Posts Tagged ‘zombies’
Happy Birthday, Clandestine originally appeared in Alien Skin Magazine.
Happy Birthday, Clandestine
He led her down the rough, pine board stairs. A spicy mixture of herbs, incense, and old dirt perfumed the air.
“What have you gone and done this time?” She squeezed the arm of her shaman lover, anxious for the surprise he promised.
“I hope you will like it.” He stroked the length of her chestnut tresses and she shivered.
Her bare feet touched the cool, earthen floor, and she fiddled with the black silk blindfold, willing him to take it off with her eager thoughts. “I’m sure I will.”
A humming, thick and low, poured up through the terra firma and into her feet.
“Have you modified it?” She cocked her head and listened while he removed the scarf from her eyes.
“I bought a new one for your birthday.”
He kissed her forehead and the loose skin there moved beneath the motion of his lips. She pushed him away with a half-hearted hand. The decay of her flesh disturbed Clandestine.
“Oh,” her sadness dashed as her eyes focused, “you painted it.” She kissed him. “How thoughtful, darling.” Running her hand along the length of the freezer, she admired its fresh ebony surface. “It is beautiful.” He’d added golden moons with passive faces, and stars as well.
The shaman wrapped his arms around her waist, and a bit of inner meat pulled free from her ribs. “I’m glad you like it.”
Freeing herself of his touch (it only renewed the memory of her death and impatience), she turned and cupped his face. “I’ll sleep like a queen.”
His smile held melancholy as he took her hands in his. “Shall we open it then?”
She sighed, and a hollowness in her chest argued with her need for regeneration.
“Yes.” Bending her head, she kissed the tips of his fingers. “I think it’s time.”
He moved in front of her and peeled the lid back. A gust of wet, frozen air lifted and brushed against her face.
“I am … a year older.” Coming closer, she wrapped her fingers around the lip of her chamber and stared down at the bed of waiting ice.
He nodded, and she noticed the tears he would not shed.
“It means a year longer,” he closed his eyes and took a breath before he continued, “spent in slumber.”
She knew he was trying to hide the pain from her — such a bittersweet arrangement they had.
“I know.” Kissing the point of his hawkish nose, she left a bit of rosy-lip-turned-grey on the tip of his aristocratic profile. She tried to wipe it off, but he stopped her.
“Leave it, please?” His voice wavered enough to break her sluggish heart.
He helped her into the resurrection tank and she settled into a comfortable position. He zippered her into the body bag quilt, tucking the metal tab securely under her chin.
“It will seem like only a day.”
“Yes.” He laughed sadly, while he traced the hole in her cheek with a slow, lingering finger. “Only a day.” The lazy circles he made tickled her exposed jawbone.
“I’ll dream myself as a redhead this time.” She grinned and closed her eyes, unable to keep them open a moment longer. “Would you like that?”
“Very much.” The darkness behind her eyelids deepened as the lid descended. “Happy Birthday, Clandestine.”
Copyright 2004 – 2016 Louise Bohmer. All rights reserved.
I’m a little behind on blog updates, so I’m going to combine a few quick updates into this post and then introduce my friends Giovanna Lagana and Keith Gouveia, who have stopped by with a sneak peek at their new thriller release, The Dead Speak in Riddles.
Anti-Heroes Guest Post
Stop by my pal Giovanna Lagana’s blog for a sneak peek at Anti-Heroes.
Much thanks from me and K.H. Koehler to Gio for hosting us!
The Black Act Book 1 Freebie
Okay, on with my guests!
Giovanna Lagana & Keith Gouveia’s The Dead Speak in Riddles
Keith Gouveia lives in Florida with his wife, Lisa. He is a mechanical engineer by trade and writes fiction in his spare time. His most memorable projects have been the collection Animal Behavior and Other Tales of Lycanthropy and the literary mash-up The Black Cat and the Ghoul written with Edgar Allan Poe, both titles from Coscom Entertainment but if horror is not your cup of tea, you could try one of his fantasy novels, The Goblin Princess, or Children of the Dragon.
Giovanna Lagana is a freelance author and editor. Some of her short stories and poems have been featured in magazines like Tales of the Talisman, Short-Story.Me, Static Movement, and Fear and Trembling Magazine, etc. To learn more about Giovanna and her writing, please check her website at: www.giovannalagana.com
Two thousand undead mummies – a super vampire – and a hoarding, superstitious ex-monk – all come together in an epic battle for your attention.
For a limited time you can get the horror thriller The Dead Speak in Riddles by Keith Gouveia and Giovanna Lagana for only 99 cents at Kobo and Smashwords.
Blurb: Deep in the dark, cryptic catacombs of the Capuchin monastery evil stirs. Among the two thousand mummified corpses lies a buried secret. One about to be discovered by an ex-monk named Gontier Tremblay. Gontier turned his back on the Church years ago; now he’s about to be kicked out of house and home. And just when things couldn’t get any worse, he begins to hear voices in his head. The voices of the holy dead, who are calling upon him to stop this evil from rising.
Insatiable thirst for blood is a curse Father Abramo wishes on no living soul. After killing the four priests who took his true love, Ersilia, from him, he was damned. He’s been roaming the world with this thirst for centuries, killing and feasting on the blood of evil. But when the apparition of the priest he killed begins to haunt him, he uncovers the secret to resurrection. Armed with this revelation, he heads to the catacombs to reunite with his true love and make her a powerful immortal as he.
Within the macabre crypts of the Capuchin monastery, good, evil, and the summoned undead will rise and fight. And the fate of mankind hangs in the balance when the Dead Speak in Riddles.
Excerpt: Father Abramo struggled against the three men carrying him down into the Capuchin catacombs underneath the Palermo monastery. With a man on each leg and another with his arms linked around his own, Abramo could not jerk free. Their sudden aggression had caught him by surprise, for they were all men of the cloth and at one time he had called them friends.
“You can’t do this!”
“You brought this on yourself, Abramo. You took an oath,” said Father Clemente, his grip getting tighter.
“An oath we intend you to keep,” added Father Ernesto.
They know, Father Abramo thought. He slammed the back of his head into Father Leandro, hoping to connect with the bullish man’s chin, but his blow fell short of its mark and harmlessly hit his wide chest.
“You shouldn’t fight us, Abramo,” Leandro said, his voice deep and lacking compassion. “This is God’s will.”
“It’s misguided,” he argued, but they said no more.
The catacombs were the final resting place of the friars and priests of the church, still adorned in their clerical vestments, and a select few local luminaries who provided funds to maintain the church. As they traversed through the long corridors, they passed countless carved stone niches and bodies hung on the walls like morbid art with their arms crossed in front of their chests. Clusters of matted hair clung to their chins and scalps, their once sun-kissed skin now an ashy hue. Their faces distorted from time and gravity, giving them the appearance as though they were screaming from beyond the grave.
A chill danced down Father Abramo’s spine as he knew they were taking him to the farthest chamber in the catacombs; a room used for embalming before segregating the corpses. Even if he could break free, the so-called men of God would certainly tackle him from behind as he made his way through the narrow tunnels, for they knew its intricacies far better than he. The claustrophobic fear embraced him with its icy chill every time he stared down the entrance in front of the church’s altar, and he’d done all he could to avoid the dark bowels. He had always hated the idea of one day being laid to rest in the catacombs with the other priests. It seemed unnatural. Dust to dust. But for whatever reason, the practice was maintained, some long-standing belief that transcended the diverse cultures of Sicily.
Upon entering the final room, Father Abramo’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of his love atop a terra-cotta table, surrounded by a puddle of crimson. She lay motionless, stripped of her dignity and exposed for all the world to see. Her brown hair draped over her shoulders and almost reached to her bosom to cover her nakedness. How he had longed for many years to see her supple flesh, but this was not how he envisioned it.
“Ersilia…Ersilia? What have you done?”
“We have preserved her beauty before she was corrupted by the sins of the flesh. Pray our Lord sees fit to reunite the two of you in Heaven,” said Father Ernesto.
“Don’t worry, her body will be laid to rest with the other virgins,” added Father Clemente.
His fellow priests carried him over to an adjacent table and he eyed the two, long slits running down his love’s arms, the edges of the wounds folded over. He took note of the faint trace of blackish goo inside the wound.
How could they have taken someone so cheerful, so lively, from this earth?
Even in death, Ersilia looked beautiful. Her complexion had always been fair and if not for the fatal wounds, Abramo could have believed she was merely sleeping, awaiting his gentle kiss.
“She was innocent. How could you do this?” he asked as the three priests pinned him to the table.
“Innocent, you say?” another voice came, one Father Abramo recognized immediately. The man stepped out of the shadows holding a small bowl of black, viscous fluid and adorned in a red, ceremonial robe with the hood pulled over his head, casting a menacing shadow over his sunken features. “She has bewitched a servant of God.”
“Father Nicolõ…I told you in confidence.”
“Just be grateful we’ve acted before you fell into temptation. For now you will most certainly be welcomed to sit by His side. Had we waited any longer and you tasted the fruit of her loins…well…I’d say the fires of Hell burn hotter than your passion.”
“You have betrayed our Lord far more than I would have. You have taken a life. A life so pure —”
“Silence!” Father Leandro covered Abramo’s mouth with his hand. “Father Nicolõ has been given special permission. As men of the cloth, it is our duty to purge heretics as she from this earth.”
Father Abramo tried to speak on her behalf, but he could barely suck in a breath through the sausage-like fingers pressed tightly to his lips.
From the folds of his robe, Father Nicolõ produced a ceremonial knife. “You will remain here with your brothers, the way God intended.”
Abramo moaned in protest, but his plea was ignored. The blade pierced his forearm and sliced through his flesh. The spilled blood felt cool upon his skin and with one brachial vein open, Father Nicolõ walked around the foot of the table to slice open the other. Father Clemente, who had Abramo’s arm held tight against the table, squeezed his bicep and rolled his fingers into the muscle to quicken his death.
As the blood pumped out of the gash, sparkles of rainbow colored lights danced in his vision. The walls seemed to spin around him and the moisture in his mouth dissipated.
Father Abramo forced his head to the right to gaze upon his love one last time, wanting her beauty to be the last thing he’d see before parting this world. A tear rolled down his cheek as he envisioned her suffering.
I’m sorry, my dear Ersilia, he thought. Sorry that you had to endure this all because I confessed my love to a man I believed my friend. I hope you knew I was willing to give this all up for the chance to be with you. You are, and always will be, special to me.
Father Nicolõ began to chant, his voice distant and incoherent to Abramo’s ear.
Is that the psalm of David? No. Perhaps Romans 15:13? No matter, he thought.
Whatever prayer the overzealous priest recited for Abramo’s soul would not protect Nicolõ’s soul from the fires of Hell for this transgression.
The blade pierced Abramo’s left arm, the sudden surge of pain ignited his senses. More of his blood flowed and the room seemed to expand as if he were falling away.
No, he told himself. This is not the work of God. If he can forsake me for love, than I shall forsake Him.
Father Abramo wriggled his lips under the portly fingers and was able to open his mouth enough to bite down.
Father Leandro yipped in pain as he withdrew his hand and stepped away from the table.
Capitalizing on Father Clemente and Ernesto’s shock, Father Abramo kicked outward, sending both men crashing to their backsides.
“You fool. You shall burn in Hell for this transgression.”
“You first,” Father Abramo said, then grabbed hold of his robes and pulled him close. “I shall take from you what you took from me.”
With that, Father Abramo leaned in and clamped his teeth upon the priest’s throat. He pulled back and tore a chunk of flesh away with him. Blood gushed forth and Father Abramo lapped at it like a wild dog, the taste sending shockwaves of euphoria through his body. His wounds ignited in unholy fire, then the pain subsided and the slits in his arms were no more. Something inside him awakened; something primal. An unquenchable thirst; a hunger unlike any he had experienced before.
I’m as excited as Riff Randall was in Rock N Roll High School to announce my guest for today (but it’s not the ghost of Joey Ramone). It is, in fact, the Funky Werepig himself, Mr. Gregory L. Hall, with a free read from his new short story collection, Werepig Fever. Details, story, and buy links below, good friends!
About: Writer. Comic. Werepig. For years, in one form or another, Gregory L. Hall has terrorized the masses with his stories, his wit and his radio broadcasts from the No Pants Zone. Here for the first time he’s gathered 20 of his favorite darkly funky tales. And then added 2 more at the last minute to make things difficult for his publisher. From gigantic babies who destroy Des Moines to alien spaceships that cook people like bacon to vampires who suffer from erectile dysfunction, Werepig Fever is full of surprises. With this mixture of humor and horror, the message is clear. Buy this book – or Greg Hall marries your momma.
Gregory L. Hall has a long history in comedy, improv and theatre. He’s a national Telly Award winner and produced the annual Baltimore Comedy Fest to support Autism awareness. His dark fiction can be found in numerous publications and anthologies as well as his novel At the End of Church Street.
Nowadays Gregory is perhaps best known as the host of the popular internet radio show The Funky Werepig. However, he still lists the time he was hugged by Pat Morita, Mr. Miyagi from the Karate Kid, as the biggest highlight of his career.
FACE YOUR FEARS
By Gregory L Hall
A zombie ate my momma. I was only eleven years old but I remember it like it was yesterday. She wanted us to check out the old family home. A rundown farm house on a piece of property we never used anymore. The Lord took Daddy and the bank was gonna take everything else. That chunk of land was the only thing we had left to sell.
So Momma went in the basement to see if the fuse box still worked. I waited at the top of the stairs. I saw the zombie move from the shadows. I didn’t scream in time. Momma got chomped.
We don’t do therapy in this part of PA and my aunt and uncle tried their best to raise me, but the nightmares of that day have never gone away. I can still see him. Ragged clothes. Tufts of hair sticking out on his ugly head. Black fingernails. All these years later and I can still describe his freaking fingernails. How screwed is that?
About as screwed as a kid who told everyone he saw a zombie kill his momma. Oh, sure. The cops went out there. Looked all around the house and down in the basement. They didn’t find nothing. Not even Momma. And the truth is deep down, I knew they wouldn’t. It would have verified everything I said and more.
Life don’t work that way. Even at eleven I knew that.
It was my girlfriend, Cootsie, that talked me into going back out to the house now that I’m grown up. She’s real brave about life. She’s a pole dancer. There ain’t nothing she won’t take head on or stare down. Since we’ve been together she’s made me go scuba diving, bungee-jumping and party at a real live Goth bar. People dressed up as vampires biting each other and acting all dark. I didn’t like it but I did it. That’s what I love about Cootsie. She’s always pushed me to be more than what I am. She’s taught me the golden rule to life.
Face your fears.
I sat in the truck for a long time. That old house hadn’t changed a bit. It was run down and falling apart then, same as now. Weeds and dead bushes covered up the base of the house. Most of the windows were long gone, busted out and the panes decaying. The steps to the front door were rotted away. I could still get in that way but it was much easier to use the concrete steps on the side of the house. They were cracked and covered in green mold but I wouldn’t have to leap up and hang off a doorknob to enter. Plus that door led right into the kitchen, or what was left of it. And the kitchen stood at the top of the basement stairs.
I started the truck and pulled it around to the side of the house. I bounced over the ruts and bumps but didn’t care. Nothing was going to give me a flat tire here. I mainly wanted my baby as close to that damn door as possible. I would go down there like a man and confront whatever ghosts haunted me. But if they were real, I wanted to be able to get the hell out as fast as possible. I left the truck door open a crack. I was a horror movie expert. I wouldn’t be fumbling with any jammed handles.
Cootsie wanted me to go out at night to truly conquer my fears but that got vetoed. First off, she was huffing Lysol and she never makes sense when she does that. Second, Momma wasn’t killed at night. It was in the morning. Broad daylight. Wasn’t like a werewolf attacked her. I didn’t need a full moon. A hungry zombie don’t give a shit one way or the other if it’s day or night.
Still, I had my heavy duty flashlight in my hand. Despite the cloudy sky, plenty of light was coming off the sun. And with half a roof caved in, the house wouldn’t exactly be blocking it out. But in that basement, there were no windows. Just stone walls and a dirt floor. I wasn’t going to be caught blind and helpless.
I felt the flashlight’s weight. Curled it a few times like a dumbbell. I could smash a skull in with this if I had to. I thought again that I should have brought my gun with me but that would have been cheating. Easy to fight nightmares when you’re waving a loaded pistol around an empty basement. No, I was doing this the way it had to be done.
I prayed I didn’t get turned to zombie chow.
The kitchen door creaked on its rusted hinges. If I was hoping to sneak up on anyone, that strategy was blown to hell. I stepped inside holding the flashlight like a billy-club. A few pigeons flew up through the hole in the roof. I didn’t even jump. I was as ready as I ever would be.
There wasn’t much to see. An old fashioned metal sink with two faucets. Raw plumbing hanging out underneath. The cabinets were missing most of the doors and the shelves were caked in rat and bird shit. The wall that connected to the living room had a huge section punched out of the middle of it. Looked like someone shot a cannonball through there. I peeked into the other room but it was in shambles and as deserted as the rest of the interior. Nothing to see. I was wasting time.
It was the basement I had to conquer.
I moved slowly to the top of the stairs and channeled my chi. Just do this and then you can go home, I muttered to myself. My eyes strained to get a clear glimpse into shadows. The base of the steps was fairly well lit but past that? He could be anywhere. Waiting for me to come on down like a fool testing his luck one time too many.
I wondered if he had been waiting for me after all these years. That little boy who ran off screaming and crying, never looking back until he was back in town. I had run the two miles out of the woods and Mr. Treherne picked me up at the main road. He was a teacher at the high school but he knew all us kids. He threw me into his car and brought me straight to the sheriff’s office. But like all the adults, he didn’t say much to support me once I told what happened to Momma.
Well, I was either going to prove them right or wrong today. If that undead flesh-eater was waiting in the dark for me, I’d find out soon enough. I grabbed a chunk of wood that had broken away from a window sill. Old military trick. I’d seen Bruce Willis do it in a hundred movies. The hidden attacker is so ready to jump you, he springs out at the first thing that moves or makes noise. I threw the piece of wood down the stairs.
Nothing. Smart zombie.
I clicked the flashlight on and took my first step. It creaked so loud I closed my eyes in disgust. I wasn’t going to get any breaks sneaking around this house. I decided the slow decent was stupid at this point and opted for ninja. I ran down the steps, taking flight from the last third and landed onto the dirt floor below. In my crouched position I spun around in a quick circle for a perimeter check. Nothing, nothing, nothing. All around me was nothing. Basement was completely empty. My brain caught up with my data intake. Nothing, nothing, man sized figure, nothing. I was in the clear.
He came from behind me and to my right.
“Zombie!” I heard him growl.
I collapsed not out of combat-trained reflexes but because my knees gave way. The zombie’s momentum carried him over me and his stomach landed on my face. I rolled to keep his rot from falling into my screaming mouth. He reeked of pungent meat and death. I grabbed his flannel shirt and it crumbled in my hands. I pushed harder and the zombie flipped off of me.
I scrambled to get my flashlight. He clutched my ankle. His grip was like iron. Voodoo enhanced iron. I kicked back with my other leg and caught him in the jaw. I saw something fly loose from his mouth. I kicked again but this time he dodged backwards and my leg struck air. Dirt flooded inside my shirt and my belly scraped the cold loose floor as he dragged me towards him.
My eyes darted wildly across the room, straining to adjust to the darkness. My fingertips spun the back of the flashlight around and the wall closest to me illuminated. A shovel. Propped up against the stone and mortar. Within my reach.
I lunged for it and it toppled over. The zombie wailed as he tore my flesh and into my calf muscle. I snagged the very end of wooden handle. My fingers wrapped securely around it. The shovel was mine. Yes.
I flopped onto my back and let it rip. I swung that shovel like a steroid pumped jock. I expected a metal clang but instantly realized that would be stupid. I wasn’t striking another metal item. I was smacking a skull. So instead I heard a loud crack. And then a plop as the zombie swayed for a brief moment before collapsing onto the basement floor like a huge sack of wet kittens.
I moved on my hands and knees as fast as I could and retrieved the flashlight. Spinning around on my butt, I shined the light at the creature. Not a twitch. Not a wiggling pinkie. He wasn’t among the Walking Dead anymore. He was among the Dead Dead.
Take that you son a bitch. You killed my mother. This is what you get when you mess with a Pittsburgh Steelers fan.
Now to finish the job. I couldn’t remember my monster rules. Do I cut off his head? No, that was vampires and serial killers. Zombies had to be lit on fire like mummies and chupacabras. Damn me for not thinking ahead. I should have brought gasoline and matches. I could have burned him to ashes right here in the basement. I guess I could have run back out to the truck and see what I had but I wasn’t about to come back inside once I left this house. I decided it was probably best to go with the chopping off the head.
Way I figure it, a headless zombie can’t do much damage. All he can do is grab at you but that’s no worse than one of the drunks at Cootsie’s club. And as long as you don’t step on his head, it’s not like he can bite you. Let this bastard try and come back. He was about to be seriously handicapped.
I took the shovel and lined up the thin edge to his neck. I rolled him over to get a better shot at the decapitation procedure. God, he was ugly. Sunken-in face. Bug eyes. Mangy beard. Blood was pumping out over those random tufts of hair I remembered.
Blood was pumping out…
Hmmm. I didn’t think zombie’s bled. At least not the reddish kind you and I have. They always have that gunk that looks like clogged motor oil. Come to think of it, you don’t see many zombies growing beards either.
I knew it broke every rule of monster movie caution but I leaned closer. I put my fingers against his cheek and neck. He was warm. And I could feel the blood pulsing under his skin. I leaned even closer and sniffed. He smelled like piss and two dollar wine. I stood straight up.
I may have made a mistake.
I quickly shined the flashlight around the basement again. Stone walls, dust swirling around, a garbage bag. It was next to what seemed to be the remains of a campfire. A recent one. There were tin cans in a small pile under the stairs. A half-empty box of cereal they don’t make anymore. A filthy blanket stretched out on the floor. And a bottle of Boones Farm Ticked Pink.
I looked back to the corpse. It couldn’t be…but there they were. The black fingernails. My childhood zombie was nothing more than some homeless idiot.
I acted on instinct. I didn’t question myself. Some people might have gotten the hell out of there and denied they were ever there. But I knew somehow that would backfire. I had to hide the body. Dirt floor. I had a shovel. It was an easy choice. In case he had some pinko liberal Samaritan who stopped by every month to bring him more cereal and booze, they wouldn’t find a murder scene. They just wouldn’t find him.
It was getting late by the time I packed down the last shovel full. I smoothed it out to get it as flat as the rest of the floor. Deep holes take a while to dig but I was playing it smart. Anybody ever ask me if I was out at the old family house, I’d finally admit there were no zombies. The world was right, I was wrong. Let’s all just have a beer.
I was actually pretty proud of myself.
As I reached the top of the stairs a weird question did enter my brain though. When he first attacked me, he yelled ‘zombie’. Why would he yell zombie? He didn’t know my phobia. He couldn’t have.
My eyes caught something move in the kitchen. She stepped forward into the pale light. Her head hung to one side. I could see her collarbone from where all the skin had rotted away. She limped towards me on a foot that dangled loosely behind her ankle. I looked into her one good eye.
She took my face into her leathery hands. And then bit deep into my forehead.
Like the white rabbit, I’m late. But you forest visitors are probably used to that by now. It takes a while for this slithery rock dweller to emerge from my mountain of electronic paper. Every now and again, someone needs to poke me with a stick so I remember to come up for air and socialize with you good people. Today, we have the Old School contest winner announcement.
Congrats to Angie Leger, vvb32 reads Old School contest winner! Angie picks herself up an ebook copy of this traditional horror anthology filled with tales of terror from yours truly, David Dunwoody, Horace James, Natalie Sin, Jackie Gamber, Gregory L. Hall, R. Scott McCoy, and poems from Zombie Zak. Check out the Books From Louise page for more information on Old School, feast your eyes on the trailer, and clicky the links to purchase Kindle or print copies, plus other formats.
Random Rambles – Life And All That Rot
In an effort to keep this blog updated on a regular basis, give you some content to keep you all happy, every now and again I’ll inject a bit of anecdotal rambling into blog posts. I don’t know if readers really dig this or not, but I figure you might. If you’re bored to tears, you can always tell me to stop.
August was a bit crazy. For those of you who don’t know, hubby and I live with my mom-in-law and gran-in-law. We’d like to get a place of our own, and sell this place, but for the time being mom-in-law can use the help with gran-in-law. She’s got Alzheimers and Glaucoma. My mom-in-law isn’t in the best of health, so taking care of gran-in-law can be hard on her. We help out.
Anyway, gran-in-law took a tumble recently, and had to go to the hospital. (If you check out my Facebook, you’ll see what a kerfuffle that was with the NB medical system. Methinks a few people in Sussex Regional Hospital need their arses kicked, but that’s violent, and I won’t condone that. I’ll just kill them in a book. I’m digressing…) The final word is she did have a stroke, albeit a mild one. She was probably dehydrated too, so we’re trying to get her to drink more.
Good news followed chaos, thankfully. Hubby got a job at a local restaurant, cooking full time. It’s a little place called The Blue Bird, and he’s already having a great time. He went to cooking school, just didn’t quite complete his apprenticeship (so isn’t a papered chef). He got the job on the day of the interview, which was very cool. While he was supposed to start part time, he was quick and good enough the boss already bumped him to full time. This couldn’t come at a better time, what with Christmas / Yule just around the corner. Universe smiles on us. (Yeah, I’m anthropomorphizing. So sue me.) He even has a fellow metal head to work with. Of course, this makes him happy. He’s been busy downloading tunes to the ipod to take to work. (Cooks and metal and Libras–always in my life. I’m beginning to see a pattern here. Hmmmm…)
In my world beneath the rock, I’ve got two books on the editing hotplate. Writing is going well on the paranormal erotic romance. Plot and characters are fleshing out nicely. The other day, words flowed so well it almost wrote itself. I do love those writing sessions. I’ve been putting away no less than 1000 words over the last three days. My co-author is busy writing another chapter of our steampunk erotic romance collaboration. And I’ve just started re-drafting / re-outlining the dark humor dystopian. Had to make some corrections to plot aspects that just wouldn’t fly. Much tighter now, I think. I have to start the new beginning I’ve mapped out soon.
So if I’m quiet on Twitter and Facebook, it’s just because I’m neck deep in words–mine or someone else’s. Speaking of which, I better get back to the editing. Coffee, I hear its lovely call, and I must fill my cup. Hope September is treating you well, friends. Before I go, in the spirit of reoccurring themes in my life, here’s some Lizzy Borden for you:
*slithers back under the rock*
Would you like to win a copy of Old School? It’s simple! Enter the Old School Giveaway. All you have to do is visit me here, leave a comment on the site, and then zip on over to vvb32 reads and tell her where you did the deed!
Offer is open until September 10. Be sure to leave Velvet your email address, too.
Much thanks to Velvet. She rocks the socks!