By Appointment

Based on a short story I wrote a few weeks ago, my daughter asked me to write something else, expanding it. She gave me some great ideas, which I hope to incorporate. It's handy having a psychology major on tap. My daughter suggested adding the original story so that readers could see where he came from and where he got to. The original story, Watching Me Watching, is a mini short story that I wrote for my weekly writing group. I began By Appointment in order to expand the story and the character. 

Watching Me Watching

I sat in the cafeteria watching the people go by. They don't know I'm watching. They think I'm reading the paper and sipping my coffee. The latter I'm doing, but not the former. I people-watch, it's what I do. Other people fascinate me. I can sit and watch them for hours. People accuse me of stalking them. Not me. I'm a people watcher – that's all.

I like to watch them and speculate about their lives. That man in the fancy overcoat. Let's call him Chester. Chester likes being comfortable and being in this place isn't his idea. He's here with a woman, not his wife, I'm guessing. He's careful to keep distance between them, self-conscious if she touches him. Not his wife – his girlfriend. She has something special to tell him – something he won't want to hear. She knows, but also knows she has to. I turn away from her despair.

In the corner is a family having hot chocolate on this cold, city night. Winter isn't far away. You can feel it in the way they chat about the cold. Their breath clouds around them – it's chilly in here. The air conditioning hasn't been turned off yet. Some optimistic soul things it's still only fall.

The one I really want to watch is that girl by the door. She sits alone, forlorn, forgotten. Medium height, she straight, dirty blonde hair and pale eyes. They show up green in the light of the cafeteria, but then, so does her hair. Her face is drawn, dirty and finely chiseled. I hope she'll find a man or die soon. Either way is okay with me. Anything that will end her suffering.

I take another sip of my coffee and scan the room again. In the far corner, opposite the family, not far from the unhappy girl, Is a man like me. Not that he looks like me. We're very different. He's got light brown hair and mine is dark. His eyes are hazel, mine are green. He wears all black. Though I do too, his jacket is short, my coat is long. He wears boots similar to mine, but his are scuffed. Mine shine like new, though they are old.

Both of us have a look – an affectation, if you will – the look of a predator. Though I cannot speak for him, I can for myself. I am a predator. I hunt through the night. I follow the unwary, cutting them down in their prime. Would I harm the family? No. The lonely girl? Also, no. The successful business man and his floozy – yes. Well, not her, him. Perhaps when he's leaving their love nest, sated from a night of debauchery with a woman half his age.

They rise to leave. I fold my paper and take my coffee. No sense leaving evidence. The man opposite me makes to rise, sees me and hesitates. I glare at him before my eyes flicker to the man. I raise an eyebrow. He shakes his head, tipping his chin at the woman. I make my own negative reply. In agreement, we follow them separately, on different sides of the street. We move quietly, casually, as if we have nowhere else to be.

Her place must be close, because they're walking. Arm in arm, they walk up the steep sidewalk. They climb slowly. My doppelganger and I match their pace. They enter an apartment building at the crest of the hill. Moments later, lights come on in the first floor apartment. We see our prey silhouetted against the blinds, kissing. They retire to another room and we wait, smoking cigarettes in the dark.

My shadow walks across the street to stand next to me. He faces the window, a smile on his lips.

"Tonight?" I ask quietly.

"I would ask you the same." He finishes his cigarette. Squeezing out the end, he puts it in his pocket, much as I've done with my own.

"If we take one without the other....."

"The free one will become cautious," he finished my sentence for me.

We nodded in unison.

"When he leaves," I murmured as the door opened.

Nodding, he faded into the shadows, moving toward the back of the building. I stay in my hiding place, waiting for the businessman to walk away. After many fond kisses, he does, heading back down the sidewalk. He must walk right past me to get back to the cafeteria. He won't make it that far. Or perhaps he will?

I allow him to walk by, whistling happily. I hear the bushes rustle behind me. My friend returns.

"Not tonight," he says before I ask him.

I understand because I feel the same. Silently, I invited him back to the cafeteria for coffee.

"Tomorrow?" I ask him.

A shrug answers my question. We're patient, we wait in the shadows with our deep, dark secrets.

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By Appointment

I opened the door to the opulent office, inhaling deeply. Cigarette smoke, old books, new leather and the hit of Oriental lime Hai Karate aftershave greeted my sensitive nose. Closing the door with a firm click, I looked around me, wondering where the doctor was.

The office is spacious but crowded. A large, walnut desk dominated the area near the tall, arched windows. He has an excellent view of the park. Unfortunately, his back is to it. Though if he placed his chair on the other side, he'd have his back to the door. Not safe when dealing with people like me. The desk is vast, cluttered, presenting a formidable barrier between the doctor and his clients. If I had to deal with his clientele, I'd hide too. Hell, I'd chain us down and leave the room, waiting until our psychoses gripped us, spiriting us away.

I sat in one of the chairs facing the desk, gazing out at the park view. I wouldn't normally have my back to the door, but I could see it reflected in the windowpane. It's a comfortable chair. Soft leather – maybe kid. It felt smooth and cool beneath my hands. I massaged it gently as I waited. And waited. The door behind me opened.

I stayed put, allowing the doctor to take his place behind the desk. I can't tell if he's surprised to see me here or not. Usually I wait in the outer room.

"The receptionist told me to come in," I told him.

The doctor, a man of few words, nodded at me, extending his hand in invitation.

"Shall I lie down?"

"Do you want to?"

As always, a question answered with another question. I felt this first response set the tone for us. I rose from my chair and lay down on the couch. I could hear him move quietly behind me and I was tempted to get up and lie facing him, but that isn't done. He'll sit behind me where I can't see him, and write things on his tablet with a pen that scratches occasionally. All their pens scratch.

"You understand why you're here?" he asked me quietly as I settled on the couch.

"Of course. You want to see if I'm sane."

"Has anyone said you aren't?"

"Has anyone said I am?" I chuckled as the silence fell. "Yes, I understand. Shall I simply talk? Or do you have questions?"

He said nothing, waiting.

"May I smoke?"

"Would you like to?"

"Not really. I've never smoked. I simply wanted to know if I could, should I choose to take up the habit."

He didn't say anything. I made the assumption that he disapproved of my flippant nature. Perhaps I'd learn to be less sarcastic. I doubt it. He writes something on his pad, the nib of his pen scritch scratches on the page

"This couch is lovely," I remarked politely. "So soft. I love leather. People are buying Naugahyde these days, claiming it's as good as leather. Nothing beats leather. The feel, the smell...." I inhaled deeply.

He didn't reply.

"Do you think the cows know it's coming? Do you think they realize they're going to die so someone can have a fabulous couch? Do they feel pain? Fear? Is their fear part of this couch? Perhaps their pain is tanned into the leather." I stroked it with my hands, longingly. "I can feel their agony worked into every seam – every tuft...."

The doctor cleared his throat pointedly. He thinks I ramble. Perhaps I do. Or maybe my revelation makes him think his office is haunted by the ghosts of angry cows. I can't see him, but the squeak of his buttocks against the leather of his fancy chair tells a story of his discomfort.

"Does that upset you, Doctor?"

He cleared his throat. "You're not here to talk about leather, Jon."

"Dr. Hamilton used to let me talk about whatever I wanted."

"And you may."

"I want to talk about leather." I paused to see if he'd contradict me. "Is the office haunted by the ghosts of angry cows?"

"Do you think it is?"

"I think I liked Dr. Hamilton better. He didn't ask so many questions. Why can't I see him?"

"He's no longer with us, Jon."

"Is he dead?"

"No."

"He found me difficult. He didn't like me to talk about the pain."

"Then talk about pain."

"Not just any pain. The pain. The pain something feels when it knows the next breath it takes is its last. The pain of fear as it struggles against death and loses. The pain you feel after really great sex when you wonder if the next time can ever be as good. Pain and pleasure are very closely related, you know. Each is an overload of the senses. One can't exist without the other. In great pleasure lurks great pain. In great pain, pleasure lives. That bothered Dr. Hamilton. He said I was sadistic."

"Do you think you're sadistic, Jon?"

I paused, thinking that over. Dr. Hamilton never asked so many questions. This man asks too many. He muddles my thinking and spoils my perception of the moment. But he's waiting for an answer.

"Yes."

The silence seems to resonate in the cluttered, book laden office. The loose pages on his desk are whispering to one another. I can't hear them clearly, but I think they're saying, "Crazy Johnny. Crazy Johnny!" Voices like the schoolyard children of my youth. "Crazy Johnny!"

"I met a woman," I blurted out. "Her name is Sylvia and...." I ground to a halt unable to complete the sentence.

"What about Sylvia?"

"She didn't like the pain."

He says nothing, but I hear him scoot around in his chair once more. He scribbles something else on the pad. Clearly uncomfortable, he continues to say nothing. I let the silence surround us. I like long silences.

The sounds of the city penetrate the high ceilinged room, although we are several floors above the traffic. Horns honk, sirens wail. The elevated train rumbles along not far away.

There are voices in the reception room. I can't hear what they're saying, but there's talk. A woman's and a man's. She's calm, but firm. He's insistent.

"I have to see him now!" Comes through suddenly.

"He's with a patient."

"It can't wait. I need him!"

"You'll have to wait. You don't have an appointment."

"Excuse me," said my doctor.

"Take your time. It's my nickel," I offered magnanimously.

He rose, heading to the reception room, leaving the door cracked. A hurried conversation follows and the doctor comes back in, angry red and flustered.

"Our time's up for today, Jon."

"We've got thirty minutes left, Doctor."

"We'll make it up next time. This can't wait."

"It was delightful meeting you, Doctor." I held out my hand to shake his.

"You too, Jon." He nodded instead, not touching me.

He's one of those. One who's afraid the crazy will wear off on him. From his diplomas, I know he's fairly new in practice. That's why Hamilton was able to foist me off on him. He was afraid of catching the crazy too. Unfortunately for Hamilton – he did.

I first met Dr. Hamilton in the spring of 1959. My family doctor sent me to him after a series of incidents with the feral cats that lived on the land next door. Our home was in the country – not a farm, just a dirt trap of land that grew nothing but weeds. The people next door started with two cats when they moved in. By the time I was seven, there were closer to dozen. All of them used our land as their litter box. Cats are fastidious, you know. They don't like to shit in their own yard.

For my eighth birthday, Papa bought me a slingshot and showed me how to shoot dandelions and weeds. He lined up old Muscatel bottles and showed me how to shoot them too.

"Nice shooting, son." He ruffled my hair proudly. It was the first and only compliment he ever gave me.

Soon, the bottles and weeds lost their appeal. The first challenge was an old Tom. Nearly blind, unsteady, he came over to drop his load of scat. Mid crap, I hit him with a small pebble in the flank. Hissing, he leapt away. The next caught him in the shoulder and the third glanced off his skull. Mewling pitifully, he staggered back in the yard next door, catching himself on the barbed wire fence that separated us.

I don't know when he died, but the others feasted on him. I watched them from my window that night. The next morning, the wife found his body. Screaming, she ran back in the house to get her husband. I watched from our yard, curious at her disgust. It was just a dead cat. Why was she screaming like that?

Gagging, her husband got a trash bag and picked the dead Tom up with his gardening gloves. He was dropped unceremoniously in the bag and into the trash can. I snuck over later and pulled him out. He was mostly bones, but enough of him was left to examine. It was hard to believe that bag of ragged flesh and gnawed bones had once been a cat.

Mama found me later and tanned my hide. Papa came home after work and took the belt to me. They weren't mad about the cat. They didn't know I'd killed him. They were angry that I left the yard and dug around in the garbage. I was sent to bed with no supper. After the house got quiet, I snuck to the cupboard and took a biscuit. I drank out of the milk bottle and took my biscuit outside so I wouldn't leave crumbs about. I shot two more cats that night, but they didn't die. They weren't old and sick like that old Tom.

My opportunity to kill another cat came soon after. I plotted this one. I lay in wait, ready to ambush it. There was a gray tabby female, not old like the Tom. She was mean, nasty tempered and vicious. More than once, she'd chased me around my own yard, acting like she owned it. She scratched me up one time, really bad. Mama washed it all off with bleach and gave me caster oil. I had bandages on my hands for days and some of the wounds festered. I had to go to the doctor for shots.

Papa grumbled about the expense. Mama whined and told him not to yell. Neither of them spoke to me and they didn't really speak to one another – except to whine and yell. The doctor gave me three shots and a lollypop.

"That should do him up, Muriel," he told my mother. He smiled at her, handing her a lollypop too, his full lips very close to hers.

My mother was a beautiful woman. She was tall and willowy, fair skinned, with soft, blonde curls. She was a lady. No one could understand why she married a coarse, common man like my father. People said he'd fooled her into thinking he had money, but after they got married, he wouldn't give her any.

We lived in a shabby home on our dirt trap littered with cat shit. My clothes were always too small, my shoes worn and my hair trimmed around a bowl cause Mama couldn't afford to take me to the barber.

But I digress. Getting back to the cat. I built myself a hunting blind. Mama thought it was a fort for make believe. Papa thought it was an eyesore. He was going to knock it down. Mama whined and cried and convinced him I needed somewhere to play.

"What's the harm, Henry? Let the boy have his fun. He's got precious little else out here...."

While they argued, I sat in my blind – waiting. Soon, the cat came over to do her business. I sat very still, waiting. This one, I knew, liked to clean up after. She'd sit there and wash her paws and face before going back to the chaos of the yard. One of the cats had just had 10 new kittens. They were adding their scat to the rest. But this was the one I wanted. Patient, I sat there, hardly breathing. She washed her paws, then licked one, to wash her face.

I took careful aim for that M on her forehead. Pulling back the slingshot, I let loose with a good sized rock.

Snap! Crack! I hit her right in the head. She yowled loudly, screaming her outrage. I got her again with another stone to her flank. She had a pattern on her fur that looked like a bullseye. I got her dead center.

Her screaming brought my parents and the neighbors running. The husband jerked me up by my collar, slingshot dangling from my fingers. The wife picked up the cat, cradling its battered body in her apron. The husband lifted me high, shaking me hard.

"You have to do something about this boy, Henry. He's a menace! He's damn near killed my cat! I wouldn't be surprised if he killed my old Tom and hurt those others. What are you gonna do about this? If that cat dies...."

"If it dies, there will be one less to shit on my grass, Boyd. You let those disgusting animals have the run of the place. That one clawed my boy up so bad, he had to be doctored. Is it any wonder he's gone after it? Those beasts are a menace. Why the city won't...."

"City has nothing to do with this, Henry. This is between neighbors."

The cats, drawn by the noise, were crawling under the fence or leaping over it. Some came to the woman's skirts, looking for the source of the mewing and the odor of blood. Her apron was soaked with it. Big, red spots blossomed against the white fabric.

Papa went in the house and brought out his old squirrel gun. He loaded up a shell. Kablam! He hit one cat with rock salt. The rest scattered. He pulled out another shell and loaded it. Kablam!

Boyd dropped me and started chasing my father. The woman screamed and cried, trying to hold her cat and cover her ears. Mama stood quietly, lips pressed in a tight line of disapproval. She hated those cats, but she hated violence. But Boyd had pushed Papa one step too far. She grabbed me to her, holding me close. She tried to cover my eyes, but I pried her fingers apart and watched.

Papa shot up those cats. He didn't kill any, but they were limping, the salt stinging when it hit. He had one more shell left and he leveled his gun at Boyd.

"You get off my land now," Papa said real low. "And you keep them cats off my place. You come back here – for any reason – I'll make sure there's not rock salt in there. You lay a hand on my boy again, I'll set your house afire with the two of you in it. You hear me?"

"You're crazier than your boy," Boyd said quietly. "You're crazy, Henry!" He led his wife off the property and back to their own yard. When he got to the other side, he raised his fist, shaking it. "You haven't heard the last of me, Henry!"

Papa raised his gun once more, his finger on the trigger. He aimed right at Boyd. Instead of sticking around to get hit, he ran. Papa gave him a head start before pulling the trigger once more. Kablam!

"That'll teach that fucker not to come on my land," Papa said.

"Henry, language!"

"You use that word, son, I'll tan you."

"Yes, sir."

He ruffled my hair, winked and went to the living room to watch the nightly news.

Boyd and his wife sent the police to our house. They had some lady who talked to me about how it was bad to hurt innocent animals. She told me they had feelings too.

"People don't have feelings. Neither do animals. They're just dumb beasts."

"Are people dumb beasts too, Johnny?"

I shrugged.

"How would you feel if someone pointed a slingshot at you?"

I shrugged again.

"What if they pointed a gun at you?"

I shrugged a third time. "I guess I'd get it away and shoot them first before they could shoot me."

Aghast, she spoke to the police officers and they took me away. Mama cried, Papa shouted. The lady with the police said she'd see I was taken care of. She said no one was gonna do anything mean to me again. She wouldn't believe me when I told her no one ever had. I guess she thought I should be crying. She kept asking if I wanted to. I never did figure out why.

The next day, the lady came and took me to see Dr. Hamilton for the first time. He didn't usually see children, but I was a special case. He didn't know just how special I was.

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Love, Death or Pizza - excerpt

I've said it before, I'll say it again -- I love first meetings. This story, Love, Death or Pizza is set in a small town in Nebraska. Brock Parnell just heard that a man he's hated most of his life, is dead. Tack Carmichael is the kind of man that no one particularly liked. In fact, he was so unlikable, Brock wonders who finally took the initiative to kill him.

Unfortunately, a lot of people think Brock had a pretty good motive, so they drag him in for questioning shortly after the 11:00 news. He gets grilled by two detectives, but they get nowhere. Of course not, he's innocent. So they send in the big guns -- assistant district attorney, Adrianna Hasselhoff. 

 It wasn't Bartolli and Simpson who stood across from me now. It was a really sexy brunette with a curvaceous figure and short red dress. She looked like she'd been pulled in from a night out at the country club. She also looked totally pissed at having to be there.

Did I mention she was stunningly gorgeous? She must have been five foot ten in her heels, built like Sophia Loren back in her heyday, with beautiful blue eyes.

My jaw dropped open and I stared hard at her. Blinking rapidly, I tried to decide if she was real. She walked around the table, staring at me. She was real, all right. She was also frowning at me. Something about me did not impress her. I stood up, holding out my hand. I realized it was a little sweaty, so I wiped it on the seat of my jeans. Extending a drier hand, I smiled.

"How do you do? I'm Brock Parnell."

"I know who you are. I'm Adrianna Hasselhoff from the District Attorney's office. Do you know why you're here, Mr. Parnell?"

"Someone thinks I killed Tack Carmichael," I said with a shrug and sat down.

She hadn't taken my hand, so I folded my hands in my lap, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees.

"Exactly. You're a prime suspect, Mr. Parnell. Second only to his wife."

"What? You think Amy killed him?" I laughed, rather hysterically I'm afraid. I was tired as hell.

"You find your situation humorous?"

She frowned deeper, making a note on the clipboard she carried. She hadn't taken a seat, just stood there looking fantastic. Her skirt was right about to her knees and she wore strapless pumps with four inch heels. I'm a sucker for pumps. They're sexy as hell and made her legs look great! I could picture the curve of her leg all the way up to her ass. The skirt was cut to cling and it did in all the right places.

I was staring at her with my mouth open. Great, Brock! I snapped my lips shut and forced myself to look at her face.

She hadn't missed my expression. I might still have been feeling the effects of that whiskey, but I swear she was smiling a little and her blue eyes flashed like twin sapphires. She repeated her question.

"Humorous? No. Not at all. Ludicrous, yeah. What's humorous is that you suspect Amy Carmichael. The woman can't even smash a bug in the bathroom. You think she could kill her husband? How was he killed?"

"He was shot six times."

"Ew! Hell of a way to go. And you seriously think Amy did that? Somebody's been smoking...."

"Have you been smoking, Mr. Parnell?"

"Not for about fifteen years, Miss Hasselhoff."

"That's Ms. Hasselhoff."

"Ms. No, make that twenty years. I quit smoking when I met my ex-wife. I couldn't afford both."

I chuckled, tipping my chair slightly. Ms. Hasselhoff didn't look amused. She made another note on her clipboard. I yawned loudly. I couldn't help it. We were going on two o'clock and I really needed a hot shower and some sleep.

"Why am I still here? I don't know anything. Could you please let me get home and go to bed? I've been up twenty-two hours, Ms. Hasselhoff. I'm dog tired and I have to work tomorrow. Just because I'm the boss doesn't mean I can sleep in."

"I really can't do that, Mr. Parnell."

"Why not, Ms. Hasselhoff?"

Why did she have to have such a long name? Why couldn't it be something short like Smith?

"Because Tack Carmichael was shot with your gun."

"My what?" I stood up, knocking my chair over. "My gun? My gun? What the fuck?"

"There's no need for that kind of language, Mr. Parnell."

"I beg to differ, Ms. Hasselhoff. You just told me that some asshole was shot to death with my gun and you don't expect me to say 'fuck'? Of course I'm going to say it. Wouldn't you say it? Anybody would under those circumstances. My own mother would if you told her that."

"Settle down, Mr. Parnell."

I was babbling and I knew it, but I was too tired and too upset to care. They wanted a reaction, they got one. Whether it was the one they expected, I don't know. But you can't send a beautiful woman in four inch pumps in to talk to a man who hasn't had sex in months that some dick head he's hated since the eighth grade got himself whacked with his (my) gun.

"Fuck!"

"Mr. Parnell!"

I wanted to throw something, but there was nothing to throw. I could have pitched my chair across the room at that mirror, but I decided against that. I didn't want to get arrested.

"Ms. Hasselhoff, I'm sorry that Tack Carmichael had the bad form to get himself shot with my gun. But if you check your records, you'll discover that my gun was reported stolen over a year ago. That weapon hasn't been in my possession for a very long time. I reported it myself to Sam Hart. Have you talked to Lieutenant Hart about that?"

She looked a little flustered and shot a look at the mirror. Like I thought, there was someone back there. She tried to be all cool, but that caught her by surprise. No one had mentioned that fact to her.

"The gun disappeared about the same time my ex-wife left me. I always kind of figured she'd taken it with her for spite. I liked that gun. It was a family heirloom. My great-great-grandfather was a lawman in Cheyenne. That was his gun and it was worth a lot of money, not to mention the sentimental value. I'd sure like to have it back."

"It's a murder weapon now, Mr. Parnell. It's being held in evidence."

I shrugged and nodded, sitting down again. By this time I was too tired to stand. I'd had a rush of adrenaline when she told me Tack had the poor taste to get slaughtered with my great-great-granddaddy's peacemaker, but now I was paying for it. I yawned again, long and loud, looking right at the mirror. I hoped they were all yawning like hell too. It would be satisfying to know that I'd spread it around.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could I go home? I'm really exhausted. I'm hungry and I want a hot shower. Would you either charge me or send me home? Either way, I'll get some sleep."

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Promo Day May 19, 2012

I'm proud and excited to be participating in Promo Day this year! I hope you'll join me and all the other presenters for this amazing and FREE EVENT!!

The Workshops

The workshops all take place in the forums on the Promo Day website and are completely free to attend. In order to take part you just need to register via the website http://www.PromoDay.info.

The workshops for the 2012 event are:

• How to make LinkedIn work for you with Jo Linsdell
• Creating Your Own Online Newspaper with Terri Main
• Radio interviews with Denise Turney
• 365 days of promotion with Sandy Lender
• How to create online events that help generate a Marketing Domino Effect with Karl Staib
• Blogging with Jo-Anne Vandermeulen
• Book reviews with Dana Lynn Smith
• Time management with Anne Nordhaus-Bike
• Facebook with Dellani Oakes
• Powerful Pinterest: how to use it market your book with Penny Sansevieri
• SEO with Angela England
• Social media marketing with Jan Verhoeff
• How to sell more books with John Kremer
• Virtual Tours with Cheryl Malandrinos
  
  
  
  
  
  

"Savage Heart" - Excerpt from my historical romance

I've been inspired to work on the sequel to my historical romance, Indian Summer. I got the idea when I was subbing on Thursday. As I waited for my class, I sat down with a notebook and pen and scribbled a few pages. Over the last two days, I've worked on finishing that passage and connecting it to the prior text. I couldn't remember exactly where I'd left off, so I picked up a little later and went back to fill in the gap. I'm pleased with the results so far. I liked it so well, I decided to share it with my readers.

A little background: A character in Indian Summer, Sailfish, a Native Floridian, rescues Gabriella from grave danger. He falls in love with her, not realizing that she's engaged to his blood brother, Manuel. I had several readers ask me when Sailfish was going to get his own girl, so I decided to write Savage Heart.

The year is 1740. There continues to be trouble between the British and the Spanish as they struggle for supremacy over the New World. A band of renegade Indians, working for the British, raid an outlying homestead, killing all the inhabitants but one. A young woman, Meli Chasseure, escapes but is wounded by a Florida panther. Sailfish saves her life, bandages her up and takes her to St. Augustine. Of course, they fall in love and plan to marry.

Defying the norm, Governor Deza allows Sailfish to sleep in Meli's room with the understanding that nothing will happen under his roof. He allows this because Meli is plagued by nightmares of her family's brutal slaying. They uphold the governor's trust until two nights before their wedding, when it goes further than just kissing. Not all the way, but far enough to make Sailfish extremely upset when she puts on the brakes. He leaves, furious and frustrated. Meli cries herself to sleep. This scene takes place the following morning. (Wink is her kitten.)

Meli awoke with the sun, yawning and stretching happily. Sailfish lay curled up beside her, one long arm draped over her protectively. As if she'd designated herself chaperon, Wink lay between them, forcing a modest distance.

Sailfish stirred in his sleep, rolling over on his back. Clad in his loin cloth, the lines of his bronze body enticed Meli's hungry eyes. She wanted to touch him, run her fingers over the taut, corded muscles, but she didn't dare. Her fingers tingled with desire, but she kept her hands to herself. They had come too close the night before to breaking their promise to Ferdinand. In fact, she hadn't expected to wake with Sailfish beside her.

She snuggled deeper under the covers, laying her cheek on her hands to keep from betraying the trust they shared. They would be married soon and she'd be able to fondle him as much as she liked. Only another night must pass and they would be wed.

Wink yawned and stretched every part of her furry little body. Her tail tickled Sailfish's ear. Reacting like a warrior, he groped for his weapon, not finding it. He grabbed the hapless kitten in one huge hand. The cat shrieked, clawing desperately as his palm closed around her belly, cursing loudly. The noise was alarming of angry cat and angrier Indian.

Meli jumped up, grasping his arm so he wouldn't strangle her kitten. Laughing hard, she foiled his attempt at cat killing, taking the hapless feline from him gently. She did her best to calm both cat and human.

"Gads! What was that?" Sailfish rubbed vigorously at his ear.

"Wink's tail. I'm so sorry," she giggled. "She's used to sleeping with just me." She kissed the kitten who struggled to get down. "Are you alright?" She set Wink on the floor, reaching for his hand.

"I'm fine! She startled me. I'm used to sleeping outside. Sometimes animals come up, attracted by body heat. Not a good way to wake up!"

"I'm sorry, my love." She touched one of the scratches on his hand. "We need to bathe that."

"It's merely a scratch," he replied sulkily.

"Quit being the big, strong warrior. She's an outdoor cat. Who knows where she's been?"

Taking a washcloth, she dampened it in the water basin and rubbed a little soap on it. Sailfish hissed as the soap got in the wound.

"My herbs would hurt less."

"Perhaps, but this is here. You'll be fine." She finished cleaning and drying the scratches, delivering a light kiss before letting go.

"Thank you," he said, less sulky. "It's good to have you look after me."

"It's my job," she murmured. "I can't wait to be your wife."

"Nor I to have you...."

He leaned forward, long fingers twining in her hair. His kiss tingled against her lips briefly. Suddenly, a furry cannon ball landed between them. Wink– taking her job as chaperon seriously once more.

"Your cat hates me."

"No, she doesn't. But you can't expect her to be very happy with you at the moment. After all, you did try to choke her."

"She stuck her tail in my ear! Had I been awake, I wouldn't have reacted so abruptly."

"Apologize," Meli said, holding the kitten nearly in his face.

Sailfish gazed solemnly into the kitten's eyes and spoke a long phrase in his native tongue. When he'd finished, Wink touched his lips with her paw.

"That was so beautiful," Meli sighed. "What did you say?"

Sailfish switched to French so she could understand. "Little sister, I beg your pardon for the way I behaved. You took me by surprise. Please forgive me and don't keep me from Meli anymore. I only wanted a morning kiss."

To Buy Dellani's Books

Pick Five Words

I belong to a small writing group that meets on Wednesdays from 12:30 - 2:00. We meet at the local Council on Aging building and I'm the youngest person there. I think the average age (not including me) is probably 70. One member is 94!


The way it works is we get a weekly prompt and we write something about it. We read these aloud to the group, laughing and enjoying one another's work. After that, we pass a bag of words around and each pick five random words from the bag. Once we have them, we compose a paragraph or sentence using the words we've chosen. We get some pretty crazy results. 


I attended another writing group a couple years ago and they did something similar. Instead of five, they chose ten words. We were given 15 minutes to write a short piece using all 10 words. The following is what I wrote. My 10 words were: 10 words drawn were: nightmare, explode, toe, pocket, sharp, young, surrounded, either, return, pull. See if you can spot them below.

 Amanda Sharp walked down the street in her fancy, new red shoes. They cost a bundle, but the young woman was determined to look her best at her job interview. With a special spring in her step, she rounded the corner and ran into a man. Knocked back a step, she stumbled. He caught her by the elbows, setting her on her feet once more.

"What a nightmare!" Amanda thought. "Now I'll be late for my appointment."

The man apologized and pulled the door open for her. He was really quite handsome. Distracted by his good looks, she didn't pay careful attention to where she was going. She caught the pocket of her jacket on the door. It swung shut, hitting her big toe. Her foot exploded with pain and she cursed inadvertently.

Worried that she was seriously hurt, the man helped her to a chair. Once he was assured she was alright, he excused himself.

"I apologize, but I have an appointment in five minutes. Are you sure you're okay?"

Amanda, who was now surrounded by everyone in the office, told him she was fine.

"I'll check on you later," he promised. "I'll return after my appointment."

Amanda examined her beautiful new shoes after the man left. They were scuffed and dirty. Fortunately, they had taken the impact, protecting her foot, or she would have seriously injured her toe.

Distressed, she almost didn't hear when the receptionist called her name.

"Oh, that's me," she said. "Sorry."

Walking into the office, a familiar face greeted her. The man she'd collided with stepped forward with a smile.

"Either you need to be more careful or I do," he said with a grin. "Congratulations. You're hired."

I liked this so well, I decided to write a novel using this as the beginning. It's at 22,700 words and growing!

Dellani Interviews Dellani

I interview other people all the time. Today, I decided to interview myself. I sent myself the questions I generally reserve for others and was surprised at how I responded. Which just goes to show that not only am I full of surprises, I am, quite possibly, suffering from some horrible dis-associative disorder. As I post this, I think I might have done this before. Doesn't matter since not everyone read them.

When did you start writing?

I was telling stories even as a child. I didn't start to write them down until I got into elementary school. One of my first formal works was a myth "How We Got Hair". I remember absolutely nothing about it but the title. When in high school, I wrote lots of short stories and humorous essays. In college, I branched out into plays. I didn't attempt my first novel until I was teaching high school many years later. It's not finished yet, but it has potential! My first finished and published novel is "Indian Summer", an historical adventure/ romance set in St. Augustine, Florida in 1739.

What gave you the idea for your first book?

My very first, as yet to be finished, novel, "How Many Miles to Avalon" was inspired by a board game I developed for my gifted students. The idea for "Indian Summer" came to me when I was a chaperone on a field trip with my eldest son. I wandered around St. Augustine thinking how many amazing stories the oldest city on the East Coast had to tell.

What genre do you write?

I write mostly romance. I also have a sci-fi series that could be called futuristic romance. I also write a crime/ romance blend that gets your pulse racing for more reasons than one!

What do you do to keep yourself focused?

Me focused? Not gonna happen. I try, but life is full of distractions. I think I have a slight ADD problem which makes it even harder to concentrate. I keep music playing all the time and that helps me ignore many distractions.

Do you stay with one project or do you work on multiple projects?

I'm a multiple project girl. I get stuck on one story or the muse takes a powder, and I move on to something else. I rarely suffer from writer's block as a result.

What is your writing process?

When I get an idea, I sit down as soon as possible and start at the beginning. I try to find a strong starting sentence and work from there. I don't really outline, though I do jot down notes—like names, ages, hair color, eye color, etc. If I don't, I have the hero gazing into the heroine's beautiful brown eyes on page 10 and into her bottomless blue ones on page 66.

I write chronologically. I've tried writing scenes and stringing them together, but that doesn't work well for me. I did write one story in reverse once. I wrote one section which became the end, wrote a middle and moved on to a beginning. That's extremely rare for me.

How do you find your voice?

This was hard for me when I first started writing. Gabriella, heroine of "Indian Summer", very much wanted to tell her own story. Since she was capable of doing that, I allowed it. She did a great job. I originally chose to write as journal entries but that was far too limiting. Instead, I let her speak her own way and the voice found me. I do that all the time now with great results.

Do you know your ending before you begin?

I very rarely know the ending when I begin. I like the exploration process. I might have a goal in mind, but it doesn't get there often. I enjoy the ride.

What is your latest release?

My latest release is "Lone Wolf", the first in my sci-fi series.

What other books do you have published?

I currently have two novels in print. The first is "Indian Summer", the second is "Lone Wolf".

Where are your books available?

Both books are available through Second Wind Publishing, Amazon, Amazon UK, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Dellani+Oakes&x=13&y=22

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss/276-7770162-6587258?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Dellani+Oakes&x=0&y=0

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Dellani-Oakes?keyword=Dellani+Oakes&store=allproducts

http://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Dellani+Oakes

Bring on the Bad Boys!

 
I married a good boy. He's kind, loving, supportive, sweet -- all the good things my mama told me to look for in a man. He says that until he met me, every woman he dated left him for a 'bad boy'. I don't know how true it is, cause he tends to exaggerate, but that got me curious. Which do women prefer, the good boy or the bad?

As an author who writes romance novels, I have to say, "Give it up for the bad

boys!" Yes, some of my heroes are the sweet, kind, supportive guys who've been pushed around, trashed and crapped on by nearly every woman they've ever dated - until they meet the woman of their dreams. These are wonderful men, the kind of guy that every nice girl should marry. They'll treat her right, take care of her, love her, nurture her and give her the greatest sex in the world. Yeah, Mr. Dream Date!

However, sometimes the good guy needs to be more than a little bit bad. The hero of my sci-fi series, Wil VanLipsig, is bad as they come. He's a womanizing warrior, a sexy assassin, lethally handsome, wickedly seductive. He is all the bad things your mama warned you about rolled into one deadly gorgeous, seriously jacked, chiseled, sculpted implement of dire destruction -- and I love him.

Wil has his tender side and fights to help the weak and oppressed. He lives by a rigid code of ethics, though many find his self-inflicted guidelines confusing. He is honorable, though it is honor by his definition of the word. In short, he is a contradiction in nearly every aspect of his life - which is one thing that makes him so incredibly irresistible.

What I want to know is this. As authors or readers, which do you prefer? Be honest. Given the choice between a gorgeous, sexy, hunk of lovable, adorable, sweet, compromising man or a dangerously sexy, handsome, cold-hearted killer, which do you want to read about? Does it depend on the situation? Does it depend on the heroine? What, to you, makes the irresistible man? So the men won't feel left out, tell us about the ideal woman.

To Buy Dellani's Books

Welcome Back, My Friends!

That puts me in mind of the song by Emerson, Lake and Palmer - "Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends...." In a way, promoting ourselves IS a show. Please feel free to post your book links below. I also encourage my other guests to check out one another's sites.

Joyous Passover, to All and Happy Easter, Everyone! ~ Dellani

"Shakazhan" Book Two in my Sci-Fi Series

I'm currently editing the second book in my sci-fi series, "Shakazhan" (sha-kaz-AHN). I came across a scene I've loved ever since I wrote it. It was the first scene that ever made me cry.


Emmelia Spenser is the Chairman of the Board of the Galactic Mining Guild. Hers is a lonely life with only one true friend, her second in command, Sslyvenia Louttice, a sentient insectoid who looks like a giant praying mantis. In Lone Wolf, she's visited by Captain Ben Drexel of the Galactic Marines. The handsome, dashing captain protects her and they fall in love. Unfortunately, duty calls him away on an extended trip with no return date in sight.


Through a mutual friend, he's able to send word to her. This is the scene where she shows her friend, Sslyvenia, the message from Ben.

 Ssylvenia walked into Emmelia Spenser's office on Aolani, wondering why her friend sat in the dark. Instead of turning on a light, her superior eyesight saved her from a few painful bumps on furniture concealed by shadows.

"Emme," she chittered. Her translator's toneless metallic voice couldn't convey the deep concern of the speaker. "Emme, it's not like you to sit here in the dark like this. Let me turn on the light for you."

"No, Sissy, I want to be in the dark. I keep hoping that it will get easier if I sit here awhile."

"Why, whatever is wrong, Emme? I've never seen you like this!"

Emme's hand fumbled over the console, hitting a coded sequence. "This just came from Chairman Aisulov's office. He said he was asked to send this to me today." She choked back a sob.

The Tri-D image flickered and then solidified before her. Ben's handsome face, with his piercing dark eyes, smiled at her in a way that melted her soul. Reaching out a hand, he touched what would've been the screen of his Tri-D recorder, holding his fingers for her to touch.

"Hello, Emme, it's been far too long." He sighed, turning away from her, his strongly chiseled profile highlighted by the console light. "A lot has happened between Aolani and here. I guess you're wondering where here is. I'm sitting in a sentient ship orbiting Shakazhan. We're about to go explore its surface. Pretty unbelievable, huh?" He laughed sardonically, hanging his head a little, then glancing up at her, his chin down. Did she imagine a tear in his eye?

"I miss you, Emme. By God, you're the most amazing woman I've ever met. I can feel your skin, satin smooth. I can taste you. It's kind of funny, you know? An old soldier like me, so toughened by combat, and I'd give up everything I've in this life, to be back there with you right now.

"Emme, every man knows he might not come back from a battle. There are no guarantees, but I make this promise to you before God, if I live through this, I'm leaving the Marines, and I'm coming back for you. If you've found a better man than me, I'll understand. It's not like I've been there for you."

Squaring his shoulders, he looked full into the Tri-D, his dark eyes bottomless, like swirling black holes, drawing her inexorably forward. His familiar smile flashed across his face.

"I love you, Chairman Emmelia Spenser. Keep the Dracos Ale warm for me, because I'll come back for you." He touched the screen. This time, her hand rose of its own accord, touching the air in front of her. Tears washed away her carefully applied makeup, dark rivulets of mascara cascading onto her desk.

"Oh, Sissy, why did I ever let him go? He's got to come back. there's no better man." Sobbing hysterically, the usually composed Chairman Spenser became for that short time, the frightened and insecure Emme who had always been too tall, too full breasted, too bright and too self possessed for any man to love her.

The Tri-D flickered off, leaving them in complete darkness. Sissy couldn't cry, but she could feel sorrow and compassion for her friend. Putting her spindly, brittle arms around Emme, she held her gently to her shiny, armored body, crooning softly as if she sang to a child. Gradually Emme's sobs ceased and she slowly pulled herself together.

How like Ben to remember that today was the anniversary of their first meeting, the first time they'd made love. That had changed them both, somehow. She knew in her heart, she'd never be the same Emmelia Spenser, but that was alright.