October 30, 2013

Wednesday Briefs: Hope 5

Welcome to Wednesday Briefs, where authors post free fiction of 1000 words or less each week. I used this prompt: "When did you get to be so smart?"

Hope #5

The puppy licked my face with all the enthusiasm of a youngster, then decided it was done and squirmed out of my arms. For a second I feared it would run away, but the pup ventured back into the house, using his head to push open the screen door open.

I followed and made sure to close both the screen door and the front door, just in case the pup decided to stroll around on its own. Afterward, I stood in the hallway, my mind registering that I was swaying on the spot, and as I sniffed the air. It reeked of misery and... it smelled as if someone needed a good wash.

I lifted my arms and took a whiff. I almost gagged, then staggered toward the bathroom. While I undressed, the puppy's small head peeked through the ajar bathroom door. It barked, wagged its tail, and sat down on a bathmat in front of the tub. I didn't mind the puppy watching. It might be a tad weird but not unwelcome.

I stashed my clothes into the overflowing hamper and tried to recall the last time I did the laundry. I came up empty. Shrugging it off, I stepped inside the shower cubicle and grimaced when my feet touched something squishy. I wouldn't go so far as to say I shrieked but I definitely stumbled backward and barely managed to stop myself from falling.

With my heart thumping, and the puppy jumping around me, I stared at the shower floor. A strangled sound escaped my mouth. I crouched down to soothe the yapping pup and it put its paws onto my knees, its whole body wiggling.

“You're one happy little fellow, aren't you?”

The puppy barked and stretched so it could swipe its tongue over my nose. I chuckled. “And I'm a fool. I freaked out about a piece of soap. Might be better to use it on me, huh? Aren't you dogs to be supposed to have such sensitive noses? How could you even stand to sleep on top of me?”

Either my question was stupid, or the puppy's attention span was tiny, because it yawned and lumbered to another bathmat in front of the sink. There it curled up with its head on its paws. Still, its tail swished back and forth.

I got to my feet, after retrieving the soap, and took the longest shower in of my life. I felt like a new person when I was finished. I even found a fresh towel in one of the cabinets and dried myself off. As I stared in at my reflection in the mirror, I recoiled.

A haggard face with deeply sunken eyes and circles that looked more like black smudges stared back at me. I touched my face, which was covered with dark brown facial hair. When the hell had I decided to grow a beard? Especially one that looked like a rank growth.

Shaking my head, I searched for my razor. The blade had rusted and I couldn't find any new ones.

“Guess, I'll leave the beard on,” I muttered. Naked, I walked from the bathroom to the bedroom, with the puppy trailing me.

I stopped on the threshold and blinked. I knew I had let things slide in the past months, but somehow I hadn't realized just how bad it had become. Sucking in a deep breath, I said to the puppy, “I'm not such a slob normally.”

The puppy yipped before it fought its way over heaps of washed or and unwashed clothes and unerringly ended in front of my drawer. It snatched the knob in its mouth and pulled, almost toppling over.

I gaped at it as it stuck its nose in my underwear, shoving pairs of boxers from one side to the other until it decided on one. When it presented me with its choice, I swallowed. It held a pair of my underwear, dark blue briefs with a golden waistband, which had been a favorite of Shane's favorite of mine.

In a hoarse voice I said, “When did you get to be so smart?”

The puppy wagged its tail and lumbered back to me.


Don't forget to visit the other briefers:

October 27, 2013

Sunday Snippet #1 -- Silver Lining

Trying something new. From now on I'll post a snippet of my published or soon-to-be published books on Sundays (maybe I'll even post snippets of some of fan fiction stories--would anyone be interested in these?).

This week's post is from Silver Lining (which is a favorite of mine even though it belongs to Dreamspinner's Bittersweet Dreams line):

I got better at the not-flipping thing, though I never got the hang of the not-being-jealous thing. To be fair, Scott never gave me a reason to be jealous. It was merely the way other guys or girls looked at him, the open hunger in their eyes. The man was mine and mine alone. I never failed to make this clear to whoever dared to sidle up too close to him.
Ri, cut it out, it’s not a pretty sight,” Scott always said in those moments.
I made a show of batting my lashes at him, all fake innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Scotty. Aren’t you the one who always tells me I’m the prettiest thing you ever saw?”
You’re a scamp.”
I gasped in shock, put my hands above my heart, and widened my eyes before I gazed up at him. “Me? You’re wounding me.”
I am? Hmm, would it help if I tell you that you’re the prettiest scamp I’ve ever seen?”
I don’t know, big guy, I really don’t know.”
Scott pulled me into his arms, kissed me thoroughly, and asked, “You made up your mind now?”
Yeah, I’m keeping you even if you suck at giving compliments.”
That was how we worked. Scott was the calm one, grounding me, loving me in a way I never fathomed anyone would. If anything, we grew closer over the years. We forged a bond that nothing could ever destroy. Or so I thought.


October 25, 2013

Winner for "Hunter's Hunt" Giveaway

The winner is Andrew Q. Gordon. Congrats, Andy! I'll send you an e-mail in a bit. :)

Thanks to everyone who participated. I loved reading your answers to my question.

October 23, 2013

Sophie Bonaste: The Sacrifices We Make

Please help me welcome brand new Harmony Ink author Sophie Bonaste, who is here to talk about her book "The Sacrifices We Make".

Hi everyone! My name is Sophie Bonaste and today I am taking over The Fuzzy, Fluffy World of Chris. T. Kat. So before I go on, I would like to send out a big thank you to Chris for letting me do this. 
For those of you who haven’t heard of me, I am a brand-new author in the world of published literature. My debut novel, “The Sacrifices We Make”, was released on October 3rd by Harmony Ink Press. You can read all about the novel towards the bottom of the post.
But since I have everyone’s attention I thought I would talk about one of the questions that I’ve been asked a lot since my book was published. Namely:

What led to you to writing fiction, specifically M/M novels?

Well, despite my young age, this process seems like it’s been very long in coming. When I was a kid, writing and I didn’t mesh very well. I had a lot of problems learning how to write and, as a result, I hated it.
By the time I was in high school, writing and I were on much better terms and I started experimenting with writing for fun. I didn’t do it too much because I was more concerned about the theatre, but I did some. I wrote short fictional stories as well as some plays. They weren’t great, but it started me on my journey. 

College was much of the same in terms of what and how much I wrote, although I did a lot more mandatory writing, thanks to all my class. But something important changed for me in those four years. I found fanfiction! Thanks to a friend’s recommendation, I became obsessed with fanfiction. I started in the Star Wars and Seaquest genres, before branching out to House MD and Numb3rs. (And, yes, Chris, I have read your stuff. I love it!)
[Chris: Whee! That's so exciting to know! :)]
When I graduated college and entered the job market, I had to tone back my involvement with the theatre. There were some local community productions, but it wasn’t possible to put so much time into a production when I was working. However, I still wanted to do something creative. I’d toyed around with the idea of writing fiction professionally, but I never really did much about it. But one day, when I was bored, I decided to stop procrastinating and try to write a novel. And “The Sacrifices We Make” was born. I took a chance and submitted it to Harmony Ink, who accepted it on the first attempt.
So why M/M? Well, remember how I told you about finding fanfiction in college? Well, I started out reading general fics (those with no romance). Most of my genres have strong male characters, so there were a lot of slash (M/M) stories and, for a time, I ignored them. But soon, curiosity got the better of me and I started reading slash.
I found I really enjoyed reading M/M stories. When I read all of the stories I wanted to read in fanfiction, I switched over and started to read original fiction and then published works. By the time I started considering writing as more than a hobby, I had read so many M/M romances I didn’t even consider writing in another genre. And I have to say how happy I am with my choice. Hopefully, I will be able to write in this genre for many years to come.
So that’s my story. I hope I didn’t bore anyone too much. I want to thank Chris again for letting me do this post. Now, as promised, I leave you will the information for “The Sacrifices We Make”, my bio and all of the links you will need to buy the book or contact me. Thank you!

Adam Jameson has always felt like an outsider in his own home, where his parents’ constant efforts to instill religious fervor have instead filled him with fear. Most of the time, he just wants to stay out of everybody’s way.  But when Adam is forced to volunteer at a homeless shelter his senior year in high school, everything changes. He’s introduced to people who care about more than religion and, as a result, he starts to come out of his shell. For the first time in his life, Adam finds people that he wants to be around.
Mickey Stafford lives on the streets, a teen kicked out by his parents for being gay. He comes to the shelter for food and medical care, and after they literally run into each other, the two boys strike up a friendship. As Mickey introduces his new friend to the world he lives in, Adam starts to question everything: his parents, their religion, even his own beliefs . Once Mickey kisses him, Adam starts soul-searching and finds his heart, which is full of love for Mickey. But these two young men will have their love put to the test, as they face a future of uncertainty and fear.

Sophie Bonaste is a novelist who never set out to be a novelist. As a child, she wanted to a Broadway actress and spent her childhood in numerous productions. But when adulthood set in and reality took over, Sophie chose to give up the theatre for a steady paycheck and instead turned to writing as a creative outlet. She stumbled into the M/M genre through fanfiction and never looked back. Sophie is quite happy with her change in artistic expression and doesn’t plan to stop writing for a long time.
A self-proclaimed nerd, Sophie is an avid fan of all things Star Wars and Harry Potter. (Sophie is a member of the Slytherin house, for those who were wondering.) Sophie also spends many hours watching and re-watching nerdy television shows. When she is not obsessing over the latest and greatest in nerdy entertainment, Sophie can be found screaming at her television during American football games. (Go Pack Go!) Sophie currently lives in Pennsylvania, about twenty minutes from her childhood town of The Middle of Nowhere.

Buy paperback for “The Sacrifices We Make”- http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4294

Sophie’s Website- sophiebonaste.blogspot.com
Sophie’s Email-sophiebonaste@gmail.com

Wednesday Briefs: Hope #4

Welcome to Wednesday Briefs, where authors post free fiction of 1000 words or less each week. I used a picture prompt:

Hope #4

As the night progressed, I settled on the sofa, curled up in Shane's throw. The puppy snuffled while I fumbled with the soft-colored fabric, but didn't wake up. Instead, it twisted into a ball and draped its fluffy tail over its back.
I caught myself staring at it. How relaxed it was. With its lips pulled back, it appeared to be smiling. Whenever I realized that, I smiled as well and jerked my gaze back to the window. My heart thumped against my ribcage and my stomach churned every time.
I knew I shouldn't feel guilty for enjoying watching a sleeping puppy, but I couldn't thwart the feeling I was doing something wrong. After all, Shane would never get to see this puppy. He'd never run his fingers through its soft fur or smell that peculiar baby scent on it. He would have loved it.
My throat hurt as I gazed at the puppy again. Shane wouldn't let it go—no way. He might have done a half-hearted attempt at finding the owner, but he would've been devastated if he couldn't keep it. I probably would've argued and been a complete dick about it, because I'd claimed no one could become attached to an animal that quickly. Yet, here I was, selfishly feeding the thought of keeping the puppy.
I slumped deeper into the sofa and stretched out my legs. The puppy moved a bit. It quirked one eye open, then yawned and rolled over onto its belly, sprawled on all fours. I rested my hands on its head and butt; the puppy exhaled a deep breath and went back to sleep. This time, I didn't even try to stop the smile.
We spent the rest of the night just like that. The puppy slept and I stayed awake, breathing in and out deeply, probably the first time in weeks. The puppy's weight was comfortable and its warmth seeped into me, thawing something buried inside me.
At one point I must have dozed off, because when I opened my eyes the night sky had made way for a glorious morning. The sun rose behind gray, long-stretched clouds, tinting the sky in a cascade of colors. Yellow dominated—a light yellow that bordered on white at the edges while other parts showed a deep, lemony yellow. The orange caught my eye the most—soft, like apricot,where it mingled with the light yellow while in other parts it was richer. A lovely sight that I enjoyed. I couldn’t remember the last time I observed a sunrise and liked it.
The puppy woke with a soft yip and a languid stretch of its body. After a long yawn, its eyes popped open and it bounced onto his feet.
I grunted. “Hey, you might be a pup but digging your paws in my stomach is a no-go, got it?”
The puppy sat, an interested tilt to its head. I reached out to knead the skin behind its floppy ears and it closed its eyes in bliss. Grinning, I said, “You like that, don't you?”
The puppy licked my hand while it clambered to his feet again. After barking softly, it jumped down and stood next to the sofa, its tail swishing from one side to the other. When I didn't get up right away, the puppy snatched my sleeve and pulled.
What? What do you want?”
The puppy tugged and growled. Irritated, I sat up and disentangled myself from the blanket. For my effort I received another lick. Then the puppy bounded toward the front door. It whined and scuttled from one foot to the other and I finally got it.
Oh, you need to go outside!” I slapped a hand against my forehead and stumbled after it.
As soon as I'd opened the door, the puppy dashed out and disappeared behind a bush. I froze on my doorstep—the puppy wasn't on a leash, what if it ran away?
My heart clenched and tears sprang to my eyes unbidden. Right. Can't get attached to an animal in only a few hours...
I took a couple of steps toward the bush, wracking my mind how I'd get the puppy to come back to me when a brown and black-furred ball of energy whizzed toward me. The puppy danced around me, barking and wagging its tail, and I hunkered down and grabbed its neck.
The puppy threw himself against my chest, rubbing his face against mine, and I held it tightly, laughing and crying at the same time. For the first time since Shane's death, I felt a sliver of hope, of maybe finding a way to live without him.

October 21, 2013

Michael Rupured: After Christmas Eve & The Naming Game

 Please help me welcome my friend Michael Rupured back. Make sure to enter his contest!
The Naming Game
Thanks, Chris, for having me back to talk about After Christmas Eve, my new release from MLR Press. Can you believe a year has passed since my last visit? Time flies!
To celebrate the release by MLR Press of my second novel, I’m giving away 10 copies (ebooks) through an 11-stop blog hop. To enter, comment before midnight, October 25, 2013 on any of my posts on the eleven participating blogs. Be sure to include an email address.
The first critique of an early draft of Until Thanksgiving, my debut novel, was that the names of the characters seemed random, like they'd been pulled from a hat. The comment surprised me. You mean there's another way?
My only rule had been to avoid picking names starting with the same letter. My writers group pointed out all the biblical names in Until Thanksgiving—Joshua, Adam and Caleb, Michael, Philip and James, and Mary, mother of Thaddeus. I had no idea.
Everything about writing After Christmas Eve was more deliberate. I wrote backstories for all the major characters, including a few identified only as police sergeant, private investigator, or first victim until I knew enough to give them names.
Telling James's story did lead me to add another rule. No more names ending with the letter S. The possessive is just too ugly.
Lifelong friends inspired some names. A dear friend inspired Terrence’s name and his love of photography. Inspiration for another name or two in the story will forever remain a private joke.
Real people have cameo roles in After Christmas Eve. Mary Day never appears, but she was a prominent ballet instructor in DC around the time my story takes place. Fess Parker, Ed Ames, Ron Ely, and Robert Conrad get mentions, along with Diana Ross, Roberta Flack, and the Beatles. Frank Kameny was a hero of the early gay rights movement nationally and especially in DC.
The right name is a beautiful thing. Parents know this. That's why they spend so much time thinking about it. But as a writer, I have a big advantage. I know how my children turn out in the end.

Here’s the blurb:
As Philip Potter wraps up his last minute shopping on Christmas Eve, 1966, James Walker, his lover of six years, takes his life. Unaware of what waits for him at home, Philip drops off gifts to the homeless shelter, an act of generosity that later makes him a suspect in the murder of a male prostitute.

Two men drive yellow Continentals. One is a killer, with the blood of at least six hustlers on his hands. Both men have secrets. And as Philip is about to discover, James had kept secrets, too. But James wasn’t trying to frame him for murder…

*This is the seventh of eleven stops on the After Christmas Eve Blog Hop. Excerpts appear in serial form along the hop, beginning with my post at http://www.shiraanthony.com/?p=3217.

Excerpt #7 of 11
Yes, he did have Philip. In some ways, that was the problem. Six years with Philip hadn’t erased sixteen years of damage, but his love and support had helped James to grow a thick, protective scar over his broken psyche. Without the unconditional love that Philip showered upon him though, his father’s words might not have hurt him quite so much.
Roland Walker didn’t understand the situation and had called Philip a perverted child molester. He couldn’t have been more wrong. His relationship with Philip at first was more like he imagined a loving father would have with his son. Ever the gentleman, Philip hadn’t so much as kissed James’s cheek until his eighteenth birthday—almost two years after they met—no matter how much James had pleaded or even thrown himself at him. Philip had insisted they get to know each other first, declaring that a good friend was harder to find than a lover.
Philip was the closest friend James ever had and the best thing that had ever happened to him. The years they’d been together were the finest of his life. James couldn’t imagine where he’d be without Philip. And Uncle George. Guilt washed over him. So many lies.
If you can’t change, then stop embarrassing me and leave Washington.”
Where would he go? He could never ask Philip to leave DC. Working at the Smithsonian was his dream, and his future there looked bright. Leaving Philip would be easier than asking him to give up his dreams. Living without the one man who’d ever really loved him would be worse than death.
His father was right. James was a constant source of humiliation as much for Philip as for his family. Philip was too good for him. He deserved better. All James did was drag Philip down with his lies and silly dreams.
Too many lies and too many secrets. Guilt settled over him like a pall. Philip’s life was an open book—everything out in plain sight with nothing to hide. He’d never been anything but good to James which made lying to him that much worse.
By the time James reached the apartment, his mind was made up. He went straight to his desk and retrieved a pen and notepaper. He wrote two words, folded the page in half, leaving it on the desk where he knew Philip would see it. 

Continued on 10/22 on Lynley Wayne’s blog (http://www.lynleywayne.com/blog/)

October 20, 2013

Preferring A Certain Type of Man -- "Hunter's Hunt" Giveaway

Since I didn't do a giveaway for Hunter's Hunt, even though it's available for a month, I thought I should do one now. So, for a chance to win a pdf. copy please read this post and answer the question below. The contest will run till October 24th and I'll post the winner on October 25th. Please don't forget to leave an e-mail address!

Today I want to talk about what turns people on. In Hunter's Hunt, the main character Hunter Bell, is searching for a certain type of man: burly, hairy and he should be able to take a paddling.
From most of my friends I know they prefer certain types. There's the one friend whose partners all had to be tall, dark-haired men. The eye color wasn't a big issue although said friend preferred brown eyes. Then there's another friend who wants her potential partners to be middle-aged—younger men are a complete no-go. And how about still another friend, who won't look at anyone who hasn't got blue eyes and bulging muscles?
I have to admit I find these regulations amusing. Don't get me wrong, everyone likes what or who they like and I'll never judge anyone for it. It's just that I find it limiting but then again I never had a preferred type. My partners have ranged in a variety of hair and eye color. As for their bodies? Some have been my own height (which translates into small since I'm only 5 feet 4), some have been much taller. As much as I love a firm body I never minded if my partner was soft in the middle or had a receding hairline. Pondering all that led me to ask myself what exactly gets my blood boiling.
Did I find an answer to my question? To be honest—no. But I found out what convinces me to look twice or smile. It's a simple facial feature: dimples. I'm an utter and complete sucker for people with dimples.
Which brings me right back to Hunter's Hunt because Hunter's love interest has the deepest dimples Hunter has ever seen. If only admitting to his attraction would be easy...
Have you been attracted to someone that didn't fit your usually preferred type? I invite you to tell us about it and what came of it. 

Buy links:

Wanted: one bear. Must be burly and hairy, and strong enough to paddle. Hunter Bell is on the prowl, and he knows just where to find his prey: at the Bear Trap, a gay leather bar he’s more than a little familiar with. So many men, so little time. He’s just about to pounce on his choice of the evening when a newcomer enters the bar, turning everyone’s head. Adrian Michaels is everything Hunter despises in a man. He’s lean and boyish looking, and he has the deepest dimples Hunter’s ever seen.
And yet there is an immediate attraction, one that neither man can deny. They’re both too astonished to do anything about this apparent interest in one another, and they waste their opportunity. Now it’s up to Hunter to forget about his stereotypical preference and go for the guy that’s just entered his dreams. If only he can admit to himself that Adrian’s what he really wants...


It took a moment for the newcomer to absorb his surroundings and, when he did, he flinched. A few men chuckled upon discovering the baffled look on the guy's face, which proved that he indeed hadn't known about the nature of the Bear's Trap. Hunter watched him shift from one foot to the other while most men turned back and resumed their conversations. The new guy remained rooted to the spot, dripping water all over the floor, before he squared his shoulders and pushed through the mass of bodies. At last he reached the bar, where Hunter was still standing, for some unknown reason interested in this guy.

The newcomer waved at the bartender. "Is there a phone anywhere?"

"You don't have a cell phone?" another guy asked, perplexed.

The newcomer shot him a 'drop-dead' look, startling Hunter into a laugh. The new guy turned toward him with a quizzical look. Hunter was face-to-face with an irritated man, whose dark blue eyes were blazing.

"Bad day?" Hunter heard himself ask.


Hunter pulled his cell phone from his pocket and held it out to him. "You might better go to the back. Otherwise, you won't be able to understand anything."

Baffled, the other man took the phone. "Thank you, uh, what's your name?"

"Hunter." He held out his hand for the other man to shake.

"Last name or first name?"


"Thanks, Hunter. I'm Adrian."

"Hey, Adrian."

Adrian gestured with the phone toward the end of the bar and raised one delicate eyebrow. "This way?"

Hunter nodded and beckoned Adrian to go past him. Adrian only made it a few feet before one of the other men groped him, drawing out a surprised yelp from Adrian. He shoved the guy aside then proceeded farther into the back. On his way, he struggled with advances from more guys than Hunter could count. At some point, Adrian whirled around and, even from that distance Hunter could see the fast heaving of his chest, the free hand balled into a fist, and the stressed look on his face.

With a sigh, Hunter pushed away from the bar and strolled after Adrian. He caught up with him right when another man, a regular customer called Dean, made a pass at him.

"Hey, knock it off. He's with me, Dean."

"With you? Since when are you going for his type, Hunter?" Dean asked with a sneer.

Hunter shrugged while he sent a dark glower toward Dean, which caused the other man to drop his eyes and inspect the contents of his glass thoroughly. Hunter laid a hand on Adrian's shoulder and pushed him ahead. Adrian cast him a worried look but walked where Hunter steered him. After opening a door to a private room at the end, he ushered Adrian through and switched on the light.

"Go ahead."

Adrian clutched the cell phone in his hands, staring at Hunter with an apprehensive look. Hunter noticed that Adrian's eyes were of a dark, almost navy, blue. He swallowed. Even behind the glasses, Adrian's eyes seemed large and expressive. He had to concentrate on listening to Adrian's question. "Is this... is this some kind of leather bar?"

"Yeah. Never been in one before, have you?" Hunter asked.

"No. No offense and all, but I'm not very fond of it."



"Need a bodyguard?"

Adrian eyed him before he obviously came to some kind of decision. "You free for bodyguard duty for maybe an hour?"

"Sure." Hunter grinned. "I won't even try to molest you."

October 18, 2013

Goddess Fish Promotions: p.m. Terrell--The Tempest Murders & Guest post: Writing Quirks and Must-Haves

The Tempest Murders
by p.m. Terrell



A provocative story of a love that spans centuries, of soul mates found, lost and reunited… and the lengths to which one man will go to change their destiny.

Irish Detective Ryan O’Clery is working a series of homicides in America when he discovers a journal written by an uncle, Constable Rian Kelly, five generations earlier. The journal detailed the same type of murders as the worst storm in Ireland’s history slammed into the island in 1839.

As Hurricane Irene barrels toward the North Carolina coastline, Ryan discovers even the killer’s description matches his cases exactly. And as he falls in love with television reporter Cathleen Reilly, he begins to wonder if she is the reincarnation of Caitlin O’Conor, Rian Kelly’s lover—the woman who was lost to the killer as the storm raged in Ireland—and if he is the reincarnation of Constable Rian Kelly.

Now he’s in a race to rescue Cathleen before the killer finds her—or is history destined to repeat itself?


When their ardor grew too intense for the bath’s confines, Cait reluctantly pulled back from Ríán, her fingers lingering even as she rose to her feet. Now he had an unencumbered view of a body that might not have been perfect but it was perfect for him. The candlelight danced over skin that was taut and ivory as most Irish skin can be; the small of her back gently sloping to a full derriere that he couldn’t resist leaning forward and kissing as his arms wrapped around her thighs. He was gentle enough not to cause her to lose her balance and when she turned toward him in a flirtatious, playful manner, his kisses swept around her body.

As he glanced upward, her breasts enticed him and her hands moved from his hair to her own. She pulled the pin, releasing her tresses so they cascaded across her shoulders and down her back. Her hair always threatened to send him over the edge; it was carnal this hold she had on him, and he felt himself a willing prisoner.

At the sight of her locks tempting him from above, he came to his feet and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her even as he intertwined his fingers with her hair. She smelled of fresh flowers and as he ran his lips over her skin, she tasted sweet and clean. He wished he could fuse them together, just like this, for all eternity.

She shivered as the chilly air reached her moist skin and he reluctantly released her. They both grabbed for the linens at the same time and wrapped each other in the soft, dry cloth as their kisses lingered on each other’s lips.

When they opened their eyes a few minutes later, her pupils were large and dark, her eyes almost glowing with golden specks that outshone the gray-blue storminess of her irises.

He lifted her into his arms and cradled her against him for a long moment as she drew his head closer to hers and their lips found each other once again. He knew what he wanted to do; he wanted to carry her into his bed chambers, drop her gently onto a bed still rumpled from their previous exertions, and make love to her as gently and passionately, with measured purpose and reckless abandon, as he possibly could.

But he could not force himself to break the hold she had on his lips and his mouth until a sudden rapping at the front door interrupted them.

It’s Finn,” she breathed softly.

Reluctantly, he set her down just outside the bath and then hastily joined her, pulling the cloth around his waist as he made his way to the door. The knocking grew so insistent that he heard himself shouting, “Coming, Finn!”

It’s another murder!” Finn yelled through the door.


AUTHOR Bio and Links:

p.m.terrell is the pen name for Patricia McClelland Terrell, the award-winning, internationally acclaimed author of more than eighteen books in four genres: contemporary suspense, historical suspense, computer how-to and non-fiction.

Prior to writing full-time, she founded two computer companies in the Washington, DC Metropolitan Area: McClelland Enterprises, Inc. and Continental Software Development Corporation. Among her clients were the Central Intelligence Agency, United States Secret Service, U.S. Information Agency, and Department of Defense. Her specialties were in white collar computer crimes and computer intelligence.

Vicki’s Key was a top five finalist in the 2012 International Book Awards and 2012 USA Book Awards nominee and her historical suspense, River Passage, was a 2010 Best Fiction and Drama Winner. It was determined to be so historically accurate that a copy of the book resides at the Nashville Government Metropolitan Archives in Nashville, Tennessee.

She is also the co-founder of The Book ‘Em Foundation, an organization committed to raising public awareness of the correlation between high crime rates and high illiteracy rates. She is the organizer of Book ‘Em North Carolina, an annual event held in Lumberton, North Carolina, to raise funds to increase literacy and reduce crime. For more information on this event and the literacy campaigns funded by it, visit www.bookemnc.org.

She sits on the boards of the Friends of the Robeson County Public Library and the Robeson County Arts Council. She has also served on the boards of Crime Stoppers and Crime Solvers and became the first female president of the Chesterfield County-Colonial Heights Crime Solvers in Virginia.

For more information visit the author’s website at www.pmterrell.com, follow her on Twitter at @pmterrell, her blog at www.pmterrell.blogspot.com, and on Facebook under author.p.m.terrell.

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I suppose my first writing quirk is I must have chocolate, and plenty of it. I saw a recent news report about the scientific findings of chocolate and sugar on a person’s brain, and the “sugar high” we’ve heard so much about actually has a basis in medicine. So I suppose I reach that “sugar high” and something from the cosmos speaks to me, much as spirits spoke to the shamans of times past after they imbibed in whatever they imbibed in!

I also dream every scene before I write it.

This began when I was writing the true story of my ancestor, Mary Neely, who was captured by Shawnee warriors in 1780 and held as a slave for three years before she managed to escape and find her way home. I had taken to the road and followed in her footsteps from the place she was captured near Nashville, Tennessee through Kentucky, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, and Michigan—then across Canada and into New York, Pennsylvania and Virginia. Along the way I met with historians, archeologists and others with information about her travels. But what I was lacking was her thoughts. So I would go to bed each night asking her, “What were you thinking as this unfolded? What were you thinking when you reached this place, or this event happened to you?”

I would awaken in the night from vivid nightmares, and I would know the next morning how to write her scenes and add her emotions to the story.

I found when I finished that book, the dreams continued. I dreamed the entire books Dylan’s Song and The Tempest Murders before I began writing the first page.

Because of this practice, I never have writer’s block. I simply hand the scenes over to my subconscious at night, and the next morning I know exactly what will be put down on paper.

The problem is how to write fast enough to keep up with the dreams!


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October 16, 2013

Wednesday Briefs: Hope #3

Welcome to Wednesday Briefs, where authors post free fiction of 1000 words or less each week. I used a picture prompt:

Hope #3

The smile slipped from my face when I realized what I’d done. Guilt slammed into me and took my breath away. How could I smile or experience any kind of happiness, even when this moment didn't last for more than a few seconds?
Shane still remained dead.
I stared down at my fingers in the dark fur. They trembled. What had felt wonderful seconds earlier now felt... I bit my lower lip. It hurt to admit that it still felt good—so soft, so alive.
With a stifled sob, I raised my eyes and searched for anything to look at. My gaze strayed to our large living room window. An eerie light fell inside and tinted everything in a bluish hue.
A shiver ran through my body. The puppy blinked one eye open, then uncurled itself and stood up on my lap. It scrutinized me for a long time and I couldn't help but stare back. I knew it was just an animal—and a young one—but its eyes... They seemed old and knowledgeable. This, combined with the bluish light, made for a creepy atmosphere.
As if the pup read my mind it barked, wagged its tail, and threw itself with a full body slam against my chest. I had no other choice but to wrap it in my arms. “Shhh, calm down there.”
The puppy licked my face with its small tongue, yipping in excitement. Its whole body moved from one side to the other as it tried to get as close to me as possible. All my warding off remained unsuccessful and when its cold nose pushed into my ear, I heard a sound I hadn't heard in months.
A laugh.
A harsh gasp followed my outburst. I grabbed the puppy, set it on the sofa, and stumbled to my feet. I staggered toward the window where I leaned my forehead against the pane, creating moist spots with my breath. Through a veil of tears, I saw a blue moon illuminating the dark sky.
There was nothing to be happy or laugh about. Nothing. How could I do this?
I almost jumped out of my skin when the puppy slid between my legs, sniffed at my feet and then barked. As I stared down at my little, unwelcome intruder, I wrapped my arms around myself. For the time being, I gritted my teeth and didn't give in to the urge to rock back and forth.
The puppy rose up on its hind paws and pressed its forepaws against my left knee. It barked and pushed its forepaws against me over and over again, almost stamping them. I ignored it and instead focused on the blue moon outside.
After a while, the puppy gave up and sat down on my feet, whimpering from time to time. I closed my heart against its sounds. I couldn't get involved with it; I still had to make a decision.
The puppy moved again. I squeaked when it stuck its snout into my left pants leg. I jerked my leg away, which earned me a growl from the puppy, but at least its head wasn't stuck inside my pants anymore.
“Look,” I tried, “you can't stay here. I don't want you.”
The puppy's ears flopped downward and it sat, in a completely dejected pose. I felt compelled to add, “I... we'll look for your owner, okay?”
The puppy's ears perked up and it threw itself against my leg, wagging its tail and yapping. Its enthusiasm—albeit I didn't know why it reacted so enthusiastically—elicited another small smile from me. I swallowed my guilt. No one had to know that I enjoyed watching this small creature, or that I enjoyed having a live being lend me warmth.
On impulse, I bent down, picked the puppy up, and cradled it in my arms. The pup swiped its tongue over my hand, but otherwise allowed me to position it the way I liked. It was so warm and smelled so good.
“We can't do much about your owner now, I guess. How about you keep me company while I stare outside?”
The puppy yawned and closed its eyes.


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October 14, 2013

Goddess Fish Promotions: Lindsey Fairleigh--Echo Prophecy (Echo Trilogy, #1)

Echo Prophecy (Echo Trilogy, #1)
by Lindsey Fairleigh



“…we only see what we want to see…what we expect to see…”

Discover what’s hidden—a powerful, mythic race, an ancient Egyptian prophecy, and a love strong enough to shatter the boundaries of time.

Alexandra Larson isn’t human…but she doesn’t know that. As far as Lex is concerned, she’s simply an ambitious and independent archaeology grad student with a knack for deciphering ancient languages, especially the various forms of Egyptian. When she’s recruited to work on her dream excavation, her translating skills uncover the secret entrance to an underground Egyptian temple concealed within Djeser-Djeseru—the famous mortuary temple of Queen Hatchepsut. Lex is beyond thrilled by her discovery…as is the enigmatic and alluring excavation director, Marcus Bahur.

As the relationship between Lex and Marcus heats up, a series of shocking revelations leave the young archaeologist reeling. Once Lex discovers the truth of her ancient Egyptian roots—the truth of her more-than-human nature—the people she trusts most make one final, terrifying revelation: Lex is the central figure of a four-thousand-year-old prophecy. She is the only thing standing between the power to alter the very fabric of time and an evil megalomaniac…who also happens to be her father. As events set in motion over four millennia ago lead Lex and Marcus from Seattle to the heart of Egypt, the fate of mankind depends on one thing: the strength of Lex’s love.


I thought you might like to see this,” Marcus said softly as he set a flat, wooden box on top of the papers scattered on my desk. Through the glass top, I could see an impeccable, hieroglyph-covered stone tablet.

Marcus,” I said without taking my eyes from the object in front of me. “Is this—”


But where’s the other one? You said there were two.” I was leaning closer to the glass, trying to get a better look at the box’s contents.

It’s unrelated to our present work.”

I barely heard his words, entranced as I was by the slab of smooth, gray-green schist.


Can I open it?” I interrupted, eagerness evident in my voice. I looked up at him, pleading with my eyes.

Marcus grinned and nodded.

Oh. Wow.” With the glass lid removed, the artifact was even more amazing. Shaped like a closed parabola, the dark stone tablet looked like it could have been carved only a few days earlier. Every inch was untouched by the usual rigors of time. “Where’d you say you found this?” I whispered.

I didn’t,” Marcus said, avoiding the question.

I gently closed the glass lid and faced him. “Okay, he-who-can’t-answer-an-implied-question, then where did you find it? And when?”

Across the room, one of the other men coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like an attempt to cover up a laugh.

The corner of Marcus’s mouth quirked, but I couldn’t tell if he was hiding a smile or a frown.


AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Lindsey Fairleigh lives her life with one foot in a book--as long as that book transports her to a magical world or bends the rules of science. Her novels, from post-apocalyptic to time travel and historical fantasy, always offer up a hearty dose of unreality, along with plenty of adventure and romance. When she's not working on her next novel, Lindsey spends her time reading and trying out new recipes in the kitchen. She lives in the Napa Valley with her loving husband and confused cats.


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