"In the Black" excerpt!

It's been a great few weeks with the release of the first book from my new "Tales from the Edge" series, "In the Black"! But you can never have enough excerpts, right?

So let's see how Sam Keller feels sitting on a Mercy ship with everyone getting sex except for her...

*****

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have options. Hell, she was the captain of a Mercy ship and had full access to the services and personnel within. She could purchase an hour from Sean or, if she were really desperate, Dane.

A fast hour of quick, meaningless sex with no commitment, nothing but a financial transaction between a professional and a customer.

The option wasn’t unheard of. It’d even earned a short notation in the manual, detailing the costs and the discount offered to the captain.

There was nothing wrong with it.

Nothing, that is, other than the embarrassment of having to face him later on as his captain, not a client. She hadn’t slept with any of the men in her squad for the same reason, and even though she wasn’t wearing a uniform anymore the same rules still applied, at least in her mind.

Look but don’t touch. Save that for the long nights strapped in her hammock when she could fantasize about whatever or whomever she wanted without fear or guilt.

But would it be enough for the rest of her contract?

Or should she make an appointment with Sean and get it over with, shut down the longing and the need to be touched?

It wasn’t like he’d use it against her, not like Dane would. That bastard wouldn’t let it go and would be rubbing her face in it every time he had a problem and Sam ruled against him.

No, it’d have to be Sean.

But the risks still outweighed the benefits.

For now.

Sam sighed. She wasn’t at that point yet. But it was on the horizon and she knew it.

She shifted in her seat. It wasn’t so much the sex; it was the basic need to touch and be touched. Held, stroked, hugged.

Not that there was anything wrong with hot, sweaty, crazed sex. But her skin ached for the simple sensation of being caressed, fingertips drawing lazy circles on her back until she fell asleep. Goosebumps rising from a gentle kiss, gasping at the sensations traveling over her body from a simple touch.

Damn it, she had it bad.

She wasn’t going to pay Sean to just cuddle, not at those rates.

Time to shift gears before she got beyond frustrated and said or did something she’d regret.

*****

What's a woman to do? Buy a night with one of her Mercy men or...

;)

Check out "In the Black" at Amazon, B&N, Carina Press or other fine ebook retailers!

Close to Home

My favorite love scene is not from a book or movie, it's a true story. For me, the best love scene took place in front of friends and family. No, it wasn't kinky. It was when I married my husband.

It was an amazing day, but my favorite part was when I started down the aisle and saw my handsome fiancé waiting for me. His gorgeous blue eyes looked into mine, and he was the most handsome man I'd ever seen.

When he took my hand in his, my heart took flight and I knew saying yes to him was the best decision I'd ever made. It was—and still is—like living in a romance novel.

Here's hoping all of you have a chance to live out your best and wildest dreams.

Cheryel

www.cheryelhutton.com

Don't Tell Me You Know; Show Me You Care

I love a good sex--I mean, love scene.

My all time favorite is the scene in Desperado where Salma Hayek and Antonio Banderas--two of the most gorgeous creatures in the history of filmdom--worship each other's bodies with laughter. And candles. And spurs. On the top floor of a bookstore, no less.  Seriously, it doesn't get any better than that.

Image courtesy Greg Uchrin

Though I agree with Kimberley, all of Dirty Dancing (ahem) comes darn close.  Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze find themselves and each other in the steps of their movie-long dance. Their bodies say the words their characters dare not speak. Their climactic pas-de-deux becomes a true climax, a rapture in which everyone can share--and it's entirely PG.

But when it comes to romance, I'm a lot pickier.  I consider Romeo and Juliet two of the dumbest dweebs to ever walk the earth.  What did they ever do for each other besides get themselves killed?  So what if it ultimately served a higher purpose?  They didn't plan it.  All they cared about was showing up the grown-ups in their lives.  It's the ultimate "They'll be sorry when I'm gone!"  Yeah, they were.  Unlike R and J, the rest of the folks in Verona actually cared about someone other than themselves.

Han Solo's big "I know" moment?  Sorry, girls.  I don't consider that romantic at all.  It was the most ill-conceived, arrogant, self-serving thing have said following Princess Leia's profession of love.  Those words are all about him.  They give no hint he reciprocates Leia's feeling.  They turn her love into something one-sided and pathetic, offering no comfort or any reason to fight for him.  Frankly, I would've kept him as a coffee table.  It would've been a salutary lesson for my next lover.

To be fair, the endings of Jane Eyre and Rebecca also drive me bonkers.  I understand that in the Victorian worldview, both Mr. Rochester and Maxim de Winter must pay for their sins.  But I resent the way their punishment is visited upon the redoubtable Jane and de Winter's second wife.  The women only get their men when they're too disfigured and damaged to live without them.  That isn't fair in my books.

But, you say, love isn't fair.  Maybe not, but for me, romance has to be both fair and smart.  There's a lot of it around, too, even if it's not in the places you'd expect to find it.

Well, in some of the places you'd expect to find it.  Rick's farewell to Ilsa in Casablanca is one of my touchstones.  So many things happen in that scene.  In the few days since Ilsa reentered his life, he's revisited her betrayal in Paris, rediscovered her and himself, and as a result come to a more complete understanding of the nature of love.  He redeems the jaded, bitter man he'd become by an act of selflessness.  It's dangerous, maybe even quixotic, but it's the right action in terms of the greater good--something which cannot be said Romeo, Juliet or Han. 

Leia actually comes close by this standard.  It took balls to admit she loved Han at that moment.  But I digress.

Another of my big romantic moments happened in Buffy the Vampire Slayer after she unwillingly rises from the dead.  She casually asks her long-time antagonist Spike how long she'd been gone.  He knows the time to the hour.  Knowing her, even if it was mostly fighting with her, changed him so profoundly, the world was altered for the worse by her absence. 

For me, that combination of change and selflessness is key.  Love doesn't change everything about a person, as many a spouse has found to their chagrin.  But it necessarily changes the lover's perspective on the world.
 
Love is a dance.  Grace and skill are optional, but you can't do it alone.  You need a partner, because that's the whole point.  Love is about putting another person's happiness and well-being ahead of your own.  Ideally that happiness includes you, though in advanced stages (like Rick's) you may have to take a broader view.  But assuming the world doesn't hang in the balance, the only way to ensure the other person's happiness includes you is to embrace what's important to them.

Romeo and Juliet, notwithstanding, Shakespeare got it.  Especially in Much Ado About Nothing.  That's the one that does it for me.

The heroes, Beatrice and Benedict, have a complicated history.  The dialogue implies they've been lovers in the past, but circumstances drove them apart.  Now their conversations read more like confrontations.  Nevertheless, they can't leave each other alone, and their friends, including the young lovers Hero and Claudio, conspire to draw them back together.

It doesn't take a lot.  But their renewed affection is tested when Hero is accused of betraying Claudio on their wedding day.  Beatrice's defense of her friend is immediate and passionate.  She demands Benedict do what she can't: slay his friend and comrade-in-arms Claudio for besmirching Hero's honor.

And after careful consideration, fully understanding all the dreadful consequences of the act, Benedict challenges his blood brother Claudio to a duel.

Being a comedy, it all turns out well.  No one dies.  The virtuous are exonerated and the wicked punished.  But that doesn't mitigate the changes wrought in Benedict's world view or the selflessness of his act.

Which brings us to my latest standard of romance: Sherlock.  Yeah, that guy, the one who calls himself a "high-functioning sociopath".

He's not a sociopath.  He's Pinocchio.  He wants to be a real boy.  The series is about how he does it. 
The way I see it (and believe me, your mileage may vary) Mycroft recognized his (much) younger brother's mental gifts rivaled his own, and decided to use then to his advantage.  He taught him about the Mind Palace (a technique known to the Classical Greeks--really!) and convinced him that the life of the mind was the only life worth living.  He got away with it, too, until Sherlock decided he needed a roomie and met John Watson.

Season One of Sherlock opened Pinocchio's--I mean, Sherlock's eyes to aspects of the world he never considered.  The game afoot is a lot more fun when you have someone to play with.  Fun leads to fondness, and Sherlock starts to think, however fitfully, about how his actions will affect his pet human.

Season Two accelerated the process.  Sherlock began to see himself in context with the people around him.  He is genuinely appalled when his deductions about Molly's Christmas presents expose her crush on him.  He feels bad for her.  That's an enormous step.  Irene takes the process even further, inspiring actual heroics.  Sherlock's response to Moriarty reflected these little epiphanies, epiphanies which had their root and flowered as a result of his continued association with John.

But the series isn't done yet.  In Season Three, after two years ripping through Moriarty's old organization, our boy backslides.  He wasn't fully human when he went away, so he wasn't prepared for his friends' reactions to his loss and his return.  As a result he bombed.  He acted, in Jennie Crusie's immortal words, like the dickwad protagonist.

Of course, he did.  His journey isn't finished.  Screwing up is a necessary detour--and a de rigueur part of the process.  His best man speech for John and Mary Watson was the worst and best best man's speech ever, exactly as series co-creator Steven Moffat intended.  The worst came first.  But once the old mind-over-matter crap was out of the way, it became a moving testament to friendship delivered by a man who recognizes his deficiencies as a person and a friend.  That friendship, that love, is tested to its limit in the season's final ep, "The Last Vow" based on "The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton". 

In the original story, Holmes resorts to chicanery and burglary to destroy a blackmailer's hold over others.  He and Watson withhold eyewitness evidence relating to the blackmailer's murder, because they see his death at the hand of one of his victims as entirely just.

Things don't play out quite the same in the updated version penned by Moffat.  The blackmailer is far more dangerous and pernicious than the original, and his fortress of information is well nigh impregnable.  Worse, the information at the blackmailer's disposal represents an immediate threat to the happiness and well-being of the person who has profoundly changed Sherlock's life for the better.  So, fully appreciating the heinous consequences, Sherlock Holmes makes a selfless act.  On Christmas, mirroring and doubling down on his epiphany with Molly those few Christmases ago. 

To my way of thinking, it doesn't get more romantic than that.

Jean Marie Ward

(If you like Greg Uchrin's pastel of Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock, feel free to let him know at his Facebook page or in person at Katsucon, February 14-16. Greg is my dh, and he agrees with me about Han Solo. That's love, folks. :-) )

Some Like it...not as hot

I know this month's theme is Some Like it Hot. But I write YA, and I don't really read romance outside of that genre. But lately I've been thinking about YA romance, which is a , um, hot thing right now. And I'll tie it into a theme that comes up at just about every conference I've been to in the last year or two. How much is too much for YA? What is the line?

Well, I usually answer, if you've read the Hunger Games, then you know the line is WAY back there.

 But what about sex in YA? That's a tougher questions. I mean, it's obviously going to be off-screen sex, or toned down. YA is more of the sweet variety of romance, but that doesn't mean it can't have a little heat in the buildup. In the Young Adult romance, there is the added layer of turmoil that comes with adolescence, the hormones, the flirting, the jealousy, the uncertainty of first (or second) love. There's kissing, petting, even allusions to sex, off-stage sex, and some of those flirting and kissing scenes can leave you swooning. It's almost an art form.

And it's a rich soil in which to grow a story. Add in fantasy elements, and it can be a roller coaster ride.

For me, the look at it this way, whether dealing with violence in YA or with romance scenes: it's not the subject, it's the author's treatment of it. Cursing, for example. A book for older kids may use the word "Bitch", but one for younger kids might say "he cursed", leaving to the reader's imagination. For a violent scene, it's the difference between a scene written by Suzanne Collins vs. the same scene written by Stephen King. See what I mean?  Same with romance. The difference between a scene written by Cassandra Clare and the same one written by...someone who writes hotter than that. LOL.

Hot can be hot without being...hot. In YA, it has to be.

You're Only Jealous Because Stories Don't Talk to You

I am so excited. Seriously, jumping up and down pumping the air excited.

Did I win the lottery? Hubs hired me a house-cleaner? I found out I'm a bestselling author?

No. That would be the day. And oh man, I wish.

Don't laugh or call those guys in white coats to come take me away and I'll tell you my secret. Are you ready?

In the shower while I was washing my hair, the meaning of the universe was revealed, well at least in the universe I am creating. In short, the story I am working on told me what it's about. That my friends is worth an air punch or two.

This would possibly make more sense if I backed up and explained my writing process. Unlike normal authors, I don't necessarily know what I am writing. The story reveals itself to me in strange and unusual ways. To start at the beginning is to find a seedling of an idea, call it a simple kernel of truth, or a nugget so intriguing that I want to turn it over in my hand and hold it up for the world to see.

For example, Soul Stealer, came from a writing contest prompt about a man who kills a beautiful woman. I HATED that prompt. I almost didn't enter the contest because I write happily-ever-after-love stories. How was that going to work if the man kills the woman in the first scene? Unless...

Unless that man was Death coming to kill the one woman he can't live without. Now we're talking. ~rubs palms together.

The next part of my process involves the character sketch. So I have Death. Who is he? What's his background? What is he afraid of? Does he love, hate, or feel indifferent to his job? If he could changes things, would he? I sit down with a pad of paper and sketch out all that I can about this character.

I do the same thing for the heroine. Who is she? She's dying. Why? What would she give Death in order to live longer. He's been around forever and has heard it all. What could he possibly want from her? Why would she want to deal with him?

Once I know my characters pretty well, I jot down the scenes that I know have to be in the story. At this point I usually can "see" the climax and even the ending. I know where I want to go and have a general sense of how to get there.

But! This is the big BUT, the meaning of the universe has yet to be revealed. The deep down core meaning of the book needs to come to life. It's frustrating, really, but it takes time for that kernel to grow into a tree. Many times, if the core meaning is really deep, I need to write half the book to find it. It's like digging and digging in search of treasure buried deep in the pages. When I find the loot? Air pump!!!

This happened to me this morning. In the shower. Yes, the stories talk to me. Thank goodness.

www.kimberleytroutte.com

Old School and New School—Romantic Set-ups

A funny thing happened to me on the way to publishing my third book.

My editor rejected it. Soundly, I might add. And tears, I’ll add those too. I just figured that once I’d sold two books I was golden. Editors supposed to love everything their authors write, right?

Um, not necessarily.

The main reason my editor rejected the manuscript was that it didn’t follow a typical old school set-up. The characters actually liked each other the moment they met. Not love, but like. This was no good.  Who knew? Well, my editor, but not me.

I didn’t understand that since the dawning of time, readers have adored the old school romantic trope of “enemies to lovers”, or “strangers to lovers”. Those storylines are still going strong because the conflict and tension between the characters is palpable. Conflict keeps us turning pages. The desire to resolve the conflict in a satisfying loving way is why most of us read romance.

After pouting for a bit, I realized I needed to increase the conflict. I began the arduous task by throwing out the first third of the book and starting over from scratch. I made things tougher for my characters. They don’t hate each other but they do have competing objectives—real, noble, life or death goals. If one wins, the other loses and people could die unless they find a way to work together.

After tossing out the first third, I tossed the middle third and completely rewrote the final third. You don’t need to be a mathematician to see that I rewrote the whole darned enchilada. But it’s okay because I love it! This story is much deeper, more complex, more emotional, more…everything. Breath-stealing conflict was the key. Characters we love to root for is another other key. Heart-stopping plot is the third. Well, there are lots of keys.

I am still tinkering, but I am tickled to say that this manuscript is a finalist in four writing contests. I am excited beyond words to see what the final judges decide.

Apparently my editor, like my Mom, is always right.

www.kimberleytroutte.com

Old-school heroines

 Is there room left for an old-school heroine?

Good question. I suppose it depends, in part, on your definition of 'old-school'.

When I first discovered romance novels, I read mostly Harlequin stories. At that time, they all seemed to revolve around the young, virginal heroine and the older, gruff, and very experienced hero. Since they were mostly told in the heroine's point of view, the reader rarely knew what the hero was feeling or thinking -- our only clues came from the rather limited and naive perspective of the young heroine. She was usually wrong. ;)

Back then, it didn't matter that the heroine often needed the hero to save her; or that the biggest 'conflict' was often a silly misunderstanding; or that, at times, the hero seemed harsh, even to the point of being rather a bully, if not abusive. When I was thirteen, I didn't know any better. And apparently neither did a large portion of the romance readership.

Now we are more enlightened. When I think of the term 'old-school heroine', I think of those rather shy, sometimes pathetically inept but kind, untried heroines who always needed to be saved. In that respect, no, I don't feel they have much of a place in the romances of today. But they do still pop up from time to time, sadly enough. I've seen the trend, in particular, take a subtle shift in that direction when it comes to some Young Adult stories and a few adult romances. Nope, not mentioning any titles.

I have nothing against the hero riding into the rescue. I personally love the idea of letting the big, strong man take charge and deal with the messes of life while he protects those he loves. There are days when I wish the man in my life could deal with the hard stuff and let me be the pampered heroine back at the ranch. Sometimes he does; mostly, we share the load.

That said, I prefer to see and be a heroine who can stand by her man -- or at least watch his back when things get dicey. The women in my favorite stories don't have to be trained in martial arts or able to beat the bad guy (gal) in battle. But she can't be a wimp, either. She also can't be "too stupid to live" -- No, sweetie, don't go alone and unarmed into the basement where the serial killer is waiting. DUH!

In my fictional worlds, a heroine should be strong and tough, with a few edges of weakness about her. She can't be invincible because no one would relate well to her. And please, IF she has to go into that basement, give her a really good reason. If she has to rescue the hero, let her show a softer side when the time allows. But don't drop her into a fetal position when she and her man have a fight and are separated forever. Let her cry, sure. A good, hard cry is very therapeutic. Then pluck her up off her butt and get her moving again.

There are all kinds of heroines in the real world and in fiction. I suppose it's up to each of us what type we want to be; what type we want to read about. But humans are complex creatures -- we're rarely all one thing or another at all times. The best heroines will always be those with some depth.

Meg Allison
Indulge your senses...
http://www.megallisonauthor.com

Mea Culpa! -- An author's dark secret

Almost every writer is guilty of it though many will deny and even fabricate long and complex stories to cover up the fact—after all we are writers famed for a high dosage of imagination. Sometimes we’re so clever we actually convince ourselves of our innocence.
Hah!
The truth and bitter reality will eventually reassert itself and force us to face the facts and neither denial nor sheer bloody bullheaded self-induced amnesia (for which I am not guilty of, no sirree) will ever get us away from the shocking reality.
Almost every writer; and that includes you Mrs. J.C. from Hammersmith, VA. (Aha, you didn’t think I’d notice that little burp on the Quillsquatters page did you?) I repeat, every writer from the icicle-dipped-in-heated-ink-on-sheets-of-ice Inuit to the scratch-with-a-nail-on-a-stone-block Falkland’s sheep herder is guilty of this one thing.
We all have at least one skeleton in our laptops.
Shamefully I admit I am as guilty as the rest of them and I’ve attempted for longer than most to keep this affair secret. Since I was eighteen years old when I was a mere uneducated and easily corrupted teen I’ve gone out of my way to divert any attempt to pry this secret out of my wonderfully electric pink and fluffy closet. After all isn’t it much cozier huddled up with the cheap Walmart parka’s and worn out wellingtons than it would be bouncing around bare-naked in the full light of day?
Did I say bare-naked?
Uhm, please excuse me. I didn’t mean to put it quite like that, after all it’s not anything to do with baring…, well..., baring one’s soul perhaps.
Okay; dammit, I’ll confess to being guilty of having something I am truly ashamed of. Although in this case it’s not so much a skeleton in the laptop since such things didn’t exist at the time of my deed (laptops that is—skeletons have been around a little longer I’ve been told.) So it’s more like an apparition in a typewriter; a cadaver in the keys or a revenant in the ribbon. An act so heinous even a liberal apologist such as myself still cringes at the memory.
Perhaps this acknowledgement and an act of contrition will bring about a cleansing of my soul and free the overburdening weight of guilt which has hung over me for the last thirty-two years.
And so I announce now…
*cough*
Ah, a glass of water please.
Yes.
Thank you, So, that’s it…right?
What?
I didn’t say anything—
Oh dear, well…



Here goes…





I just want to say…









iwrotethisfirstnovelanditiscompleteandutterlyembarrassingtrash .

Okay! There, now you know and the first one to laugh gets…gets…gets a free copy of it. Hah! So there.
I don’t mean the first “it’s the first I’ve published first novel”. Cyberius III was my first published novel and was actually my fifth written novel though it is currently “out of print” and unavailable from the publisher; a somewhat odd state of affairs for an electronic publication but hey, what do I know, I’m only the author.
Poseidon VII was actually my seventh completed novel and Dante I my tenth. (Novels two to four are either still being edited or are difficult sales to shrinking markets.) I’m talking about the foremost, truly mind-numbing first ever typed words on paper kind of story. (Trust me I’m not even going to include the cringe, curl up and die stories I had to write for English class. My adolescent stories can be most easily equated to the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Vogon’s Poetry.
The thing is; it is true isn’t it? All writers have first writtens or experimentals which we keep locked in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, stuffed under the bed, hidden in an old shoebox crammed into the bottom of the bathroom cleaning products under-the-sink storage. Yellowed copy for which we’d die if it was espied and read by even our nearest and dearest; yet somehow is too precious to offload into the nearest furnace or shredder. (Throwing it in a trashcan is out of the question, some one may pull it out to read.)
My no-title masterpiece was a glowing example of a Marty Stu. One shy little nobody (with brown hair, glasses and a wicked smile) building a worldwide secret force for good and saving the entire world from nuclear destruction while simultaneously re-educating the world leaders in the ways of peace and harmonious living.
*ick*
Think about it. Would you really buy a book which started with the sentence:

White edged sky edged toward sleepy Houndston as dawn chased away the lingering shadows of another sleepless night.

It’s okay to scream, I understand. If you haven’t clawed your eyes out by now it’s safe to open them again.
With a twisted and totally unrealistic plot this amazing science fiction/action thriller suffered from multiple name changes and physical characteristics of the secondary characters; superhuman capabilities of a main character who could fix anything and never made a mistake; randomly moving body parts; intensely yucky pseudo romancey scenes and probably every single mistake it was possible to make in all its literary forms. With camels regularly coming to a sweet end in the roving dunes of the Arabian desserts the Novel with No Title was my very own Eye of Argon simply waiting for the chance to entertain myriad SF convention attendees along with three pints of beer and a brandy—triple shot on ice with some white fluffy cream and a bagel.
Fortunately this two-hundred and forty-three page; single spaced; yellow aged; typewritten monstrosity is the only embarrassing attempt I’ll admit to. Having learned enough from the one failed attempt to edit, re-edit and edit again up to the tenth generation edit. Yet, I find I’m still unable to completely give up on no-title and every eighth year I pull it out from the cobwebs and add another gallon of red ink or two to the edits I’ve already added to the impossible.
Truthfully, in spite of the terror of seeing what my original writing skills amounted to I am still quite proud of that piece of work. I know it will never be published. Even after massive edits and rewrites it would be simpler just to write a completely different book with a similar story idea.
The important thing is I did write it. I managed a ninety-seven thousand word typescript, plotted, planned, researched and completed it. And you know what? It’s not something which a lot of people can do. Completing even a cringe-worthy manuscript which has no chance of being published brought me a great sense of satisfaction—not to mention the boost it gave to my writer esteem. Once I knew I could complete a novel it became easier to do the next, and the next.
Also there is a certain amount of self-teaching to be found within the historical first time. Like the highly embarrassing first time sex, reviewing the fumbling and bumblings of my first typescript reminds me that I wasn’t always as proficient a writer as I am now and helps me relate more easily to today’s beginning authors.
It is a very humbling experience to look back and see how little I knew then compared to how much I know now. Encouraging too since it’s similar to looking back over your baby and childhood photos and seeing how you grew and developed. My one major regret in life is how in a fit of teenaged pique I threw away dozens of notebooks containing over nine years of childhood poetry—I’d turned into an adult, see, and didn’t need their constant reminders of how silly and childish I’d been.
How many authors have closets like mine (minus the electric pink) and their secret not to be discovered first writtens? I don’t know, after all some skeletons may look better in a closet with a big red bow tie holding them firmly into place—with the occasional, locked in the bedroom airing.
What do you think?

S.J. Willing
Proud Author of the PIACT undercover agent series.

S.J.Willing
S.J. Willing's Forum
Dante I
Poseidon VII

True Vampire Romance

This month’s blog falls on my anniversary, so I’m playing hookey today. But don’t break out the margaritas and marimbas yet. You don’t get out of me blogging that easily. I’ve got plenty of material in the vault, including my Halloween 2008 blog for Samhain Publishing that’s entirely appropriate to the occasion. Yes, Halloween and my anniversary are a natural match. If that doesn’t scare you, it should…

We knew we were doomed the minute we met.

“Not with a ten foot pole!” I announced mentally, though I’m still not sure who or what was supposed to be listening.

Greg heard the word. “Doom, doom, doom,” played over and over in his head. He fought it by trying to find something—anything—about me he could reasonably object to.

I didn’t have to try quite so hard. He’d just recovered from some nasty bug and was about fifteen pounds below skinny. If all the jabbing bones and straggly goatee weren’t enough to put me off, there were the hard brown eyes peering at me like Dr. Frankenstein at the purple ray. No problem keeping my self-appointed distance.

We managed to delude ourselves like this for two months, despite the fact we couldn’t stop snarking, sniping and talking to each other. We couldn‘t help ourselves. We’d read most of the same books, seen many of the same movies and related to them in ways that left our friends scratching their heads.

We didn’t think Halloween would be any different. I dressed as Shakespeare’s Viola playing Cesario, knowing I looked gorgeous in black velvet. I wasn’t dressing for Greg, you understand. Not at all. I had even worn the costume for a date with someone else the night before.

Greg knew which party I was likely to attend, and he planned to take his time getting there. He didn’t intend to snub me, but he did intend to angle for different fish—someone less likely to catch him in the same net.

Instead he strode through the door of the townhouse, through the living room and half the dining room to plant himself in front of the chair where I sat, pointedly chatting with someone else. His cape flared behind him as he walked—a real floor-length opera cape properly lined in white satin. (Not red. Red is for wannabes.) His white tie and tails looked like it was tailored to his lean, broad-shouldered form. The goatee was gone, revealing a long, bony face full of interesting planes and angles.

Then I noticed something odd about his hairline. He had a widow’s peak. That wasn’t right. Greg didn’t have a widows peak. But Dracula did.

“I shaved it,” he admitted, carefully enunciating the “s“ around his fangs.. “Well, I shaved in half. That way I can change the part and it’s gone.”

That’s when I knew I was doomed too. He was sardonic, fiercely intelligent, sexy and… A total goof.

It was the goofiness that did me in. Only a goof would shave in half a widow’s peak. That’s what made him happily-ever-after material. Looks change and fade. Intelligence can cut. Wit can burn. But goofiness is forever.

Greg and I have been together ever since. Ironically, given the way we got together, when I started writing fantasy I avoided writing about vampires. I read about them. I’ve seen all the movies, but I never wrote about them. There were so many good vampire stories on the market, and I didn’t feel I had anything to add to the conversation.

That changed a couple of months ago. Right now I’m working on not one, but two, very different vampire stories. One’s your standard much older, much more glamorous, heartbreakingly beautiful vamp with a secret sorrow. Yada Yada. It’s not that the story is the same-old. I don’t do “same old”. I write too slow to trap myself into writing anyone else’s kind of story. But the vampire fits the classic mold much more closely than most of my heroes. In a sense that’s part of his charm. He’s my doorway to the great vampire fairy tale of paranormal romance.

But his isn’t the story that rides me like some demon jockey. No, that’s reserved for the second story, the one where the vampire hero is only two or three years older than the very human, college freshman heroine who discovers him when he awakens, bewildered and hungry, after death has turned him. He is a goof. A very sexy goof, a very brilliant goof, but still a goof. The kind of guy you wind up taking home to your parents, because really, what else can you do? And for the duration of the first draft, when the words are something only I will see, his name is Greg.

*

Originally published by Samhain Publishing, October 31, 2008.

Huh? What Did You Say You Write?

I’m asked this question many times. At first, I tried to give the questioner a true definition of my work. But then I learned to stop doing that when their eyes starting glazing over. You see, for a lot of authors, this is a loaded question. Instead, I tend to give the person a definition that is relatively close to what they know.

My answer? I write Twilight for adults. That way they know I write about vampires and werewolves. They also know that I write erotica by the clarification that my books are for adults. Trust me. It’s so much easier than trying to explain.

The problem is that most people, including many writers, have a difficult time defining what each genre is. What is paranormal romance? What is fantasy? What is urban fantasy? I have long since decided that the labels don’t really matter. I write, as many authors do, a combination of many genres. We blend, taking parts of one genre and adding it to another. It’s not uncommon for stories to be a mix of multiple genres.

For instance, most of my books are considered paranormal romances. However, I also have hints of urban fantasy when I write kick-a** heroines. Sometimes, I’ll blend the paranormal with fantasy with a supernatural being and then set the action in a fantasy world.

But my point is this. Does it really matter to the reader? When a reader walks into a bookstore or goes online to purchase a book, do they really ask themselves, “What do I want today? A fantasy? A paranormal?” Doubtful. For the most part, the reader simply wants a good book.

To learn about my books, please visit my website at www.beverlyrae.com.

Thanks,

Beverly Rae

The More Things in the Romance Industry Change...

I swear, I didn't set out to be the BtV's voice of snark when I sat down to write my themed blogs. But every time I lay my fingers on the keyboard, I get smacked with another example of Edmund Burke's home truth:

"Those who don't know history are destined to repeat it."

This time, it's romance--in the sense of the romance industry, not the fizz and sparkle that makes life worthwhile.  I'm not talking about ancient history, either.

I covered my first Romance Writers of America National Conference in the summer of 2000.  It was like trying to navigate a demilitarized zone, complete with anti-personnel mines, barefoot.  On one side of the hotel were the "traditionalists", who were bound and determined to keep those nasty epubbed authors/erotica writers (the traditional camp couldn't tell the difference) from being entered into the hallowed ranks of the Published Authors Network.  On the other were the writers working for the first generation of electronic presses or exploring the possibilities of self-publication, and some far-seeing old school writers like Anne Stuart who favored a "big tent" policy.

The Annual Meeting got downright nasty, and the reactions to my reportage made me wonder if the some of the combatants had been taking their cues from Fox News.  What made it sadder was that this was only the opening salvo of a seven year fight to gain PAN legitimacy for electronically published writers.

With our wonderful 20/20 hindsight, it seems outrageous that the legitimacy of electronic publishing or erotic romance was ever an issue.  Within five years of that conference, every New York publisher had inaugurated an erotic imprint.  By the end of last year, self-pubbed authors in multiple genres had racked up sales in the millions, leaving their traditionally published colleagues blinking in awe and envy.  Now speculation buzzes around the question of whether the traditionally printed book will survive or go the way of Borders.  (Excuse me a moment.  I need to mourn while people still remember what wonderful bookstores they used to be.)

But being silly and fighting against the tide of ideas whose time has come seems to be what the romance community does best.  Witness Romance Writers Ink, which at the beginning of this month decided to bar same sex romance from their annual writing contest--within days of the US Court of Appeals for the 9th District upholding the ruling of the 9th District Court on California's Proposition 8, clearing the way to gay marriage in the nation's bellwether state.*

What were they thinking?  Didn't RWI remember what happened the last time a romance organization thought they could stand in the way of progress?

Apparently not.  I bet the contest poobahs thought the net's ubiquitious social media were a mirage, too.  It's an open question whether RWA would've been able to dismiss epubbed authors for as long as they did if social media had been as developed in the early Naughties as they are today.  Certainly RWI folded within days, forced by the outcry to cancel this year's contest entirely.

I'm glad this fight was short and relatively bloodless.  It proves we can learn, even if the larger lesson gets lost.  But I can't help wondering what the next bone of romance industry contention will be and how soon it will appear. 

After all, in the electronic world in which we live, yesterday is so 86,400 seconds ago.

#

Jean Marie Ward

*Corrected per Sandra Bryant. Thanks, Sandy!

The Love in My Job

February Topic--On Silk Sheets: From Cuddling to Climax the Changing Face of Romance

I have one of the best jobs. Seriously, not many people get to bring love to the world on a daily basis. It doesn’t get much better than that, unless maybe being an obstetrician.

But what is a romance, exactly?

It might be a good idea to start out the discussion with a definition of the genre as provided by the Romance Writers of America:

"…Two basic elements comprise every romance novel: a central love story and an emotionally-satisfying and optimistic ending.

A Central Love Story: The main plot centers around two individuals falling in love and struggling to make the relationship work. A writer can include as many subplots as he/she wants as long as the love story is the main focus of the novel.

An Emotionally-Satisfying and Optimistic Ending: In a romance, the lovers who risk and struggle for each other and their relationship are rewarded with emotional justice and unconditional love.

Romance novels may have any tone or style, be set in any place or time, and have varying levels of sensuality—ranging from sweet to extremely hot. These settings and distinctions of plot create specific subgenres within romance fiction."

http://www.rwa.org/cs/the_romance_genre

This definition leaves room in the publishing industry for all levels of sensuality from sweet to erotica. Romance authors can write the sort of stories they feel comfortable telling and the reader has the chance to find the kind of book he/she is comfortable reading. A win-win.

What do I write?

I find myself writing somewhere between sweet to mildly spicy with enough sexual tension to tell the best story I can. Intimate scenes cannot be space fillers. They need to increase conflict, provide emotional depth, show character motivation, introduce plot twists, use as many sensory descriptions as possible, and move the story forward. Just as the other scenes do.

Sometimes, that means closing the door. Other times, it means throwing the door so wide open that the reader is inside the character’s skin.

How steamy the pages get depend on the characters themselves. After all, they are the ones living in the story.

Author girl just needs to jump out of the way and let them find love.

http://kimberleytroutte.com/

Romance in Space - Same as On Earth, Only Way Cooler!

It's been a while since I checked in here. My apologies. I've been wreaking havoc all over the place, working on new projects and celebrating a couple of new releases. Finally! I know it's been a while since there's been new material from me out and about. I'm glad to finally end the long dry spell.

Just lately, I've had a number of romances in futuristic space-faring settings release. First, a new novel that starts a brand new trilogy from Samhain Publishing, called HIDDEN TALENT. It released in ebook on October 25th and will be in print sometime next year. The second book in the series is titled TALENT FOR TROUBLE and the third will be called SHY TALENT. I anticipate those being released sometime next year, but will have more on exact dates when I get them.

HIDDEN TALENT is based on the premise that in the future, humans have developed and utilized certain kinds of psychic Talents. In some parts of the galaxy, gifted people share their strengths on a Council of those with Talent who rule over a group of planets. In other parts, people with Talent are hunted for their power. Jeri, the heroine of this story is on the run from one such planet and she crosses paths with a StarLord, Micah, who is on a covert mission for the Council. He recognizes her abilities and takes her with him aboard his starship.

What happens then is an education for the shy woman who grew up very repressed by Council standards. Aboard the good ship Circe, pleasure is shared freely in pairs or multiples as a way to enhance and recharge Talent. Micah teaches her all about her abilities and how to harness them. He never bargained on falling in love with the innocent Jeri, but there it is. They race to help an agricultural world under attack from space and together, they learn that they are more powerful than either one is alone.

KING OF SWORDS has also been rereleased in ebook formats. It is the first story in the Arcana series of novellas that ties into my Jit'suku Chronicles. Other books in the series include the Sons of Amber: Ezekiel & Michael. This story had been previously released as part of an anthology called FORTUNE'S FOOL, a couple of years ago from Phaze. That anthology is out of print now, so I'm reissuing this story in preparation for releasing the other stories in the series.

KING OF SWORDS is set in the Jit'suku universe, a few hundred years before the Sons of Amber stories. I anticipate having a number of related books set in this world, creating a generational saga that follows the consequences of human tinkering with soldiers' DNA, making them Enhanced, better than they were before and more dangerous to both races.

This particular story introduces a little bar on a space station called The Rabbit Hole, where information is passed back and forth to a network of spies working for the good of humanity. When aliens attack and try to subdue the station, it's up to a couple of retired soldiers turned spies and a clairvoyant civilian woman to repell the invaders. She teams up with one Enhanced soldier in particular. Together can they retake the station and find a love that will last for all time?

The second Arcana story is called KING OF CUPS and will be out in December. It follows the proprietor of The Rabbit Hole and his clairvoyant card dealer on an adventure into Jit'suku space. Few who have gone there have ever returned. They find themselves on an adventure of epic proportions simply by tryinig to help someone out of a jam. Trapped aboard an alien spaceship, they can no longer deny the attraction that has raged between them for months. Can they overcome their differences and find a solution to an intergalactic problem at the same time?

That takes me to the end of the year, but I have a lot more planned for 2012, so stay tuned! :)

I was a rotten kid. As a child I loved to torment my brothers and boss around the other kids on my block. As a result, I didn’t have many friends. (Yeah, I know. Sad, but I deserved it.)

That’s when I started making up my imaginary playmates. My first playmate was a boy named Larry. I adored Larry and took him everywhere I went. He would sleep in the imaginary bed across from mine. He would sit next to me at the dinner table. Heck, he even played softball, standing right next to me, although he was never a very good player.

Best of all, Larry was as rotten as I was. Larry was the culprit whenever my hand developed a mind of its own and thumped my brother in the head. Larry took the blame whenever I “accidentally” bumped a bowl full of vegetables off the table to scatter awful-tasting peas across the floor. Larry was with me, egging me on when I dropped water balloons off the roof onto unsuspecting neighbors. Larry was the one who made me stay up late and miss the school bus. Larry was, for all the wrong reasons, the perfect playmate.

Then I grew up and Larry went away. Or did he?

I love writing all the characters in my books, both good and bad. Heroes and heroines alike find a place in my heart. But I have to admit that the bad boys claim a special corner. Why? Perhaps it’s because each of my bad boys, whether or not they turn out to be the villain or the hero, has a part of Larry in him.

For instance, the three Cannon brothers in my Cannon Pack werewolf series are different, but they all have a bit of Larry thrown into their personalities. Jason Cannon has Larry’s uninhibited streak. Devlin Cannon has Larry’s witty sarcasm and Daniel Cannon is the guy who acts more calloused than he really is. In my latest book, CLAWED (Wild Things, Book 3), Conan is a bear (literally) of a man who takes on Larry’s habit of one-word answers. Like Larry, he’s stoic, aloof and sometimes downright rude. But in the end, Conan─again like Larry─will do anything for his girl.

So you see, Larry continues to live. Sure, he went away while I grew up and developed other interests. But when I wanted him again, when I became a writer and needed a bad boy, Larry came back to stay.

Now here’s the question for you. Since most of us have had an imaginary friend at one time or another, does your friend still live on in you? Is your friend by your side whenever you shake your head and answer, “I don’t know who did it”? If no, don’t you wish you had your imaginary friend back in your life?

Unconditional Love

Hey, everyone. With Easter on the horizon, my blog title is quite appropriate, but I'm not talking religion here. Instead, I am talking about the unconditional love from our pets...specifically man's best friend - canines.

Recently, I was sidelined for over a week with a kidney stone. Wow, how could something tiny cause so much pain? I mean, really. I was praying for someone to hit me in the head with a two-by-four for a week while two different emergency centers claimed I had a UTI, gave me a prescription and sent me home. Finally, after a note from my GYN, a different ER did what the first one should have done...a scan. And yep, just as I thought, a kidney stone.

I spent two and a half days in the hospital to clear up the infection and had a stint put in while I await outpatient surgery to remove the lodged stone. Upon release, I drove myself home. When I walked through the door, I had stupidly expected a banner or a note..."Welcome Home!" No such luck, but what I did receive quickly doused my disappointment. My two doggies - Sadie and little Choco were so glad to see me, I was overwhelmed by their enthusiasm. Choco, in particular, had been with me nonstop during the entire week I lay in bed, and once I got home from the hospital, it took him days to allow me out of his sight.

Choco was so funny. While I lay in bed and slept, he kept himself entertained by carrying his toys into the bedroom and onto the bed. In fact, one morning I rolled over one.

So, that's my short message today. It's no wonder we get so attached to our pets and they become such an important part of our family. It's easy to love them as they show their love for us every day...or at least I hope that's the same for you, lol.

Unconditional love. Hmmm....perhaps that is why vampire romance has become such a hit these days (shameless segway into the April 6th print release of the third novel of The Watchers series - Midnight Revelations). The intense emotion from an alpha male who can rip a man apart with his bare hands, but will also give his last breath for his love's happiness. He can sense when his love needs a slow dance between the sheets or rock her world into the next universe.

Ahhh...love. Whether two legs or four, warms your heart, doesn't it?



D. McEntire www.dmcentire.com www.mybookstoreandmore.com keyword: D. McEntire

Ideas: Concepts and Generation

(or:- What would happen if the buttered toast landed edgewise down?)


Welcome to the literary crucible.

Today we consider one of the most basic elements of fiction writing—The Idea. The other basic elements being, The Plot, and The Writing.


First off let’s start with two definitions of Idea

Idea:- Conception, plan of thing to be aimed at, discovered.
Oxford English Dictionary

Idea:- That concept which, after indeterminable hours; gallons of coffee and
sleepless; sore-eyed; computer staring nights; still evades the probing
mind of the frustrated author.
Author unknown

The frustration of an elusive idea is intense. The need to create and produce a specific piece of work is tantamount to an author’s psyche. Plus it has been known in certain circumstances to provide the check to pay the bills. It is at these moments that the true nature of an author is refined, the literary crucible that will either forge a true all weather author or break the writer down into a motionless, staring mass of idealess jelly.

So how, as authors, can we keep up an almost endless supply of ideas to feed into our clicking keyboards. There are as many answers to this as there are authors on full time pay roll at Greasy Joe’s Sludge Bucket Café, and no one way is particularly right. As part of the nice, helpful guy that I am I’ve gathered together and expounded below a system that I developed over roughly forty years of writing. This system is guaranteed to, with a dose of tremendous luck (and an even healthier dose of stealing other people’s ideas,) to generate your own ideas for any given fictional situation.

Of course what it doesn’t guarantee is getting the ideas in time for that elusive contract…

I’ve concentrated my examples here for fantasy work, fantasy being my main love and my fascination. But the system is transmutable and can be adapted for practically any form of writing you choose. Even Non-Fiction—the system was used in the production of this article itself.

Also, although I tend to discuss the issue in terms of a new idea for a fresh story, the system can be equally applied to sections in the middle, and or end of novels and other long pieces.

I hope you find this process as useful, and as enjoyable, as I have over the years. And use of the system is entirely free provided you deposit in my bank roughly a million dollars per hour usage…


Spend some time in the mad cafe

Regardless of who you are the creative human brain works best when alert but relaxed. Music often helps as some people find it tunes in the creative nature of the brain, though this is indeed a personal thing. It is possible to find many authors who will listen to music as they write for just this reason.

A similar kind of tuning needs to be done for finding and creating ideas. It is very important to find somewhere where you feel relaxed. I've always found that being uptight and fighting through piles of words and papers and forcing myself to find an idea for a particular piece is the most counter-productive thing I can do. By focusing on the fact that I can't find an idea, the solution appears to rapidly become more and more distant.

Where to relax is a personal thing. An armchair in a small room is common, maybe in bed if you can resist the urge to watch TV or sleep. My personal favorite is to go to a local cafe or bar and amidst the bustle of people find a small corner table and sit. Armed with a hot brew or pint of beer, and a cheese Danish I sit and face the throngs. With a pad and paper ready I just let the atmosphere of the others around me draw out the tensions and open my mind to any incoming thoughts.

There are writers I know, who will sit with friends and chat freely about their ideas and plots. This kind of chatter can help tremendously but do take a pad and write the ideas down frequently. Otherwise the majority of the stuff spoken about will be forgotten by the time you've left the bar, kitchen or whatever. Be judicious though, one friend of mine was animatedly discussing various ways to kill off the husband in her companion’s novel whilst treating themselves to a pizza at the local restaurant. Half way through the exercise where they'd been through the list of poisons and found them boring, tried arranging an accident and found it too risky and were working on murdering him in his sleep when an elderly lady from a nearby table stood up and began speaking very loudly and angrily.

"You cold hearted bi...."

The object lesson is, if you will discuss techniques of murder in public it pays to either let your eavesdroppers know it is fictional now and then, or keep a loaded gun in a clearly visible place.

Wherever it is or whatever you do the universal factor seems to be the need to break away from the computer/typewriter and to let your mind clear from the physical act of writing. This spring clean of the mind allows new ideas to form where the old cobwebs used to grow.

To see or not to see

This may have given you the impression that I'm advocating you do nothing to generate ideas. This is not true. I do believe though that ideas are all around us and what we need to do is to train ourselves to see them. Terry Pratchett, famous for his Discworld, was sitting in the airport lounge one day and saw what many of us would see. A tired and haggard tourist pulling one of those suitcases on wheels. This suitcase, like so many, kept going off in the wrong direction as if it had a life of its own.

On the strength of that observation the inimitable Luggage was born. That living travel chest known to eat wizards for breakfast…

So ideas surround us and we need to observe more. How many potential story ideas have we passed today but failed to see because we haven't actually looked to see if they were there.

For one poignant fantasy I remember driving the coast road close to my home. I drove this particular road every day to work and generally thought nothing of it. Yet on this unusual day they'd been an accident and I was forced with all the other drivers to slow the car to a walking pace. It was one of those particularly dreary cloud covered days which gave the sea a kind of grey hue. It occurred to me then that the sea looked lonely. Developing that idea led to my short story The Lonely Sea.

I am embarrassed to admit it took five years and an accident to make me observe, for the first time, the sea in that condition and to recognize that it had an emotion that could be used in a fiction tale. (The Lonely Sea was published years ago in a small press publication in England that I am now far too old to remember the name of.)

The thing is, we see so many things each day that are fuel for a writer’s imagination. And that is why taking a notebook with you and making copious notes is a godsend. Looking at my notes today, I saw the young couple having a tiff in the town mall with girl leaving rapidly, the young man following. There was a lost children's balloon scooting along in the wind under the eaves of town buildings. The strange, dragon shaped incense burner in a local store and the almost worshipful way that customers admired it.

Each of these have potentials for story ideas embedded in them. For example. The young man could chase his lover to apologize and they find themselves stepping through a portal to different parts of another world where they struggle to become reunited. The balloon is blown into the presence of evil and glares on the people below. The incense burner when wielded by the hand of the “faithful” becomes a creature of power and beauty, but little trust.
These germs of ideas would easily become short stories and possibly even novels.

Meet the media men

The media men can be the fantasy writer's greatest friends. Nine times out of ten if you are stuck for an idea for a fantasy story you need turn no further than your daily newspapers, news report or magazine.

Although any newspaper will do I tend to go for the ones which are less up-market. Tabloids would be wonderful if they didn’t appear to be mainly fiction from the get go. The newspapers I love are the ones which contain little paragraphs with snippets of information. These I regularly cut and stick into a scrapbook. Short pieces like:

'Police were baffled today when the missing housewife, XXXXX, was found drowned in her car on a bend off the A45, she had apparently driven through a hedge and trees into the river beyond. The reason that the search took so long [three days] to find the body was that the car had apparently passed through the hedges and trees without harming or breaking even a twig.'
—Now this is definitely fantasy stuff.


Then there's the not quite so obvious news item:

'Police today were praising the bravery of a young stranger who prevented the abduction of a child from the local play park. The assailant, described as in his late thirties, wearing a blue duffel coat and dark green trousers was scared off when the young man accosted him and refused to let him put the child in his car. Police are anxious to find the reluctant hero who disappeared soon after the assailant had driven off in a white....' Bingo! Ideas come tumbling down. Where did the young man come from? Where did he go? Why on earth did he confront the man who could have been the child's father?

I always look closely at everything, even the adverts can spark the odd crazy idea. Take this advert for example (the first one I found in a woman's magazine):

Advanced skincare with the Johnson's Touch.
Thanks to Johnson's you can now boost your skin's natural renewal
with new pH5.5 Healthy difference Cream.....

Advanced skincare? Skin renewal? Possibly a good starting place for a fantasy story and or science fiction. Perhaps even envisage a scifi/fantasy where the space ship is a huge intergalactic creature and a young energetic wizard-scientist discovers a cream which seals, heals and renews the flesh of the huge creatures. An aid to keep them alive in battles and sustain them in adverse space conditions.

Well, it's just a thought....


The question's not in how to try but more in who, how, what and why?

Seeing things and making notes isn't the end of the exercise. I can collect and collate observations until they fill books and books fill boxes. Which they do until I throw them all out, then start again. That doesn't make them a fully fledged idea though. Once the basics have been collected they have to go through a kind of inquisition which will make them burgeon into an idea.

So what if you have a cream that will renew flesh, a balloon which reflects the image of some evil entity it temporarily meets. The next process which these observations undergo will mould them into a basic fantasy plot. The technique is very simple and one that any parent of young children will tell you they recognize with frustrating clarity. I simply ask myself the W questions. (Note How is a W question, it just happens to be written backwards!)

Take the balloon. How does that become a true story?

I’ve already undergone a few questions and answers to get to the image idea any way. So add a few more to flesh out the story idea. Straight forward questions like. What could make the balloon special to be noticed? Would it be the balloon or something else? Would it be something in the building it was clinging to? What could be in that building? Where did it come from? How does it live, feed, contact with humans? This obsrvation became the basis on my wip Red Dragon, Blue. It is a horror tale where a father sacrifices everything in order to summon five revengeful spirits to destroy those who have murdered his daughter.

And this wasn’t the only tale I could fabricate from one observation. As I sat with my handy lil’ notebook and asked myself all of these things. I wrote down all the following answers to my constant interrogation. (Always remember to work within your created, or real world, limitations as you do this)

The balloon is a child's toy. The 'spirit of evil' was attracted to the balloon because it was a child. The spirit is evil because it is in torment. It is in torment because the child it was, was beaten and tortured to death. It feeds off the fear and souls of the living. It seeks revenge. When the story ends it will be avenged. It uses what tools it is familiar with (e.g.. balloons and toys) to create fear and death (balloon taking horrific face. Skateboard placed at top of stairs for someone to step on and kill themselves.) The house it inhabits is a block of apartments and everyone within it lives in a kind of fear without knowing why. No one can move out because they trapped by something indefinable. The child spirit must be appeased and 'destroyed/removed' from this plane of existence. Use the 'Love conquers all' ploy. Who would love the child spirit. A child. How would that child meet him. Originally in his/her dreams....

I won't go any further as I hope this gives a full enough description of how the questioning process works. In fact it is essential to know when to stop the questioning. For a short story it is unnecessary to go into the detail that would be required for a novel. For something the length of this article I used about two 8” by 4” sides of sparsely handwritten notes taken from this process.

I find also that the questioning process helps to weed out story inconsistencies. For example, assume I'm writing a story where the unsung hero suddenly rises from herding his father's pigs to kingship and glorious victory as a famous warrior. The questions would remind me that a pig farmer wouldn't know how to use a sword. In fact all he would know is pig farming. The questions then teach me how to create a character from him that influences those he needs around him, and together they achieve the goals which the plot has set for him.

See the stranger with the glazed stare

This is the process I generally follow:

1. Allow steam from coffee cup to fog up my glasses.
2. Allow sighing waitress to remove yet another untouched coffee mug
3. Wonder if my butt’s been glued to the seat.
4. Is my pen frozen immovably to my hand?
5. Allow thoughts, observations and ideas to mix and meld.
6. Write them down!

Maybe it's a personal thing, perhaps observation/question method is one that only I can use. If that was the case I wonder what would have happened that day in the airport lounge if Terry Pratchett had said,

“Oh, another one of those hard to control suitcases...."

I believe it is the nature of an author to learn to ask questions. In the belief that eventually we’ll ask the right one which will produce that gem of an idea.

Whether you have trouble generating ideas or not, I hope that in the long, dark idea-blanked night of your soul this small monologue has been of some assistance to help speed you on your way.



S.J.'s Third novel Dante I, third in the PIACT undercover agent series will be out sometime in the summer.

Now isn't that exciting news! More details later.

S.J.

Another Free Read from the PIACT Agent Archive. (Not work friendly)

Don't forget if you want to win a super duper Secret Agent ID card like this one



and your own presentation packaged archive superspy mission for yourself, or a loved one, all you have to do to enter the free draw is comment on this thread. Stories can be written in four styles, sex free, romantic, spicy and erotic. Just let me know what you want.

Come along and join us, your superspy comrades are eagerly waiting...


Lethal Lion Leaps into a Lavish Lair

“Now, make sure you wear your underwear.”

Lethal Lion cringed as Omniscient Otter gave him her final orders over the telephone. She was hip deep in a mission in the Middle East while he was preparing for his, in a villa standing on a Greek beach next to the Mediterranean. And all she could think about was his underwear.

“Oh God, you’re going commando aren’t you, I can tell. We’re doomed!”

“No, I’m not.” Lion countered churlishly. He wasn’t doomed, at least. He certainly wasn’t going to admit to going commando.

“Just ask Warrior Wolf,” she told him. “Ask her about the dangers of not wearing underwear. Clean ones at that. Ask her about the YouTube videos, the ones she’s always hacking into and trying to hide.”

“Aw, hey babe, you know that isn’t going to happen to me. Besides one guy looks like the next when it comes down to that.”

“Trust me, bozo.” Her tone of voice held dire warnings. “I’d recognize that penis anywhere, so don’t let me see it somewhere other than our bedroom. Don’t forget, I bite.”

Lion winced again. Otters, he knew from experience, had sharp teeth.

“Trust me dear, wherever I go the underwear goes with me.” Just to keep to the truth Lion shoved a pair of cotton plaid boxers down the front of his pants. The padding gave him an impressive bulge in the front of them.

“Going commando again?” Formidable Fox stepped out of the shower naked except for a shower cap, grabbed a jug of coffee, then sauntered back into the shower.

“And I hope those women aren’t sauntering naked around you,” she growled. “I gave them express orders— “

“Breakfast is here,” Lightning Lynx came up the stairs carrying a huge delivery box from the local bakery. The smell of croissants, Greek bread, feta and baklava along with even stronger coffee made his mouth water.

She lay the box on a small breakfast bar on the balcony just outside Lion’s bedroom, dropped the sheer nightgown she was wearing, shook, her hair in the slight breeze, giving him the perfect view of everything she had before she delicately crossed her legs and nibbled, very teasingly, at one corner of croissant.

“—they are perfectly well behaved,” Lion assured her. “There’s not a single inch of flesh to be seen.” Nope, not an inch, bloody yards of it maybe but not a single inch.

“Okay,” Otter appeared to be mollified by his continued assertions. “Okay then, but, well take care. I hear the twins are deadly with their bazookas.”

“I will dear, I promise, now don’t go flying into any male harems will you. I hear they’re ferocious with a lone woman once they get them in the pool.”

“Don’t be silly dear, nothing happens like that here.”

“Love you, Bye.”

“Bye, Love you!

Hearing the phone hang up brought Lion’s blood pressure out of the fatal heart attack range, which Fox pumped right up again when she came out of the shower, naked again, and passed him a towel, asking him to rub her dry, and do it really quickly at the bottom because it was always wet.

Lion was plucking up the courage to get started when the outside door opened and the unmistakable stomp of Wolf came in. She quickly traced the gang, and the breakfast, to the upper balcony and caught the three of them in a flagrant á trois.

Lion looked at her and relaxed. Calf high skirt, long sleeve and full collar shirt, a hat that covered most of her face. Other than being a very attractive woman, Wolf hadn’t brought anything naked with her to add to the plethora of temptation.

“Really girls,” Wolf chastised them. “You shouldn’t be walking around naked while a man is watching you.”

“A man…?” Fox squeaked.

“…watching us?” Lynx chirped.

Both women dashed to the balcony and dangled over it, searching for their elusive voyeur.

“He’s in here, silly.”

Still excited the two girls turned around and began searching behind the curtains and in the cupboards.

“He’s standing right in front of you.” Wolf added, exasperated.

Fox and Lynx paused to look at Wolf.

“Oh!” Lynx said at last. “I think she means Lion.”

“Lion?” Fox stuttered. “He’s not a man, he’s married.”

“To Otter,” Lynx agreed.

“Damn,” Fox flumped down at the breakfast bar, disappointed.

“Damn, too” Lynx joined her.

Lion swallowed, glanced down at his perfectly athletic body, muscles to die for, and felt about as useful as a butt plug at a gay bar.

“Well, just keep your clothes on around here, okay. The poor fellow is already having fits by the looks of it.”

Lion felt himself blush as Wolf pointedly looked at the front of his pants.

“Don’t worry about that,” Fox stage whispered, “It’s only padding.”

Blushing even more Lion pulled the offending boxers out of his pants to reveal a perfectly smooth, bump free profile. He sank on the edge of the bed, defeated.

“Whatever,” Wolf rolled her eyes. “Don’t forget Furball insisted we keep a low profile on this mission. We’ve finally found a place where I can work without being recognized.”

“Hardly.” Lynx countered. “Why else would that seventeen-year-old look up your skirt at the bakery and yell to his friends. αυτή είναι η μία στο YouTube.”

Lion watched Wolf squirm uncomfortably. “We have no idea what he said.” She told them. “He’s probably one of them kids that gets his thrills from peeking up girls skirts.”

“He said, ‘this is the one on YouTube,’” Lion translated for her.

Wolf blushed bright red, before collapsing on the edge of the bed beside him.

“Damn,” she said. “It looks like you’ll have to do this mission without me after all.”

“Well, what is the mission?” Lynx asked. “Besides sunbathing on the beach and chasing down the local hunks?”

“Okay, come inside and close the curtains,” she told them. “Let’s get this job underway, I want to go home.”

“Yeah, but are you wearing your underwear?” Fox teased, then fell silent as Wolf pulled a huge, pulsating life-like vibrator out of her purse. “How did you get that past customs?”

“I have my ways,” Wolf smirked.

Lion felt even more inadequate as Wolf placed the monstrosity, suction cup to the wood, on the dressing table in front of them. Even the close proximity of two delectable, naked women had no effect on him after the confidence bashing he’d had today.

The vibrator did a little jump, startling him, then three beams of red light burst out from its tip. Laser beams. He watched, curious, as within seconds there was a keyboard, mousepad and monitor drawn in red light on the wall and top of the dresser.

Wolf leaned in and quickly typed in a few passwords and codes. The monitor screen flickered to full hdtv color life.

Furball, in all his bearded wonderfulness, was peering out at them.

“Ah, I’m so glad to see you all in one piece,” he said. “I was worried the Twins might have already caught onto you and eliminated at least a few.”

“You’re expecting us to get killed?” Lion asked. “And you didn’t tell us.”

“Now, now, don’t worry.” Furball reassured him. “I mean we have the best there is in resuscitation. Just as long as you’re not decapitated we have a pretty good chance of piecing you back together. Why agent Persian Pumpkin was found in the sewers, dead for fourteen days, and she’s now walking around with us with no problems.”

“Persian Pumpkin?”

“You know, the girl in our office here, walks with a limp, looks like her eyes are rotted, keeps falling to pieces, that one.”

Lion remembered now the Halloween mannequin he’d seen when he’d visited HQ recently, except it apparently wasn’t a mannequin…

“But regardless, you’re all there in one piece and that’s how we like you. You want to hear more about your mission?”

“Please do,” Lion spoke dryly. “The suspense is killing me.”

“These two girls,” the screen switched to show some video footage of two blond, very well endowed, twins heading into a pedicure parlor. “Are top executives for the Secret Party Looking to Annihilate Terra. Otherwise known as SPLAT. They are currently working on a super secret project here…” a shot of a remote, massive villa in the middle of the deserted Greek countryside. “…known as the Gemini Matrix.”

The holder of the video camera managed to zoom in to focus on some of the people walking around the grounds of the villa. Everywhere the camera focused, there were twins. Male twins. From the corner of his eye Lion could see Lynx and Fox licking their lips.

“I need you Lynx and Fox, to take out the guards, while Lion heads for the ultra-secret laboratory here.” The camera zoomed in to what looked like an elaborate harem style bedroom full of silky chiffon hangings, ceiling decorations and a massive uber king sized circular bed. “Hopefully he’ll be able to locate and destroy the secret research. At the least we’re expected to have the Twins incarcerated by the end of this mission.”

Something big, heavy and fast flew up from the villa and suddenly the picture from the camera consisted of a short tumbling sequence before simply going black, accompanied by a blood curdling scream which was cut short at the interesting bit.

“Ah, Two-Toed Turtle always was a little slow.” Furball sighed. “Anyway, are you all clear on your duties?”

There was a rather subdued round of “Yes.”

“What about me?” Wolf sniffed, miffed at being left out of the mission.

“I’d suggest plastic surgery,” Furball said. “Failing that get your lower half a hair dye, have it trimmed into interesting shapes and make it totally unrecognizable from a certain YouTube video… Hey, have you considered shaving?”

“Uhm…”

“Good, good, I’m sure you’re the master of disguise, and that you’ll find some way to make yourself unrecognizable to the world’s masses.”

“Uhm…”

“Excellent! Now go for it guys and gals. Good luck, and don’t forget, this message will self-destruct in ten seconds.” Furball grinned. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

The image on the screen faded and the vibrator squeaked and hissed a little, deflating slowly until it looked like one of those dinky penises you find on cherub statues in stately gardens.

“Now that was a waste,” Lynx pouted.

##

“Okay, satellite indicates you’ve got four heading your way girls, two from the west, two from the north west. ETA five minutes. You know, I’m getting some really weird electronic signals from that place. You all take care in there, you hear?”

Wolf, dying to get in on the act somehow was monitoring the whole process from satellite and adding her little bit now and then. She was staying firmly locked inside the vacation villa, hiding from the small crowd of sightseers that were now camping on the beach outside it and which was growing larger every minute.

Lion looked towards the predicted contact area, and closed his eyes as Lynx and Fox stripped down to some very skimpy underwear. He had to concentrate on the job.

Peering towards the nearby wall, the whole villa was encased in a ten feet high privacy wall, Lion tried to assess the easiest place to climb it.

There wasn’t, wherever he climbed it was going to be just as tough. Oh well. Here’s hoping some of that million dollar spy equipment Querulous Q gave him actually did its stuff.

“I’ll take these four,” Lynx sauntered sexily forward as the first men came into sight. “You guys get on to the inside and get the Twins.”

Lion could tell Fox wasn’t too happy with that but at least she didn’t complain.

“Are you sure you can handle four of them alone?” Lion asked.

Lynx licked her lips, waggled her tush and waved her hands. “One less than maximum capacity,” she grinned.

Lion didn’t stay to argue. Instead he moved quickly to the cover of the wall, hoping the coming men didn’t spot him. Going by the grunts and groans that soon emanated behind him, the coming men was a very apt description.

Once next to the wall Lion took out the Invisible Breach Ball QQ had given him. “It will enable you to pass through three foot of rock, brick and mortar as if it never existed.”QQ had said. “Totally invisible!”

“Light blue touch paper and retire,” he read the brief instructions as he pressed the ball against the wall.

Well, he was far too young to retire. Squashing the soft metallic ball against the white mortared wall until it stuck and taking his super duper cigarette lighter, he lit the blue paper which was poking out of the top.

The paper sparkled, glowed, pulsed, then went out.

“Always happens with the cheap ones,” Fox noted. “Try sticking a match in it.”

Feeling a bit wary of that suggestion, he tried to light the blue touch paper again. This time the fuse flared, and zipped all the way into the ball before he had time to pull his hand away.

The ball burst into a glow so bright, it took five minutes before his constant blinking allowed him to finally see again.

“That’s it!” Wolf announced. “You’ve made your way in. Don’t take too long, Lynx looks like she’s floundering.”

“Oh? Is that what they call it nowadays?” Fox muttered.

Lion pushed his hand against the wall. Or more precisely pushed his hand against where the wall used to be. All that remained now of the small section where he stood was a large pile of rock dust on the floor.

Well, he had to admit, it certainly looked like the wall was invisible—he couldn’t fault QQ’s description there.

“Okay, I’m going in,” he announced.

“And not a moment too soon.” Lynx’s words sounded garbled over the headset.

“It’s rude to speak with your mouth full,” Fox chided.

Lion stepped through the more-than-man-sized hole, into the garden of dreams itself.

It was like stepping from the Mediterranean and appearing, well, into a very well-kept part of the Mediterranean. The soil here was still sandy, dry and gritty, but it was a well-watered dry and gritty. And the plants and shrubs grew like they knew they were the rich kids on the block. Lion reached up to a nearby olive tree and plucked a few ripe olives to test them.

“Hmm, not bad at all,” he said, savoring the astringent taste.

“No, I’m not going to pull up my skirt for you to peek at me!” Wolf’s protest shattered Lion’s musing. “Sorry everyone, the local TV station sent a news crew around to interview me. Do you think you could maybe hurry this along a little bit. The local police have started selling tickets for their annual ball and carting off the ones refusing to pay. The jail’s already overfull with two men to a bed and I hear they’ve booked an around-the-world cruise for all their eighty odd employees.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry Wolf, just enjoying some of the dainty delights the garden has to offer.” Lion apologized.

“Just get into the bedroom and savor your dainty delights there.” Wolf said, then under her breath, unaware that he could hear her. “I knew I should have worn underwear…”

“This is the best route,” Fox told him, when he’d almost finished his handful of olives. “Follow the pergolas, the squash growing up the sides will give us enough cover until we nearly reach the house. From there you’ll have to make a short dash to the villa.”

“What about you?” Lion asked.

“I think I saw some twins towards the far end of the pergolas. I’m going to have to go first and distract them.” She licked her lips, adjusted her top so her boobs looked more perky and fussed with her hair. “Give me ten minutes head start okay.”

“Okay,” Lion agreed. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Eh, what’s a few twins on a mission eh, Lynx? We’ve handled worse that that right?”

“Mmmphh mm phmmm.” Lynx acknowledged.

Worried about his colleagues Lion nervously paced about the olive tree, constantly checking his watch to see if the ten minutes were up. An agonizing eight minutes had passed when Wolf piped up on the headset.

“Incoming,’ she said. “Can you see them to your east and south west Fox?”

“Oh yes,” Fox sounded rather breathless. “What? Only three?”

“Something’s wrong,” Wolf declared. “Everyone here has a twin, and moves as a twin. Keep your eyes peeled Lion, this could be a trap if we can’t see his twin.”

“Oh man!” Fox exclaimed, her voice buzzing over the headset, followed by a sound similar to a panty thong snapping. “Ooooooh, Maaan!”

Lion, trying not to let his guilt at Fox’s deep pain distract him, quickly surveyed the land just beyond the pergolas. It was wide and open. Off to the left, behind some bushes, he could hear Fox’s desperate attempt to keep the guards away from him—the poor lass stifling her cries of agony.

Knowing he was wasting precious time, Lion took a chance and made a dash for the villa, hiding behind a largish Juniper bush he looked up at the wall. A fifteen foot climb onto the flat roof, head east, another ten foot climb and he’d be able to sneak into the bedroom on the third floor.

Easy.

Except there was a hand on his shoulder which definitely didn’t feel like it was going to let him go.

Lion turned casually, acting as if he had every right to be trespassing in someone’s secret base garden and hiding behind a juniper bush.

“Hi,” he said, waving to the missing twin guard. “Lovely weather for a walk isn’t it?”

“Πρέπει να σας σκοτώσω.” The twin said.

“Erhm, pardon me for asking but did you just say, ‘I must kill you?’”

“ορθή”

“That’s ‘correct’, huh?”

“Ω, ναι, σίγουρα.”

“Oh, yes, definitely?” Lion rubbed his chin. “Well, that’s kind of awkward isn’t it, since I don’t really want to be killed.”

Moving at a speed of lightning mud, Lion punched out, striking the man squarely on the chin—then howled in pain as he nursed his hand between his legs.

“Damn! Well I can tell you don’t have a glass jaw. What did you do? Implant a sheet of steel in your chin?”

“I’ve, er, figured out what those strange signals are guys,” Wolf sheepishly admitted.

“Don’t tell me,” Lion joked. “All the twin guards are robots.”

“Well, androids.”

“It’s okay Wolf, you don’t need to humor me. It was just a bad joke, really.”

“Well…I wasn’t really humoring…”

Lion ducked as the twin threw a punch, the man’s arm ending up buried to the elbow in the wall, and he didn’t even wince.

“Androids,” Lynx gasped. “That explains why they’re so good. I mean, uhm, they don’t seem to be getting tired or slowing down.”

The twin threw another punch at him with its other hand, Lion slipped to one side, feeling the breeze pass his ear as the punch almost connected. The man, android, now had two arms elbow deep in the wall.

“How can we defeat them?” Lion asked, taking the opportunity to beat on the machines head while it couldn’t respond. All he managed to do was make his fists hurt.

“I dunno,” Wolf said. “Maybe you could shove a hand grenade down their pants or something?”

“Right, thanks,” Lion answered as politely as he could. “But I didn’t exactly come all this way just to cop a feel of an android’s wiener.”

It did give him an idea though. The android had almost pulled its arms out of the wall, along with a fair chunk of the wall itself. Pulling out his spare IBB he squashed the soft metal ball to the back of the androids neck. This time he put his free arm over his eyes and thrust the lighter as close to the ball as it could get. Retiring, on this occasion, could be a rather long and fatal affair.

Even with his arm over his eyes it took several moments blinking to be able to see again. Fortunately his plan had worked and all that remained of the android was a pile of metal and plastic dust.

“Oh God, they’re so hard,” Fox moaned. “Difficult, I mean. They’re so difficult!” She squealed.

“Wimp!” Lynx taunted.

“Quickly Lion, you have to get to the Twins and subdue them. They probably have a master control which will turn all the androids off at once.”

“Right.”

Lion looked at the crumbling wall. At least that was one problem solved. Using the convenient hand and foot holes the android had provided it took just a matter of minutes to swing himself up onto the roof and start making his way to the Twins bedroom.

It took just a few more moments to reach the wall just below their bedroom window. Quickly pulling the Clingers onto his hands and feet, he used their super suction ability to help him climb the short ten feet to the window sill.

The whole process went very well. Incredibly well in fact. Except for the last few inches when two sets of hands grabbed his wrists and yanked him the last few feet into the bedroom.

When he managed to get his breath back, and look up from the floor, he saw two very attractive pairs of breasts. No, he meant an attractive pair of twins, honest!

Both of them were dressed in see-through baby doll negligees that just about covered their navels and left little to his imagination—which was currently working overtime, as was another part of his anatomy.

“Oooh,” said Twin number one. “A real, working, human male, Dupli.”

The other Twin licked her lips as she sidled over to Lion.

“You’re right, Kate. Let’s see what he really has to offer. You know that last one had just padded himself out with his boxers.”

Dupli and Kate, Lion wondered what sick parents came up with those names.

As the Twins grabbed the legs of his pants Lion fought vainly to keep his modesty as the girls tried to pull them off. Very reluctantly, he instantly unbuttoned and unzipped before they tugged too hard and damaged something permanently. After all, he did want to have something to take back to Otter.

“Oooh,” Kate said, grabbing him in a place too rude to mention and stroking him up and down. “It’s so hard and smooth, it’s better than the real thing.”

“It is the real thing,” he told them grouchily.

Dupli dipped her head down for a quick lick. Lion decided to take some time out before arresting the poor, pretty things. After all, they probably were innocents in all this.

“Hmm, tastes like the real thing.” Dupli said. “Let’s try him out for a bit.”

“Yes. Lets.” Kate agreed.

#

A couple of hours later Lion looked around at the chaos in the room. The bed was messed up with the covers all over the place. Half the hangings and the chandelier were dangling in pieces from the walls and ceilings. Worse still the Twins were still going strong, insatiable for more of him.

He was exhausted.

“Has it been good for you ladies?” he asked, desperate for a break. God knows how Lynx and Fox were doing, They’ve been captives to their robot twins even longer than he’d been to these two human ones.

“They’re barely hanging on,” Wolf told him. “They can’t keep it up much longer.”

Neither can I. Lion wanted to add.

“Oh, don’t worry about us,” Dupli told him.

“No man has even been able to make us come,” Kate told him. “We just like to play because its fun.”

“Ugh,” Lion groaned. I’m doomed. “Okay, maybe I have a little toy which will help.”

“Ooh, we like toys.” The Twins said together.

Reaching for his pants Lion pulled out the last device QQ had given him. The Desperation Pill. About the size of a quarter he pulled it out, and following the instructions, squeezed the tube at the two blue marks.

Immediately the capsule popped open and a pink thing flew out.

“Wow,” Dupli cooed.

“Double wow,” Kate aahhed.

“Phew,” Lion agreed.

Grabbing as much rest as he could Lion watched along with the girls as the pink thing expanded and slowly took shape. He had no idea what QQ had created so he was as surprised as the Twins when they ended up with a blow up copy of himself.

“Well, hello girls!”

A moving, walking, talking blow up copy! He was saved!

“Wowowow!” Kate said, reaching forward and grabbing the copy’s extended male member. “And it vibrates too! I’m taking this one.” She told Dupli. “We can swap later.”

“No fair!” Dupli complained. “You always try the new ones first.”

Still, she turned to Lion, determination on her face. “I’ll have to finish you off quickly,” she said.

Lion didn’t think she meant it in a pleasant way either.

“Unless I finish you first,” he gave her what he hoped was a sexy confident smile back. “Now that I can concentrate solely on you, you have no chance.”

“I love a good challenge,” Dupli grinned back. Then gasped as Lion flipped her over and took her doggie style. “You can’t, beat me, like this.” She groaned.

Yet Lion could tell from her tone that he was finally beginning to affect her.

“Then let’s try a little of this,” he teased.

Switching on his fingertip implanted vibrators he reached underneath her and began stroking her clit, she bucked as if he’d just sent a million volts through her.

“No!” she cried. “No!”

Lion glanced over at his copy and saw it was doing the same thing to Kate who was moaning, glassy eyed. He grinned with satisfaction. They were going to do something to the Twins that no man had done before.

“No!” Dupli screamed. “It can’t be! I’m, I’m, c…c…comi…..!”

It wasn’t until he saw the smoke pouring out of her ears that Lion started to get a little bit disconcerted. But when she screamed out at her climax, and her eyes popped out to dangle on springs, and the top of her head blew off to reveal a complex set of circuit boards and electronics he really started to worry. He distanced himself as quickly as he could from the disintegrating machine.

He glanced over at Kate as her orgasmic cries ended in a similar, and very alarming fashion. Unfortunately his copy wasn’t as quick and ended up in various pieces beside her.

“Be careful!” Lion yelled into the headset. “The androids aren’t programmed to deal with an orgasm, they kind of—“

“Wow, talk about popping your cork!” Lynx said.

“Well, I’ve heard about blowing someone’s brains out…” Fox added.

“This whole place,” Lion looked around the bedroom, debris from one of the exploding twins had loosened a panel in the wall to reveal a complex control board behind it. “It was run by androids.”

He hit a few buttons just to see what would happen. The control board lit up like a Christmas tree. Maybe he’d hit the one which switched off the androids.

“Warning! Warning! This base will self-destruct in five minutes.” Lion stared at it in shock for a few seconds. “I’ve always wanted to say that.” The machine added.

“Uhm, ladies…” Lion said forgetting about his clothes and running for the window and the quickest way out of the villa.

“We heard.” Lynx and Fox said together.

“Calling in the escape chopper now.” Wolf told them.

Lion just hoped they’d make it out in time

##

“I warned you about going commando!” Lion winced at Otter’s tone and held the phone a little further from his ear. “Now where the hell did I put that skinning knife?”

“Baby, really, I have no idea how I ended up on YouTube.”

They were all sitting in Ferocious Furball’s ‘couch’ room waiting for a debrief. No, he wasn’t going to think of that term. Fox and Lynx had both arrived wearing long mackintosh coats, dark glasses and fedoras.

“I haven’t been able to go anywhere without someone asking if I want to try it with five.” Lynx complained.

“My mother keeps talking about my choice of underwear,” Fox moaned. “And the ladies of her church group have started a panties collection for me.” She wrinkled her face in disgust.

“Isn’t it disgusting,” Wolf agreed, innocently twiddling with the satellite controller she’d used to follow and record their mission. “And here we were, thinking you were all safe. Someone who was following me must have tracked you all down to the villa. Well, look on the bright side. At least they’re not all following me around anymore.”

They were all about to comment when Furball announced his arrival by dimming the lights and backlighting the screen so that his silhouette appeared.

“I’m afraid, ladies and gentleman,” he began immediately. “That it looks like we have stumbled on an immensely large group of bad guys we need to trounce.”

They all stared at the screen, riveted by the news, personal problems temporarily forgotten.

“Let me tell you,” Furball continued. “What we have learned about SPLAT.”

Ends


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