So I've been sick. As in really ill.
But tonight I was feeling better.
So, 1412 words on DJ
535 words on Terror.
Lots of work tomorrow, but hoping to get some writing in too
Total so far: 6118 words in 5 days. We can lick this thing!
I'm kind of skipping around and striking where the iron is hot on DJ
It was a ridiculous idea on the face of it. But it just might save more people. We spent the morning hitting toy stores and department stores. It was late in the season for what we wanted, which meant clearance prices, but scarce too.
Then we started on the churches. Most ministers and priests know more about the Nightside than they let on. I know of at least one priest who is a vampire. He just changes names and parishes about every ten years or so to avoid detection.
I went to see him first, and we got there right about noon. The secretary was loath to let us past the desk, even when Rodriguez flashed her badge. I nodded and grabbed the secretary's head, shoving her hair off her neck. “Yep, just what I thought.”
“He hasn't done anything wrong,” she protested.
“We didn't say he had. In fact, we need his help. Him, and a backpack watergun full of holy water if we can get both.”
She burst out laughing at the image, her fear gone. “I'll see if he's awake.”
“No need, Christine. I heard the commotion.” Father Carl stood in the door, tall, thin and pale. He'd been a good looking man and I understood he could still preach an amazing Saturday night sermon. “What do you require, officer?”
Rodriguez filled him in about the Wild Hunt and unbaptized children. He shook his head. “Protestants.” With a smile, he gestured into his office. We sat down and explained it all one more time.
“Since Holy Water doesn't affect Nightsiders, but it does legitimize the baptism, we were wondering if you would ride with us tonight in the counter-hunt,” I said, being very respectful. “And can you think of any of your colleagues, of any Christian denomination, who might do the same?”
He smiled again, his mouth shut. “I'll have a list. What sort of transportation are we talking about here?”
“We've made arrangements with the Bluesmen. But, padre, if it comes to combat and confrontation, you and the rest of the ministers are strictly noncombatant. You get off the bikes and get to safety, understood?”
“Understood, Ms. Admire.” He thought for a few minutes, and started writing on a notepad. “I can think of about ten who might do this. Catholic, Episcopalian, Lutheran, Presbyterian, the Fathers at Annunciation, St. Seraphim and St. George. Those last are Orthodox and may or may not go for the idea.”
I looked at the list. It was more like twenty names. We were going to have to split up. “Thank you, Father. Be at the Bluesmen's garage at sunset, before if you can manage it. I could send a CM to pick you up.”
“I will not put myself in jeopardy to do good, I promise.” This time he smiled widely enough I saw teeth, but not fangs.
Outside, I stood and shook for a minute. Vampires have that effect on a lot of people. I tore the list in half. “You really can't ask this kind of thing over the phone.”
From Terror:
Charlie shook his head. They probably couldn't get a letter to America anyway. He'd write when he got back to England. “Do we have many more things to try?” he asked.
“Just the large one that Zimmer's been working on.”
“The large one Zimmer has completed!” The voice behind them sounded ridiculously triumphant. His hair frizzed a little and his eyes looked wild with glee. “It's up, it's running. We shall see how it does.”
The sled dogs set up a howl. One began and the rest took it up, the voices unearthly in the bleak coldness. The local guides walked among them, silencing them. Charlie looked at Edward.
“Who ordered the omens again?” he asked, trying to make it sound like a joke. Silently he added, Anubis, Lord of the Embalming Chamber, my work is not yet done. The brush of a wing on his face reassured him and Charlie calmed a bit.
“Just scented a fox or something,” Edward said. “I must say, Professor. The cold weather gear is brilliant as are the transport devices and weapons.”
“Trifles, trifles.” Zimmer seemed distracted and scribbled at notes of his own. Charlie stole a glance and saw he was noting the exact time of the dogs' upset. “We should retire early, gentlemen. The new machine must work overnight for us to see results.”
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Word update
Been a bad couple days, loves, but still pounding at wordcount.
1108 today on Dirty Toes.
I jerked and hitched, gasping for air after drowning in my own blood. The shots were just knocks on my door and the voice was still Paula's.
“Come on in, Ramirez,” I called, grabbing my clothes and dashing for the bathroom. “Make coffee or something while I get dressed. You have a plan yet?”
I came out to find coffee and a fast-food breakfast sitting on my desk. Ramirez was eating her own sandwich and doodling absently on a notepad. I gave the food a withering glare and reached for the coffee.
“No plan yet. Tornado or chemical spill is the best I can come up with.” She took a bite of her food. “A text came in for you.”
I shrugged. “I doubt those will work. My next plan is following the Hunt. And that's just about as stupid as it gets.” I checked my phone and smiled. We might just make it yet.
“Sometimes, stupid plans work?” She was trying her best to be hopeful and encouraging, but I could see the sinking look in her eyes.
“That damned wolf is going to laugh at me. But I don't see any options presenting themselves. It was do or die time, and I had a bad feeling it might be the last. My Sight was wonky, didn't work most of the time and never gave me more than two minutes of warning. But the same nightmare the whole of the last week would put even a normal human on alert.
Right on cue, my phone rang. “Admire here.”
“Morning, lass. Are you prepared for the festivities tonight?” Cian still sounded too smooth. I wondered if he would be riding with his kin. And I wondered what, or who, he would be hunting.
“Not even remotely. You riding?”
“I will ride with the Hunt, yes, and do what I can from inside it. Corin will shift and run with the hounds.”
Great. My two possible allies had just decided to infiltrate the enemy, if they weren't already compromised by the enemy. “Rodriguez and I are going to do some legwork. The best chance is not in stopping the Hunt, but in making sure their targets can't be reached.” I felt stupid as I said it, but it was all we had.
“If that's all you've got, Admire, do it.”
“So nice to have your blessing, but barring letting the Bitch Patrol use the Hunt for fireball practice, yeah, that's about it.”
Cian chuckled, that false thing again that played a glissando on my spine. “Until tonight, dear lady.”
I looked at Rodriguez. “You are so not going to like my idea.”
“I know you had Demarco call in every combat mage he could get on the line. The PM Squad is not happy. Combat mages are bad news.”
“They're our Patriot Guard. And I have a second ace up my sleeve.”
Rodriguez raised her eyebrow at me. “Really? Gonna clue me in?”
“Come on, you're going to help me.”
“We can still arrange for fireball practice. We need work on hitting moving targets.”
I grinned. I was starting to like her. She might be okay for this fight.
1108 today on Dirty Toes.
I jerked and hitched, gasping for air after drowning in my own blood. The shots were just knocks on my door and the voice was still Paula's.
“Come on in, Ramirez,” I called, grabbing my clothes and dashing for the bathroom. “Make coffee or something while I get dressed. You have a plan yet?”
I came out to find coffee and a fast-food breakfast sitting on my desk. Ramirez was eating her own sandwich and doodling absently on a notepad. I gave the food a withering glare and reached for the coffee.
“No plan yet. Tornado or chemical spill is the best I can come up with.” She took a bite of her food. “A text came in for you.”
I shrugged. “I doubt those will work. My next plan is following the Hunt. And that's just about as stupid as it gets.” I checked my phone and smiled. We might just make it yet.
“Sometimes, stupid plans work?” She was trying her best to be hopeful and encouraging, but I could see the sinking look in her eyes.
“That damned wolf is going to laugh at me. But I don't see any options presenting themselves. It was do or die time, and I had a bad feeling it might be the last. My Sight was wonky, didn't work most of the time and never gave me more than two minutes of warning. But the same nightmare the whole of the last week would put even a normal human on alert.
Right on cue, my phone rang. “Admire here.”
“Morning, lass. Are you prepared for the festivities tonight?” Cian still sounded too smooth. I wondered if he would be riding with his kin. And I wondered what, or who, he would be hunting.
“Not even remotely. You riding?”
“I will ride with the Hunt, yes, and do what I can from inside it. Corin will shift and run with the hounds.”
Great. My two possible allies had just decided to infiltrate the enemy, if they weren't already compromised by the enemy. “Rodriguez and I are going to do some legwork. The best chance is not in stopping the Hunt, but in making sure their targets can't be reached.” I felt stupid as I said it, but it was all we had.
“If that's all you've got, Admire, do it.”
“So nice to have your blessing, but barring letting the Bitch Patrol use the Hunt for fireball practice, yeah, that's about it.”
Cian chuckled, that false thing again that played a glissando on my spine. “Until tonight, dear lady.”
I looked at Rodriguez. “You are so not going to like my idea.”
“I know you had Demarco call in every combat mage he could get on the line. The PM Squad is not happy. Combat mages are bad news.”
“They're our Patriot Guard. And I have a second ace up my sleeve.”
Rodriguez raised her eyebrow at me. “Really? Gonna clue me in?”
“Come on, you're going to help me.”
“We can still arrange for fireball practice. We need work on hitting moving targets.”
I grinned. I was starting to like her. She might be okay for this fight.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Dead
I have to hit the rack early.
Up at 6 for more work.
But I managed 1050 on Terror of the Frozen North. Some, not all of them.
On the fourth day, Charlie gave up trying and went to watch the trials on next batch of winter gear. Edward handed him a pair of gloves that looked as if they couldn't keep his hands warm in a London June, let alone Greenland. Charlie took off his fur-lined mittens and woolen gloves and pulled the thin things on. Nigel confiscated a parka that looked no thicker than summer jacket. Edward took the boots and socks.
Tempted though he was to put his mittens back on, Charlie went about his chores, cleaning out the remains of their food wrappers, digging a new latrine, and generally being as useful as he could. He came upon Edward sitting down, making notes for the professor.
“How are yours working?” he asked.
Edward smiled up and lit his pipe again. “Beautifully. And they're waterproof as well. Zimmer had me melt snow and trudge through it several times. He even had me pack one boot with snow. My feet are still warm and dry.”
“You did clear out the snow?”
“Charles, I am many things, but that big a fool I am not.” He drew his pipe and made more notes.
Nigel dropped onto the camp stool across from Edward, looking comfortable and well satisfied. “Debatable, but I would say our professor is several kinds of genius. The tends and food are remarkable but this gear will change the face of winter warfare for any country that has it. It may well allow more permanent settlements in inhospitable regions.” He lit a cigarette. “They say the sun never sets on the Empire, but now it could be true for up to six months at a time.” He smoked thoughtfully. “Any thoughts about what the new contraption is to be?”
Charlie fought to keep himself calm and not shatter their new civility. He hated that Nigel was treating Edward as a friend and colleague, and worse that Edward was willing to allow it, as if nothing had happened between them. As if blackmail, the ape cage, murder, kidnapping and various abuses never existed.
“He won't tell me. I keep poking around the edges trying to help. He says it may well end war for all time.”
“Then it will never fly.” Nigel waved a hand in dismissal. “There will be no profit in it, and so no reason to have it about.”
Edward looked thoughtful. “An end to war might not be a bad thing.” He nodded at Nigel. “After all, look at us. We could spare your boy our damage or a worse sort.”
“Faugh. The history of mankind is written in war and blood. And yes, I expect my son will be marching away in his own uniform in a decade or so. It was ever thus and we shall not live to see the end of it. For now, he plays at aerial combat and complains of multiplication tables and my absence.”
The look on Nigel's face said he was more homesick than he dared let on. Charlie felt a brief instant of longing for Harlow, and even for his dad's tailor shop back in New Jersey. He missed his folks. He missed comfortable afternoons in the shop, brushing the suits and polishing the shoes while his father measured and sewed and made the customers feel at ease. He wanted to be curled up by the fireplace in Edward's study, with the stuffed fox by the fireplace, reading while Olivia delivered tea and sandwiches. He wanted to walk in the spring gardens, watch the iris start to bloom and the orchard all bud out.
He shook himself. He didn't have an answer for the inevitability of war, or the homesickness. Edward was looking just about as nostalgic as he felt.
“I could do with some of the General's scones,” he whispered, and worked to get his pipe drawing again.
Nigel stood up abruptly and vanished into his shelter. Charlie looked at Edward. “How many kids does he have?”
“Three, I believe, possibly four. The boy is the oldest. Nigel may be beastly, but he is good to those who love him unstintingly. And his wife is a drab little thing who adores him for his brilliance and kindness.” Edward said the last word without irony and Charlie puzzled over it. “He's probably gone to write a her letter. I heard one of our guides saying they were headed into the town of Daneborg tomorrow for more supplies and the post. Anyone you want to write to?
Up at 6 for more work.
But I managed 1050 on Terror of the Frozen North. Some, not all of them.
On the fourth day, Charlie gave up trying and went to watch the trials on next batch of winter gear. Edward handed him a pair of gloves that looked as if they couldn't keep his hands warm in a London June, let alone Greenland. Charlie took off his fur-lined mittens and woolen gloves and pulled the thin things on. Nigel confiscated a parka that looked no thicker than summer jacket. Edward took the boots and socks.
Tempted though he was to put his mittens back on, Charlie went about his chores, cleaning out the remains of their food wrappers, digging a new latrine, and generally being as useful as he could. He came upon Edward sitting down, making notes for the professor.
“How are yours working?” he asked.
Edward smiled up and lit his pipe again. “Beautifully. And they're waterproof as well. Zimmer had me melt snow and trudge through it several times. He even had me pack one boot with snow. My feet are still warm and dry.”
“You did clear out the snow?”
“Charles, I am many things, but that big a fool I am not.” He drew his pipe and made more notes.
Nigel dropped onto the camp stool across from Edward, looking comfortable and well satisfied. “Debatable, but I would say our professor is several kinds of genius. The tends and food are remarkable but this gear will change the face of winter warfare for any country that has it. It may well allow more permanent settlements in inhospitable regions.” He lit a cigarette. “They say the sun never sets on the Empire, but now it could be true for up to six months at a time.” He smoked thoughtfully. “Any thoughts about what the new contraption is to be?”
Charlie fought to keep himself calm and not shatter their new civility. He hated that Nigel was treating Edward as a friend and colleague, and worse that Edward was willing to allow it, as if nothing had happened between them. As if blackmail, the ape cage, murder, kidnapping and various abuses never existed.
“He won't tell me. I keep poking around the edges trying to help. He says it may well end war for all time.”
“Then it will never fly.” Nigel waved a hand in dismissal. “There will be no profit in it, and so no reason to have it about.”
Edward looked thoughtful. “An end to war might not be a bad thing.” He nodded at Nigel. “After all, look at us. We could spare your boy our damage or a worse sort.”
“Faugh. The history of mankind is written in war and blood. And yes, I expect my son will be marching away in his own uniform in a decade or so. It was ever thus and we shall not live to see the end of it. For now, he plays at aerial combat and complains of multiplication tables and my absence.”
The look on Nigel's face said he was more homesick than he dared let on. Charlie felt a brief instant of longing for Harlow, and even for his dad's tailor shop back in New Jersey. He missed his folks. He missed comfortable afternoons in the shop, brushing the suits and polishing the shoes while his father measured and sewed and made the customers feel at ease. He wanted to be curled up by the fireplace in Edward's study, with the stuffed fox by the fireplace, reading while Olivia delivered tea and sandwiches. He wanted to walk in the spring gardens, watch the iris start to bloom and the orchard all bud out.
He shook himself. He didn't have an answer for the inevitability of war, or the homesickness. Edward was looking just about as nostalgic as he felt.
“I could do with some of the General's scones,” he whispered, and worked to get his pipe drawing again.
Nigel stood up abruptly and vanished into his shelter. Charlie looked at Edward. “How many kids does he have?”
“Three, I believe, possibly four. The boy is the oldest. Nigel may be beastly, but he is good to those who love him unstintingly. And his wife is a drab little thing who adores him for his brilliance and kindness.” Edward said the last word without irony and Charlie puzzled over it. “He's probably gone to write a her letter. I heard one of our guides saying they were headed into the town of Daneborg tomorrow for more supplies and the post. Anyone you want to write to?
catching up
I am not a fan of days when I leave the house at 3 PM in full uniform and stagger back in at 2 PM the next day, still in uniform.
I have napped and eaten and am about to attempt to crank out today's words.
Question 1:
Do you want me to post the day's accomplished words here?
I can't promise all of them, as sometimes it's going to be no more than a sentence or two interspersed, but do you want the full scenes.
Question 2:
I have had complaints about Blogger.
Is this platform working for you or should I move to LiveJournal where I can actually post polls and put cuts into my work, so it's not an overwhelming text wall?
Let me know! This blog is for your entertainment. I'm just the writer sitting in the shop window, typing in public.
I have napped and eaten and am about to attempt to crank out today's words.
Question 1:
Do you want me to post the day's accomplished words here?
I can't promise all of them, as sometimes it's going to be no more than a sentence or two interspersed, but do you want the full scenes.
Question 2:
I have had complaints about Blogger.
Is this platform working for you or should I move to LiveJournal where I can actually post polls and put cuts into my work, so it's not an overwhelming text wall?
Let me know! This blog is for your entertainment. I'm just the writer sitting in the shop window, typing in public.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Quick poll
It has come to my attention that several people think Dirty Toes needs a retitle.
I have been told not only is it a dead giveaway, it sounds like bad foot-fetish porn.
So, I'm throwing it open to suggestions. Leave a comment and we'll have a vote. I do get final veto.
Also, if anyone wants the raw manuscript, unfinished with author notes in places, let me know. I'll send it out in .doc or .odt, whichever you prefer.
I have been told not only is it a dead giveaway, it sounds like bad foot-fetish porn.
So, I'm throwing it open to suggestions. Leave a comment and we'll have a vote. I do get final veto.
Also, if anyone wants the raw manuscript, unfinished with author notes in places, let me know. I'll send it out in .doc or .odt, whichever you prefer.
Ending Word Count for June 1
Dirty Toes: 15478. 1007 added
From tonight:
Nothing for it, Admire. They were going to hunt damned souls. And Mad Maudlin would ride with them, hunting her own damned soul who was long banished. We probably couldn't stop the hunt. We might be able to take Maudlin or distract her. She was insane, after all, fixated on her purpose, and maybe...
A voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like Corin Faw snapped, “Back to Rank Amateur Mistake Number One, are we?”
Nothing could be assumed or presume or anything. I paced a little more, jangling nerves crying for a nightcap. I was still holding the bottle, dammit. I did not need a drink to sleep.
I took a hot shower instead and went to bed.
The siren call of my captain grew ever louder. I flipped the pillow looking for a cool side. I rolled. I tossed. I wadded the pillow thicker. I pulled covers up and kicked them off again. All the time in my head, a Wild Hunt rode like a flying glow-worm, rising and falling, dipping earthward to snatch a luckless person, and baying its way back into the air.
“One,” I told myself sternly as I poured a quarter-cup of rum into my coffee mug. “It will calm you down and let you sleep. You won't be worth a pixie fart if you don't.”
The rum slid down spicy and almost-sweet, not nearly smooth enough. I couldn't afford the smooth stuff right now. But the burn in my chest warmed me right up. I settled on the bed, everything starting to relax.
Terror of the Frozen North: 31986. 1006 added
From tonight
Bitter cold was our constant companion. Even the shelters were barely above freezing, the little solar heaters working overtime to keep them liveable. Zimmer tutted over his transports, but they weathered the trip as well as any of the equipment. Whether the men of the group would endure so well remained to be seen.
--From the Journal of Charlie Doyle, secretary to Lord Withycombe
The next few days provided plenty of notes for his working as Edward tested device after device. There were flame throwers of advanced design, including one that spat a ball of fire that bloomed well away from the shooter. He shot guns of every variety, from small side arms, to long rifles to a machine gun, trying them all in the frigid wastes, to see how well they endured. The Professor's anti-gelling solution worked brilliantly for transports and gun oil alike.
From tonight:
Nothing for it, Admire. They were going to hunt damned souls. And Mad Maudlin would ride with them, hunting her own damned soul who was long banished. We probably couldn't stop the hunt. We might be able to take Maudlin or distract her. She was insane, after all, fixated on her purpose, and maybe...
A voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like Corin Faw snapped, “Back to Rank Amateur Mistake Number One, are we?”
Nothing could be assumed or presume or anything. I paced a little more, jangling nerves crying for a nightcap. I was still holding the bottle, dammit. I did not need a drink to sleep.
I took a hot shower instead and went to bed.
The siren call of my captain grew ever louder. I flipped the pillow looking for a cool side. I rolled. I tossed. I wadded the pillow thicker. I pulled covers up and kicked them off again. All the time in my head, a Wild Hunt rode like a flying glow-worm, rising and falling, dipping earthward to snatch a luckless person, and baying its way back into the air.
“One,” I told myself sternly as I poured a quarter-cup of rum into my coffee mug. “It will calm you down and let you sleep. You won't be worth a pixie fart if you don't.”
The rum slid down spicy and almost-sweet, not nearly smooth enough. I couldn't afford the smooth stuff right now. But the burn in my chest warmed me right up. I settled on the bed, everything starting to relax.
Terror of the Frozen North: 31986. 1006 added
From tonight
Bitter cold was our constant companion. Even the shelters were barely above freezing, the little solar heaters working overtime to keep them liveable. Zimmer tutted over his transports, but they weathered the trip as well as any of the equipment. Whether the men of the group would endure so well remained to be seen.
--From the Journal of Charlie Doyle, secretary to Lord Withycombe
The next few days provided plenty of notes for his working as Edward tested device after device. There were flame throwers of advanced design, including one that spat a ball of fire that bloomed well away from the shooter. He shot guns of every variety, from small side arms, to long rifles to a machine gun, trying them all in the frigid wastes, to see how well they endured. The Professor's anti-gelling solution worked brilliantly for transports and gun oil alike.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
June 1 and kicking off.
Dirty Toes stands at 14469. It needs 36,000 words.
I have to work Paula into earlier chapters, cut DJ's drinking WAY back (this is the case that drives her deeper into the bottle) and decide how much of the game she plays with the sidhe to show. I don't want it to be like Quidditch in the first Harry Potter book, where I was kind of going "hunh?" until I saw the movie. Then a bit more tracking, The Wild Hunt and the big fight.
Terror of the Frozen North stands at 30980, It needs about 19000 words, maybe more.
We have arrived in Greenland, mushed out into the wastes and made camp. There needs to be testing of equipment, possibly an encounter with some THING on the ice (or maybe the terror is just one of the machines) and then a return home, and one more fight with Lady Sarah.
So, this is where I stand. The plan is 2000 words a day. I'm going with 1000 apiece today.
Word report after writing time.
I have to work Paula into earlier chapters, cut DJ's drinking WAY back (this is the case that drives her deeper into the bottle) and decide how much of the game she plays with the sidhe to show. I don't want it to be like Quidditch in the first Harry Potter book, where I was kind of going "hunh?" until I saw the movie. Then a bit more tracking, The Wild Hunt and the big fight.
Terror of the Frozen North stands at 30980, It needs about 19000 words, maybe more.
We have arrived in Greenland, mushed out into the wastes and made camp. There needs to be testing of equipment, possibly an encounter with some THING on the ice (or maybe the terror is just one of the machines) and then a return home, and one more fight with Lady Sarah.
So, this is where I stand. The plan is 2000 words a day. I'm going with 1000 apiece today.
Word report after writing time.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Visual Aids
Some people do better with stories if they have a visual on the characters.
I have mental casting/playerbases for most of the DJ Admire universe.
Madam Azonka doesn't have a playerbase either. Am still fuzzy on the Memphis Fae, working on it.
I did a re-read and got my permission. Saraphina and Mag have been added.
http://www.pinterest.com/valarltd/writing-the-djverse/
I have mental casting/playerbases for most of the DJ Admire universe.
Madam Azonka doesn't have a playerbase either. Am still fuzzy on the Memphis Fae, working on it.
I did a re-read and got my permission. Saraphina and Mag have been added.
http://www.pinterest.com/valarltd/writing-the-djverse/
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Keep watching the skies!
I sent it out today (Thursday), so you should be getting an email with .pdf copies of the previously published material.
Check your spam folder. Emails with 16 recipients and attachments often end up there.
If you don't get it, please let me know.
Our Timeline:
S is for Succubus: Basic DJ Admire short. This was written eons ago (Kiwi probably remembers the original when it was set in Ravenscar) and expanded over the years
The Gay Christmas Werewolf series (5 shorts). Paul and Dan are kind of in their own little world, as new lovers tend to be. But "Singing up the Moon" gives us Corin and Cian who will play a vital role in Dirty Toes, as well as a look at Memphis from a different PoV. "Miskatonic Mistletoe" is also relevant.
Dirty Toes. This has NOT been included. There is too much "in the middle" editing happening right now to send it along.
Spellbound Desire. This comes after Dirty Toes, by by year or two. It WILL give you spoilers for Dirty Toes.
Enjoy!
Also, let me know how the blog layout works for you. Does it need a new color scheme?
Check your spam folder. Emails with 16 recipients and attachments often end up there.
If you don't get it, please let me know.
Our Timeline:
S is for Succubus: Basic DJ Admire short. This was written eons ago (Kiwi probably remembers the original when it was set in Ravenscar) and expanded over the years
The Gay Christmas Werewolf series (5 shorts). Paul and Dan are kind of in their own little world, as new lovers tend to be. But "Singing up the Moon" gives us Corin and Cian who will play a vital role in Dirty Toes, as well as a look at Memphis from a different PoV. "Miskatonic Mistletoe" is also relevant.
Dirty Toes. This has NOT been included. There is too much "in the middle" editing happening right now to send it along.
Spellbound Desire. This comes after Dirty Toes, by by year or two. It WILL give you spoilers for Dirty Toes.
Enjoy!
Also, let me know how the blog layout works for you. Does it need a new color scheme?
Sunday, May 25, 2014
The Books in Question
Since, we're all in this together, let's talk about what we're writing this next month. Comments welcome.
Dirty Toes: DJ Admire is given a case, and a partner, by the local cops. Someone is serial murdering children. There is no noise, no forced entry, and the kids are found dead in their beds, all leg flesh missing between knee and hip. DJ and Paula Ramirez, a rookie with magical control problems, have to hunt down the killer.
First page:
Terror of the Frozen North: Edward Kilsby, Lord Withycombe, is blackmailed by his jilted fiancee, Sarah Brown, into babysitting an eccentric inventor on a trip to Greenland, where they will be testing new inventions for His Majesty's Army. His beloved secretary, Charlie, and his evil ex, Nigel, are along for the ride.
First Page:
He rode the edges of the estate, the damp December wind chilling him even through the greatcoat he wore. The coat itself smelled faintly of oil and smoke, a remnant of the Great War, now six years past. He put the thought from his mind and let Oscar carry him into the estate's parkland, along trails he'd ridden since boyhood.
The trees loomed bare and black with the wet, green moss shocking against their bark. It was a lonesome way to spend the week between Christmas and New Year's, but it suited Edward. He'd given the staff the week off. Charles had gone into London on some errand for a few days. He was playing bachelor, eating out of tins, sleeping on the sofa before the fire and reading as late as he liked. General Elizabeth had tutted over the notion and left plenty of goose from Christmas.
He smiled at that thought. Charles had enjoyed his first real English Christmas with roast goose, mistletoe, crackers, carolers and flaming plum pudding. The gifts had been small, but Charles had assured him they were never large at the Doyle household. As the night grew long and the last of the wassailers had trundled off, warmed by good rum punch, Edward had taken up residence under the mistletoe, kissing anyone who came within reach. Janine and Olivia had giggled and kissed him sweetly, without jealous looks at each other. Elizabeth had allowed a buss on the cheek, as had Robert. Charlie had held back as they left and then planted himself on Edward's lap for a lengthy kiss that left both of them yearning.
Edward shook his head. Robert was spending the holiday week in the village with his family. He popped round every couple days to check the animals, but Edward had been taking care of them. He plagued Edward's mind. The boy was truly beautiful with eyes the color of the parkland in springtime. But much, much too young, Edward reminded himself. And there was Charles to think of.
He adored his secretary. The little American brought love and cheer into his life, something he never thought to find again after the war had blighted his whole generation. Those that hadn't died had come back changed. The dead weren't always the unlucky ones.
Like Nigel. He tried to steer his thoughts back to Charles, but was haunted by the specter of Nigel. His former wingman and former lover had changed. The war had turned a mean streak into purest sadism and cruelty, the sort that could throw a burning oil-lamp on a naked girl and laugh as she screamed. Edward had put the poor lady out, as well as himself, but she had been burned and they would both bear the scars of that dalliance. Charles bore scars from Nigel's hands as well, in body and mind. Edward wondered whether maybe they should have gone down that day over France, both of them.
Edward slid off of Oscar and led him by the reins. That was no way to think. Charles loved him. He smiled a little then at the thought of his sweet boy, who was probably sitting in the London townhouse banging away at his typewriter. Charles had been known to sleep with the machine as well as atop it after a long day.
His thoughts returned to the war. Six years gone by. Edward couldn't take it in sometimes. He dreamed of flight, of dogfighting. He woke in a cold sweat from the nightmares where the Red Baron shot him down, sending him spiraling to the ground. He always woke before the impact.
Edward didn't talk about the nightmares. Nor did he like to remember the night he had awakened to Nigel's hands around his throat. Nigel, deep in sleep and cursing him for a jerry, had woken only after Edward had punched him in the jaw. They both wore the bruises for a week.
Charles had become accustomed to the dreams and always woke up when Edward did. He would cuddle close, kissing and stroking Edward's face. “The war is over out here,” he'd whisper and lie quietly until Edward went back to sleep.
Everyone said Edward was lucky. He grimaced at the thought. His luck had run out in Paris, 1919. She'd been a redhead. The champagne had been strong. And he'd awakened in the gutter with a lump behind his ear and everything missing except his underwear.
Dirty Toes: DJ Admire is given a case, and a partner, by the local cops. Someone is serial murdering children. There is no noise, no forced entry, and the kids are found dead in their beds, all leg flesh missing between knee and hip. DJ and Paula Ramirez, a rookie with magical control problems, have to hunt down the killer.
First page:
Captain
Morgan is my reality filter, and today I needed all the filtering I
could get. It was an ordinary October Wednesday in Memphis, pollen
count through the roof, just off the full moon and eighty degrees
with humidity that made clothes and pollen stick to everything. Most
days, even days like that. I got by just fine.
I'd
known the day would be bad when my phone went off at seven. Only the
Memphis P.D. rings in on the Andy Griffith theme.
“Admire
here,” I snarled. It was too damn early to be polite and my late
night liaison with the Captain had left my eyeballs trying to eat my
brain with tiny sharp teeth.
“Miss
Admire, Captain Williams here. I need to see you. I have something my
guys can't handle. Not even the Preternatural and Magic Squadron can
figure it.”
If
the Bitch Patrol, a crack squad of eight female cops, who were also
top-rated sorceresses, witches and talismongers, couldn't handle
something, I sure as hell didn't want it. I'm just a No-Talent PI,
without enough magic to train, but just enough to drive me straight
into the Nightside and the bottle.
So
far, I was still holding the bottle instead of the other way around.
No-Talents ended one of three ways. We were found ripped apart by
something Nightside, or we went out with a needle in our arms or
antifreeze in our veins. I wasn't the druggie sort, but those who
knew me had their bets on the other two.
I
thought about the last few jobs I'd done. I thought about the fact
that the cops did pay. I thought about my rent.
So,
despite my pounding head, I pulled myself out of the Murphy bed in my
office and headed down to 201 Poplar.
Two
hours later, I was sitting back at my desk, staring at one of the
ugliest serial killer cases I'd ever seen. Bad enough when they're
killing prostitutes or drunks. Some people even consider that a
public service. But this one...
Five
children, each on the night before the full moon. Every one asleep in
their own house, in their own little bed. Three girls and two boys,
found dead by their parents, blood soaking the beds and carpets, all
flesh missing from hip joint to knee.
Terror of the Frozen North: Edward Kilsby, Lord Withycombe, is blackmailed by his jilted fiancee, Sarah Brown, into babysitting an eccentric inventor on a trip to Greenland, where they will be testing new inventions for His Majesty's Army. His beloved secretary, Charlie, and his evil ex, Nigel, are along for the ride.
First Page:
He rode the edges of the estate, the damp December wind chilling him even through the greatcoat he wore. The coat itself smelled faintly of oil and smoke, a remnant of the Great War, now six years past. He put the thought from his mind and let Oscar carry him into the estate's parkland, along trails he'd ridden since boyhood.
The trees loomed bare and black with the wet, green moss shocking against their bark. It was a lonesome way to spend the week between Christmas and New Year's, but it suited Edward. He'd given the staff the week off. Charles had gone into London on some errand for a few days. He was playing bachelor, eating out of tins, sleeping on the sofa before the fire and reading as late as he liked. General Elizabeth had tutted over the notion and left plenty of goose from Christmas.
He smiled at that thought. Charles had enjoyed his first real English Christmas with roast goose, mistletoe, crackers, carolers and flaming plum pudding. The gifts had been small, but Charles had assured him they were never large at the Doyle household. As the night grew long and the last of the wassailers had trundled off, warmed by good rum punch, Edward had taken up residence under the mistletoe, kissing anyone who came within reach. Janine and Olivia had giggled and kissed him sweetly, without jealous looks at each other. Elizabeth had allowed a buss on the cheek, as had Robert. Charlie had held back as they left and then planted himself on Edward's lap for a lengthy kiss that left both of them yearning.
Edward shook his head. Robert was spending the holiday week in the village with his family. He popped round every couple days to check the animals, but Edward had been taking care of them. He plagued Edward's mind. The boy was truly beautiful with eyes the color of the parkland in springtime. But much, much too young, Edward reminded himself. And there was Charles to think of.
He adored his secretary. The little American brought love and cheer into his life, something he never thought to find again after the war had blighted his whole generation. Those that hadn't died had come back changed. The dead weren't always the unlucky ones.
Like Nigel. He tried to steer his thoughts back to Charles, but was haunted by the specter of Nigel. His former wingman and former lover had changed. The war had turned a mean streak into purest sadism and cruelty, the sort that could throw a burning oil-lamp on a naked girl and laugh as she screamed. Edward had put the poor lady out, as well as himself, but she had been burned and they would both bear the scars of that dalliance. Charles bore scars from Nigel's hands as well, in body and mind. Edward wondered whether maybe they should have gone down that day over France, both of them.
Edward slid off of Oscar and led him by the reins. That was no way to think. Charles loved him. He smiled a little then at the thought of his sweet boy, who was probably sitting in the London townhouse banging away at his typewriter. Charles had been known to sleep with the machine as well as atop it after a long day.
His thoughts returned to the war. Six years gone by. Edward couldn't take it in sometimes. He dreamed of flight, of dogfighting. He woke in a cold sweat from the nightmares where the Red Baron shot him down, sending him spiraling to the ground. He always woke before the impact.
Edward didn't talk about the nightmares. Nor did he like to remember the night he had awakened to Nigel's hands around his throat. Nigel, deep in sleep and cursing him for a jerry, had woken only after Edward had punched him in the jaw. They both wore the bruises for a week.
Charles had become accustomed to the dreams and always woke up when Edward did. He would cuddle close, kissing and stroking Edward's face. “The war is over out here,” he'd whisper and lie quietly until Edward went back to sleep.
Everyone said Edward was lucky. He grimaced at the thought. His luck had run out in Paris, 1919. She'd been a redhead. The champagne had been strong. And he'd awakened in the gutter with a lump behind his ear and everything missing except his underwear.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Welcome!
This is the Sooper-de-Dooper Sekrit Magic Blog for the contributors to my indiegogo campaign.
Here, you will get work updates, preview snippets and your voice will be heard as we undertake a month of writing.
I appreciate your contribution, and hope to make this an enjoyable experience for everyone.
So here's a picture of me being pretty for a con.
Here, you will get work updates, preview snippets and your voice will be heard as we undertake a month of writing.
I appreciate your contribution, and hope to make this an enjoyable experience for everyone.
So here's a picture of me being pretty for a con.
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