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From "Change of Plan" in ADVENTURESSES

Alice doesn't always know what she does to me, I realized as I climbed back into the cab of my big purple Kenworth. She was sitting on the bunk, reading. She read a lot these days, anything she could get her hands on. She'd left school after seventh grade and always felt like she had missed something.

I wasn't missing anything. Not with her along.

It was the way she was sitting that got me. Her bare feet were tucked up under her, the soles visible and vulnerable, little coppery toes peering out, the silver nail polish shining and just starting to chip. Her shirt was rucked up, her skirt low on her hips. The small of her back invited my tongue. I shuddered at the sight of a dimple above one hip.

Her arms covered her breasts and her face was buried in the reading, but oh God, just her back was making me crazy. I wanted to lick it, to see if she was as sweet as she looked or if she'd sweated a little since her shower, just enough to give some salt kick to her soft skin.
When she looked up and smiled at me, I melted.

“Nice shower, sweetheart?” she asked.

I smiled and shook my head in a dazed sort of way. She did that to me every time, making my head go swimmy and my heart thud like some stupid love song. “Yeah, but now I want to get all sweaty again.” I sat down on the bunk beside her and put my hands around her waist, getting my thumbs into those dimples I wanted to lick. She gave me an oddly cool peck and turned back to her magazine. “Whatcha reading?” I looked over her shoulder and saw it was real-estate listings.

“Might be a good time to buy. Yolanda, you said if fuel went over five dollars a gallon, you'd sell the truck.”
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Throughout the Month of March, I will be posting parts of ADVENTURESSES.

From "Adventuress"

Clarissa stood on the deck of the airship, shivering in the cold wind, trying to hide behind her brothers. Tom and Matt stood very tall and fierce looking with their hair whipping in the wind. They'd protect her from any man in shoe-leather.

The alert siren had sounded half an hour before, and the next minutes had been a frenzy of racing crew, fainting women and general chaos. Clarissa kept her head and watched the pirate airship heave them to.

The crew, a motley collection of men and women in clothes that only half-fit them, swarmed aboard. In their midst, a tall woman, taller than most men, strode through the mess. Clarissa watched her with unseemly interest. She'd never seen anything like her and wanted to memorize every detail. Perhaps the paper in Dodge City, or penny dreadful publishers would pay her to tell the story.

The woman's left boot came over her thigh, but the right was cut away to let her draw the arcane looking pistol she carried. Two more, of different make, crossed in her wide leather belt, Mexican style. Her long duster coat fell to her knees, and Clarissa saw the straps holding it close to her thighs. A man's embroidered waistcoat and a band-collared shirt, without collar or tie, led Clarissa's eye to the woman's face. She flinched at the sight of a scar that ran up from her jaw and disappeared under an eye patch. A set of flying goggles, one lens blacked out, rode the brim of her battered leather hat.

“Toldja we should have taken the train, Matt,” Tom grumbled, as he glared at the pirates.
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Oddly, the generator says I wrote this in the style of David Foster Wallace.

It is thirteen miles by interstate from the insane asylum in Danvers to Route 113, which takes the traveler into the ancient city of Newburyport. The old coast road through Innsmouth, Rowley and Ispwich is longer, older and much narrower. The sprawling Boston metroplex sends out squamous suburbs, growths that threaten to swallow the whole of the state. Already, the twisting streets and oddly uniform houses creep down Highway One to Providence and up Route Three to Nashua. The world seems very small and urban and hardly the place for fear and the unnameable. The Space Age and Information Age have both come and gone.

So, of course, no one would have believed the two older men who stepped out of the little Ford wagon, on this gorgeous spring morning of the Lower Miskatonic Valley, were anything other than human.

“I don’t like it, elf,” Corin Faw growled at his half-Sidhe mate as he looked up and down the street of Arkham Massachusettes. “It smells wrong. All kinds of wrong.” He sniffed again. Under the smells of spring melt and damp earth, under tulips and hyacinth and green leaves and pear blossoms, he scented decay and death and something that whispered of seas and stars and things best left undisturbed at the bottom of them.

Cian O’Brian came around the car to his mate. “Arȗn, my own sweet wolf, it is wrong. There is ancient evil here. Here is where we are needed.”

“Aye,” Corin growled, his nose still twitching. He unlocked the hatch. “We’re to fight evil from a tea shop. And not just a tea shop, but Miska-Tonics Tea and Herb Shoppe.” He pronounced the extra p and e with scorn.

Still, he had to admit that there was nothing wrong with the two-story frame building whose gambrel roof, butted back against a hill, almost to the point where a person could climb the hill and right onto the roof. The colorful sign on the veranda, the daffodils and hyacinth dancing in the flowerbed and the lace curtains in the windows gave the place a cheerful air, even if it did look a bit like that place in Amityville which was on the market suspiciously cheaply. The spring woods, just showing the first yellow-green leaves, came right to the back door.

“Love, you know the Sight is not always clear. It took us to Memphis for Danior and now it brings us here. Take what comes.”

Corin growled again. The bites and wounds he had taken last fall in Memphis, in futile defense of Danior and his pack from the ravening power-thirst of Danior’s uncle Zoltan, still ached on damp days. He was not a young wolf any more. He got the bags from the car, making sure Cian saw the bite-scar on his arm from Zoltan’s teeth. “Not playin’ fairy godfather to pair of pups again, I’m not.” His brogue thickened, as it always did when he was irritable.

Cian laughed at him and lifted a portfolio of papers from the front seat. “Of course not. And you didn’t instigate the last game of Tail-Chase with them either.”

“Yer in trouble, elf,” he snorted.
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This is from "Still Rolling," my story which has been accepted in the Zombiality anthology. It's kind of a sequel to "Rewriting Old Songs" from the Sappho's Chest Toybox. But you don't have to read that toenjoy this.

Get on up here and shut that door fast! Yeah, you just sit there and breathe a minute, mister, and I'll get us the hell outta here. Damn lucky I saw you and luckier that I could stop in time. Another minute and they'da had you.

Nah, I wouldn't ever leave anyone to get eaten by those things but still, you better say a thank-you prayer to God, Loki, St. Jude, Coyote, Hermes and St. Christopher, and mean it. And check your pants. Not too many folk stay clean and dry in a zombie attack.

Welcome aboard my girl. Yeah, she's pretty. I bought her because you just don't come by purple Kenworths too often. I added the flowers on the side of the sleeper myself. Shoulda seen her before all this got going. She was a lot prettier before the Change, but we're all looking a little battered these days. The cow-catcher kinda ruins her lines, but gotta have it. I'm one of the last still rolling.

So how'd you end up on foot, carrying a small arsenal, out here on the back-ass side of Nowhere, Kansas, anyway? Ah, yeah. Gas is getting to be a problem. Diesel's no better, but I make that my clients' worry. They have to fill me up and load me. I usually run food from the agri-fortresses out around Wichita into the university compound up in Kansas City. UMKC sends medicine and equipment back.

So where you been, mister? Heh. A bunker? For real? Kinda had you figured for one of them weekend-warrior survivalist types what with the camo and the guns.

Okay, sugar butt, put the boom-stick down. You shoot me here and this eighteen-wheeled bitch of mine will roll just to badass you.

Think this through. If you shoot me, not only will you have a corpse behind the wheel of eighty thousand tons of steel rolling along at seventy-five, you'll have a big old hole in the driver's window. You really think you can shoot me, unbuckle my seatbelt, get my corpse out of the seat I just made a mess of and drive the lady before she crashes? That's assuming I don't kick the brake or clutch and turn off the cruise. You don't even know how to drive a rig and your fucking male pride ain't worth losing your life.

And that hole in the window? Zombies aren't smart but they can climb stairs. You're gonna wake up being digested before you knew you fell asleep.

That's better. We were getting along fine until you went macho and stupid. Didn't your mama ever tell you not to shoot the piano-player or your driver?

'Sides, it ain't like you got any ammo. Will you get that fucking shotgun out of my face? You aren't going to shoot me. If you had ammo, you'd have been shooting zombies, not running from them. Now be good or I'll put you off out here.

Brace yourself. Ah shit, I'm gonna be washing that off for a week. Stupid undead.
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This piece is, as yet, unpublished.

Another rat-gnawed skeleton dumped in a deserted field was no way to start a Monday morning, Sheriff Gary Redhorse decided. Kissed awake by a twink bearing breakfast in bed, sometime around elevenish, would have been much preferable to tramping around a dew-soaked field at the ass-crack of dawn, staring at scattered bones with teeth marks on them.

Gary knelt and prodded one of the bones, an ulna he guessed. The animals had cracked this one open to eat the marrow. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Twinks at elevenish looked better all the time.

It was somewhere after eleven, but before midnight, when he managed to get home. The guy in the field had been dead when he'd been dumped about six months before, the examiner said. It looked a little like a case from about twenty years before and a lot like the last five skeletons that had been found in that same field. All eaten by wolves and rats and all decapitated. No skulls had been found.

A killer picking his county as a dumping ground was a load of shit Gary didn't need. Especially one that took the heads with him. He tossed his hat on its hook and started stripping down for a shower.

He did some of his best thinking under the hot water. Tammy, the dispatcher, joked about installing a shower in his office so he could solve the crimes there. Gary liked his quiet county, with its population of about three thousand people and its low crime rate. A few boosted cars, some brawls, a lot of domestics, a couple rapes and usually less than three killings a year made up his blotter. Or they had, until these skeletons had started turning up out by Crow Lake.
valarltd: (pimp shoes)
Originally published in Men in Uniform, this is now available in Howl at the Mistletoe

"It is a good day to geek."

I smoothed the black leather glove on my right hand
and practiced looking grave in the mirror. Everything was
perfect, from atrocious haircut to polished boots. I swiped a
handkerchief over the lightsaber replica hanging at my belt.
It was the newest, and most expensive, addition to the
costume. I'd had a cheap-looking one for too many years.

"You will bring Captain Solo and the wookiee to
me," I quoted to my reflection with a small wave of my
hand, making sure the inflection was right.
Read more... )
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For your enjoyment, I will be posting the first page of a different story every Friday.

We'll start with Howl at the Mistletoe, print or ebook

This is from "Firstfruits"

The icy winter road that took the lives of Clarindy Wishom's family melted into spring-wet blacktop shaded by yellow-green leaves before the three small coffins and one large one were lowered into the ground at Beulah Hill
Cemetery. But as Easter passed and summer came on, the church ladies worried about Miss Clarindy's frame of mind.

“All alone in that big house, just rattling like a pea in a can,” one would say.

“Hasn't got rid of their things, either. It must be just awful, seeing those little toys every day.”

Everyone agreed something had to be done. But nobody was pleased with who did it.

Clarindy sat watching the front walk, as she always did this time of afternoon. It often took her until almost four to realize that Lila and Evan weren't coming home from school and that Michelle hadn't just taken a long nap.

Most evenings, she went to the kitchen, stared listlessly at the frozen dinners and covered-dish casseroles, watching the frost sparkle among the lumps of hamburger or chopped potatoes or pies. She'd frozen a lot of stuff from the wake and she wasn't even sure it'd be good five months later.

The doorbell startled her out of her watching. She used the coat-rack mirror to pat down her hair in a gesture so automatic, she would probably do it when the Judgement Trump sounded.

The sight of Oholah Jenkins on her doorstep, a bundle in her hands, shocked Clarindy into motion. Oholah Jenkins never went calling. Nor would most have received her if she had.

Although she sat in the third pew, her cane planted solidly between her feet, every Sunday at Pisgah Baptist Church, common gossip still called her a witch.
valarltd: (special hell)

Lawyer Adina barJonas loves Hanukkah. And her papa gives the best gifts. This year, it’s the VirtualClone Box, for “a fully integrated sensory experience”. Adina uses it to argue law, meet her heroes and thoroughly indulge herself with some very sexy men over the eight nights of the holiday.

But Papa and Uncle David have their own agenda, and Adina finds that by enjoying her new toy she has played right into their hands.

Read more... )
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Alive On The Inside
by Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-614-7 (Electronic)
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-817-2 (Paperback)

Nick Harper has a nice life, a nice job, and a nice girl. Until Labor Day Weekend, when the Phantasmagoria Traveling Wonder Show comes to town.

Seduced by the dark and wickedly erotic charms of both the Phantasmagoria and Torturo, a man known in the freak sideshow as The Pain King, Nick embarks on a journey of self-discovery, love, and pain.

But the show is not what it seems. It changes those who come with it in ways they can never imagine, not even in their worst nightmares.

And Nick's changes are just beginning...

Genres: Gay / Erotic Horror / Dark Fantasy / BDSM / Contains Some Secondary Heterosexual (M/F) And Lesbian (F/F) Content
Heat Level: 3
Advisory: This book contains graphic violence, hardcore bondage and punishment, torture and blood play. May not be suitable for the more sensitive reader.
Length: Extended Novel (79k words / TBD paperback pages)

Read more... )
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Glad Hands
by Angelia Sparrow and Naomi Brooks

Chuck rolls his rig across the no-longer-United States, from Montana to Arkansas. He expects a fast run with no complications. What he doesn’t expect is Seven, a pretty blue-eyed drifter who turns not only his head but fires his blood.

His gayness tattooed into his very skin, Seven needs Chuck’s help to escape the very limited life Heartland forces upon him. And when the even more repressive Confederated States take an interest, Chuck and Seven are in for the ride of their lives.

First page
Read more... )
valarltd: (robin)

Heart of A Forest
By Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks
Available Here

As always, leave a comment for a chance to win a copy. Those who comment on every First Page Friday are eligible for the paperback drawing at New Years. Winner will be selected Monday.

In 1199, King Richard the Lion-Hearted lay dying in France. He commanded his lover, Sir David of Doncaster, to protect his small son by any means necessary.

Marion Fitzroy, princess of the blood on the wrong side of the blankets, now lives a constrained life in Nottingham castle, dreaming of her childhood betrothed, the son of the Earl of Locksley. As the Barons’ War rages around her uncle King John, her dispossessed fiancé—now called Robin Hood—and his merry irregulars make life miserable for Phillip, the sheriff of Nottingham. And fires Marion’s blood.

Robin, for his part, is about to learn the secret that Marion guards with her life. Thwarting Phillip’s gambits for Marion’s hand, a doubled price on his head, even shooting for an arrow of pure gold all pale next to the pleasures to be had under Marion’s skirts, deep in the heart of Sherwood Forest.

But Marion is no ordinary woman, no ordinary princess. In fact, her body isn’t a woman's at all.

First page under the cut.
Not quite work safe
Read more... )

A reminder

Oct. 23rd, 2009 06:31 pm
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Leave a comment here or at my Facebook Fangroup to be entered for a copy of Shell-Shocked. Drawing will be Monday, Oct 25.

Also, to be eligible for the grand prize paperback drawing at the end of the year, you must comment on all First Page Friday posts.


first page under here )

August 2017



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