thing you do.  

Which brings me to Vassily the Beautiful, which, while a story about a number of things, is largely a story about courage. And that, my dears, is all I’ll say on that. 

Vassily the Beautiful 

New M/M Science Fiction from Angel Martinez

Serena at QMO Books says: “The impact and depth of their feelings captivated me. If you like stories about flawed and damaged characters thrown together in a challenging situation, if you enjoy watching men battle both exterior and interior demons and if emotions are just as important as physical attraction for you, this is a books you shouldn’t miss.” 

Bobby at BookWenches says: “This could have been just another “damsel in distress” story, but it’s not. Vassily begins the story a victim….I enjoyed witnessing this change take place as he transitions from spoiled and pouting boy into a stronger, more self-reliant man.”

Vassily the Beautiful – a fairytale hurled through space and turned on its axis…

Set in the same universe as Gravitational Attraction, in the city of New Makarov on a far flung planet at the edge of ESTO space...

A young composer suffers neurological damage in the accident that killed his father...

An amoral, small-time drug manufacturer brings a dangerous new bio-engineered intoxicant to the city...

Deals gone wrong and subtle shifts in the underworld's dealings have made Baba Yaga sons, who act as her security force, edgy and trigger itchy...

Very few constants populate the equations in this new M/M Science Fiction novel, but when the variables collide? Let the mayhem begin...

Midnight Melody by Kate Devlin

Here's a brief look at my friend Kate Devlin's debut book, and the next installment of the Lesbians vs Zombies: The Musical Review line. Enjoy!

Overriding the misgivings of her pregnant lover Gillian, Francesca braves the zombie-infested Texas hill country with Gillian at her side and a floorboard full of zombie-repelling spray canisters. Their goal: to spend a weekend with famed composer and director, Sidney Foster--who is also Gillian’s ex. Francesca, a lyric soprano, sees Sidney as her express ticket to the New York world of music. With, of course, her pianist Gillian. Although the notoriously manipulative Miss Foster might still see Gillian as an express ticket to the bedroom, Francesca is confident she can handle whatever comes.

But why did the master composer turn her isolated home into an absolute beacon for every hungry zombie around?

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Excerpt:

Chapter One

I drove out of Austin in the fading sunset translating the light to an ever-softer melody, with Gillian in the passenger seat beside me. Oscar, our new white and tan terrier mix, rested on the console between us. Until the zombie rising, Gillian and I had kept our relationship secret. But now, with half the world zombied or just dead, hiding our truth no longer seemed important.

Night fell all too fast. As we drove farther from civilization, my aged Kia did little to keep out the foreign symphony of sounds in that ominously darkening song. Locusts droned in harmony with my engine, accompanied by the crickets' frantic descant. A wolf’s lonely cry rose, and another answered. In the city, we only had coyotes to worry about. The zombie packs and the feral dog packs harried each other more than either hunted people.

Gillian sat pretzel-legged, with a reading light reflecting off her metallic NASA suit onto the music score nestled in her lap. Her fingers played in the splintery triangles of light, using the score as a keyboard. Mental practice, she called it. Like most pianists, she put in eight to ten hours of practice a day. That schedule would be impossible for me; the voice tired more quickly than the hands.

On her model, I'd learned to touch the marks on paper while mentally passing from note to note, controlling my breath and posture, hearing the sound I needed to produce, training that mental singer in my head. Thanks to Gillian's secret, I'd become Sidney Foster's favorite soprano.

A working composer, Sidney divided her time between Austin and New York, both teaching and composing. Gillian and I belonged to her ensemble here in Austin: Troupe at the Edge of Sound. Every fall, we performed a one-act opera. This year's would happen at Halloween. The odd scheduling cut deeply into rehearsal time, hence this impromptu weekend at Sidney's remote mansion.

We slowed at a railroad crossing. I caught movement in the empty field out Gillian’s window. So did Oscar, who barked wildly. Ragged bodies hunched like screwing dogs over some unfortunate creature. The rank odor of rot instantly filled the car, and their discomforting huff-huffs of pleasure as they ate made me want to pull a two-wheeled turn and race back home.

"Oscar, hush," Gillian said, never once looking up. "I can't concentrate."

"Zombies, six or seven of them, feeding already," I told her.

She glanced up briefly. "But it isn't full dark yet."

She was right; the sky was still purple at the edge. Experts had warned this might happen, but to see it firsthand terrified me.

Gillian shuddered. "One stuck her hand through the glass of my practice room door last night. I called campus security and they came to get her. Drive faster, Francesca. I can't die yet. I'm not done learning this opera. God, Sidney's going to have my head."

Every time Gillian said her name, I fought a twinge of jealousy. They'd been involved the year before I came to Texas, and compared to Sidney I looked like an ungainly cow. I had voice, but I had a singer's body to go with it. More than once I'd caught Sidney staring at Gillian with a wistful hunger on her face, but thus far, Gillian didn't seem to respond. I worried this weekend might change things.

Hoping to ease the tension, I teased her. "You need musical perfection before you die? Don't kill me yet; I can't play the Liszt B minor."

"Don't make fun. I haven't touched my actual part in the score since September, and tomorrow, the whole ensemble might be there."

Probably not. Although none of the troupe members had refused to show up tomorrow, only the two of us had committed to come. I smoothed a comforting hand over her thigh, pressing wrinkles out of the scent-masking, heat-masking suit. "The worst Sidney can do is yell. She has to appreciate all the juggling we did."

Tonight would be just the three of us, so we could work through my two arias. Sidney was less than pleased with my interpretation of the music thus far.

Hands moving over the score again, Gillian spoke softly. "You're about to meet Sidney on her own turf. She's on her best behavior at school. There's a side to her—watch out!"

I swerved to avoid the figure stumbling across the road. The ragtag woman lurched toward the car, but I'd already snatched my foot off the brake and jabbed the gas pedal.

Gillian turned to look behind us. "One of her breasts was flapping, did you see? This is why I hate being out at night. In case you wondered, I won't be able to sleep a wink unless you're in touching distance."

"I wouldn't sleep anywhere else." Funny, I'd been worried that I'd be the one without a bed partner.

Gillian's hand smoothed down my arm, raising goose bumps under the crinkly NASA suit. She added, "Thanks. I lean on you too much."

Gillian wore her emotions wrapped around her like an antique shawl, fragile and delicate. Now that she was pregnant, as part of the Repopulate Earth project, she seemed even more vulnerable. In music, she found solace and peace, and pure, unadulterated feeling. But during our last few rehearsals, Sidney had reduced her to tears with little effort.

In retrospect, Sidney's ill-hidden glee gave me a good clue as to what we were up against this weekend. It also made me wonder about my part in Repopulate Earth. Once Gillian's child turned a year old, I was to take a turn—or not, depending on my career. I knew several excellent singers who'd lost their voices during pregnancy. And also depending on whether Gillian was then emotionally strong enough to handle my pregnant-lady hormone swings, assuming I'd have them.

I caught her hand and pressed it briefly to my cheek. "I'll tell you when you lean too much. Okay?"

"Perfect. Now I'm going to try to work through the rest of this piece."

My cue to shut the hell up. Chances were good we'd see more zombies, so I concentrated on my driving. The closer we drew to the house, the tighter my nerves wound. For Gillian's sake, I had to keep control of things.

Sidney—there was no one like her. She stood like a sorceress, molding the world by her will. How such a short, gamine woman wielded so much power, I still didn't know.

Night closed in as we pulled into the long, narrow driveway. Sidney out here alone was relatively safe, so long as she didn't use the oven or the clothes dryer or—heaven forbid—a heater. But three of us gathering in an old, unprotected house would radiate enough life signs to pose a greater risk. Zombies seemed to sense us through smell and as heat sources. If we all stayed tomorrow night, we'd draw them like moths to a flame.

Austin had been one of the hardest-hit cities in Texas. The papers blamed the city's fatefully timed experiment allowing everyone free use of the public transportation system. Contact with any body fluid could transmit the disease. Infected sweat on a bus seat was more than adequate exposure.

I parked in front of the house. Come daylight, I'd move my little Kia wherever Sidney wanted it. For now, the goal was to get safely indoors. We both reached around to gather our things from the back, sounding like women rustling around in paper bags with the invaluable suits. The thin, silver material masked both scent and heat.

"Want your helmet?"

I hated the helmets. "No, Sidney should be waiting for us. We won't be outside for long."

"I'm carrying Oscar so nothing happens to him," Gillian said.

"I know you love him, but he'll only make you that much more vulnerable. Put him on the leash."

Gillian gave a harsh sigh. "How many dogs have we lost? Four at last count, I believe."

"Without them, we'd be the dead ones, sweetie, and they have a good life with us. Better than getting gassed at the pound."

"Until they get eaten, sure. You can't rationalize the torture these poor creatures endure at the end. I can still hear them ripping sweet, little Charlie apart."

Me too. I hid my flinch and sighed. "Okay, look. I don't want to be here either, but we didn't have a valid excuse not to show up. With thirty-six hours of intensive work, we might actually be able to perform this opera without looking like idiots."

This was my chance, my big break. Being naked for my big aria should garner me some sort of attention. Even my zaftig body had its charms. In my fantasies, agents and critics rushed to the performance in droves.

"You won't leave me alone with her," she said, more a statement than a question. She tucked Oscar under her arm, protectively. So much for on the leash.

"Pinkie swear," I promised.

"Then, let's do this."

A Not So Random Musing

North Korea’s goal to have nuclear weapons capable of reaching the U.S. has me really wondering if, given our recent history of structuring our military efforts to avoid civilian deaths and doling out dollars to families of civilians we kill in war… if we would actually retaliate in kind should our country be attacked with a nuclear missile. Or would we invade, establish a new government, and then go home when the new government and our own citizens got tired of us being there so the cycle could begin all over again?

If I’m wondering, our enemies certainly have to be wondering.

Here’s what I know:

The Korean War proved we could be battled to a stalemate.

Vietnam proved we could be beaten.

Kuwait proved we will come to an ally’s defense.

Afghanistan and Iraq haven’t proven anything other than to once again affirm that warfare designed to win “the hearts and minds” of our enemy doesn’t work.

I grew up believing an enemy would be obliterated if they were ever stupid enough to attack us. Now, I’m not so sure, and I don’t like that feeling. I’m concerned the term “paper tiger” has more relevance today than ever before.

If North Korea fired a nuclear missile into South Korea, what would we do? I doubt we would respond with our own nukes. Would we pull out and go home, offering up South Korea as a sacrifice to avoid further U.S. blood being shed on foreign soil? Or invade, knowing we didn’t beat North Korea in war the first time.

What if Juneau, Alaska, was wiped out in a nuclear attack? For those who don’t know, Juneau is the capital of Alaska. Would Juneau be worth nuclear retaliation?

What about Seattle? Portland? Or would it take Los Angeles or San Francisco to rattle our plutonium sabers? Or, as I said before, would we choose to invade, change governments, give them billions and billions of dollars, and hope they didn’t attack us again until someone did attack us again?

That’s just it. I don’t know anymore.

To date, the nuclear poker game has been played by semi-rational governments not willing to risk total destruction. Now, there are new players preparing to sit down and call our hand. Do we lay our cards on the table, or do we fold and walk away, leaving a trail of concessions in our wake?

It would appear we may soon find out.

Author Lee Brazil on Reality and Romance Fiction #3

Ladies and gentleman:

My friend, author Lee Brazil.

How do you it's not? Hmm? I mean, seriously.... how many of you have seen him naked?

Good morning all!  Thanks for having me over DaveK, KevaD. *sips coffee*  Nice to see all of you. For those who don't know me, I'm Lee Brazil, author of m/m romance for Breathless Press and Story Orgy.  I'm a coffee addict, a music lover, and a cynic on days that contain the letter a. This causes me some conflict, as I'm a romantic on days that end in Y.

So my answer to this question depends on when you ask it.  Do you believe in love at first sight?  Some readers are adamantly opposed to what they call insta-love.  Others like it just fine. Some people like love at first sight only when it involves shifters.  *eyes widen* Because that makes it more believable? That mythical creatures fall in love instantly is more believable than that human beings do?

*sips coffee*  Today I'm a believer.  I read the sweetest book last night. It was indeed a love at first sight story.  Green eyes met blue across a crowded room.  The earth stood still.  The main character forgot to breathe; he was so entranced with the vision of loveliness gazing back at him. Hearts beat and stall, skip and throb, mouths go dry or wet, and the physiological symptoms are all there. They make their way across the room, with remarkable ease, blindly guided by love itself as neither breaks eye contact. Without a word these two men are locked in one another's arms and kissing passionately.

Then a dead body falls from the sky or some such and they must solve a crime together before they can actually be together, but it's all just a minor inconvenience...because they have love, and they know it.

Okay.  That's a great bit. I love stories like that. Recognizing that you love someone is almost as huge a commitment as marriage itself. Anyone who thinks that's it- I said I love you and that's the end of it, is crazy. *sips coffee* But that's a post for another day. Time to let the cynic play.

Yeah. Okay, so that guy whose gaze you met across the room? He's not looking at you. There's a TV monitor directly over your head and the highlights of Monday's game are playing. You just think he's looking deeply into your eyes and smiling. The truth is his team scored a miracle play in the fourth quarter and he won $50 from the scowly guy standing next to him.

Or maybe he is looking at you.  Because your face is turning blue and your eyes are bugging out because you forgot to breathe. *Snort* Okay, okay...he is looking at you, and he really sees you.  But what then? The crowd parts and leaves a shining path between the two of you as though Moses approved of your union?  Yeah right. 

In my experience what happens next is more like, you take a sip of your drink trying to look all cool, and the toothpick with the garnish stabs you in the cheek, or the eye, or the nose.  Or you swallow too much and choke. Or my personal favorite, you're so busy staring that you misjudge the distance between lips and glass and pour Midori down your shirt. (because this NEVER happens when you're drinking something that is NOT neon colored)            

Then his smile gets bigger and your cheeks burn brighter and you smile weakly. You stumble away from the wall that's been anchoring your "throbbing, soaring heart" to earth and dash for the bathroom before your silk "on the prowl" shirt gets permanently stained...

If you're really lucky- or not- he meets you at the bathroom door with an offer to help you clean up.

And you know what? Even then, I'm not sure it's love at first sight, or love of a good joke.

But, if you make it through that, and all the other pitfalls, then you're going to need a sense of humor, because long term relationships are not for the faint of heart.

Now, remember, this is just a tongue in cheek look at why romantic fiction is better than reality...I did a bit of research...not too much, because I'm retired, damn it, and I'm lazy like that. Seems 60% of people surveyed in Psychology Today believe in love at first sight, and a whopping 50% of those surveyed have experienced it. 

So there you have it...Love at first sight, reason #3 why romantic fiction beats reality! *looks to the side* What?  I didn't?  *Shakes head* I've just been reminded that I didn't tell you whether I really believe in love at first sight or not.  Who am I to judge? I fell in love with a voice on the phone...And we celebrate our fifteenth anniversary this year! So, yes...I believe with love all things are possible.

Got a love at first sight story to tell? Funny or touching, real or imaginary...share it here and be entered to win a copy of my latest short novella, Loving Eden.

Loving Eden is not a love at first sight story- It's a "recognize that there might be something between us if we take the time to find out" story.  Which is kind of what happens a lot of the time, isn't it? You meet someone, and if things line up right, you could have a great relationship.  If he leaves on the next bus and you never hear form him again, you aren't going to be devastated, because even though the potential was there, the seed wasn't watered, and nothing grew...Wait...I wasn't going to talk about that in this post... Anyway, here's a bit of Loving Eden to entice you to share you stories with us today.

Title: Loving Eden

Genre: m/m contemporary romance

BLURB:

Eden St. Cyr wants to let the boy who's crushing on him down easy. Drew Harris wants to protect his son from what he considers a disastrous relationship. Neither of them counted on being attracted to the other.

Eden St. Cyr has wandering feet.  He shuffles around the country from place to place and college to college, changing majors and lovers at whim. When Bailey Harris starts following him home, mooning around and showing signs of affection, Eden hatches a plan to let the kid down lightly before he leaves for the next semester, the next college, and the next lover.

Drew Harris is stunned at the changes in his son.  His responsible dependable, cheerful boy has become a moody despondent, irresponsible teenager. Drew knows exactly who to blame, too.  When Eden doesn’t' return his phone calls, he's forced to be a little more devious in his plans to get the bad influence out of his son's life.

An unexpected attraction derails both men from their plans, but when Bailey walks in at the least appropriate time, can things be put right?

EXCERPT:

Eden stepped up to the doorway inadvertently brushing against that hard muscled body as he did so. Heat seared through his thin T-shirt and gooseflesh prickled his arms. He bit his lip to keep the moan inside, just nodding his head, too afraid that his arousal would show to speak. He ducked his head and made to move into the room, when a hard warm hand closed around his upper arm. He found himself turned to face Bailey's dad, and looked up into puzzled blue eyes.

"We'll talk later, yes?" The man asserted. Eden was trapped in the depths of those deep blue eyes and unable to utter a response. A big, calloused hand came up to cup Eden's jaw, thumb rubbing gently over the two-day growth of beard he hadn't bothered to shave. Shaking his head, Drew began to speak again but then his head tilted slightly to the side and his lips came down. Eden caught his breath in surprise. Surely Bailey's dad wasn't going to kiss him?

But he was. Warm dry lips pressed to his own briefly, sliding a little to the side, nipping lightly at his own lower lip. The gentle kiss swept right across his mouth in a brief warm touch that left him craving more. It had barely begun before Drew pulled away.

Buy Link: http://www.breathlesspress.com/loving-eden

Author Contact: http://leebrazilauthor.blogspot.com/