MMWUC: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

Friday night was horrible. Actually, it was more than horrible. It might be a self-published authors worst nightmare. My new novel (currently titled "Secrets") comes out in a few weeks, and this is what happened...

I'm watching cable television and the new Amazon Book Show on channel 832.3, showcasing new books every five minutes. Simple format: a 30-second snippet from the author, another thirty seconds with the host reading the back-of-book blurb followed by a one-minute excerpt from the book read by either a gravelly-voiced man or a sickly-sweet sounding woman. Finally, there is a two minute Midwest Book Review or Kirkus talking head, and then it's back to the host for a few seconds before the "word from our sponsor." There is a running ticker across the bottom the screen showing the last five books reviewed, and below it, the top five books for the past 24 hour and their sales. Below it, the Amazon Book Show Facebook page displays for everyone to go to and see all the reviewed books.

"Secrets" comes on as the featured book, but the author is some guy by the name of Sy Sakes.

"Damn, the other writers were right. The title is too common." I pound the arm of the couch. Startled, Sydney, my 20-y-o cockatiel, nips at me.

Sy says, "I wrote this during NANOWRIMO last year as my first novel." He looks at the camera with derision. "It was so easy, I didn't bother to edit it." He sighs as if he is bored. "It is the greatest book ever written." He yawns.

I scoff at his claim then laugh at his arrogance. Sydney cackles along with me. The host reads the back-of-book-blurb.

"Damn, that blurb is almost identical to mine. Don, Edith, and Peter were right. Mine was too generic. Just like this guy's blurb. Can I stomach to do it again?"

The book cover comes up onto the screen. I gasp. The gravelly-voiced man speaks:

Chapter 1

Terrified, I counted to six, and then begged Heather, "Just Breathe." I pinched her nose and covered her mouth with mine. Each time I did this, her cold lips almost made me retch from the reality of why I was doing this. I blew again. No response. My breath was returned without the hope with which I had sent it. Again.

“Please. I’ll be lost without you.” I counted while stroking her hair. Outside, the siren of an approaching ambulance pierced the pre-dawn quiet. The 9-1-1 operator kept calling my name over the phone I’d dropped onto the floor.

I blew again. “God, help me.” I rechecked her pulse. Nothing. I shook her and small items on the shelf tipped over from the force of my shaking. “Breathe, Heather, breathe.”

Desperate, I tried chest compressions on the sloshing waterbed, trying to recall first aid from Army basic training thirty years ago. “Stay calm. Think. Move her to the floor.”

Someone knocked on the front door I had left ajar. It squeaked open. “EMS,” a male voice said.

“In here, quick!” I yelled.

Two paramedics rushed from the foyer into the bedroom.

"Please. Help her."

“Come, sir.” The short paramedic pulled me away. I didn’t want to leave her, but they were the experts. He sat me at the bay window seat facing the foot of the bed. I was shaking.

A large, heavy-set man in a rumpled brown suit entered the room and stood barely inside the door frame. His walrus face was droopy and whiskered. Was he here to help?

The short paramedic waved his hand in front of my face to get my attention. “Sir, what’s your full name?”

“Bruce Wayne Neumanski.”

The heavy-set man by the door looked at me.

“And hers?”

“Heather Rachel Neumanski, my wife. Please, save her."

My eyes shifted focus to the tall paramedic bent over Heather, shining a penlight in her eyes.

"Well?" the man in the brown suit asked. His eyes were sloe-eyed, sleepy dull.

The short paramedic spun around and stepped towards him. “Detective Meeker. Where’d you come from?”

Meeker waved him off. “I was in the area and heard the emergency call.”

The tall paramedic leaned over to Meeker and spoke in a hushed manner. "No pulse. No respiration. Gray pallor, and cold. No blood or obvious wounds, but some petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. I can’t declare her, but…."

Despite his whisper, I heard his words to Meeker.

“Oh God, it can’t be.” I folded my arms across my chest and rocked in place. “She was so full of life. She was my life.”

The paramedics looked at me. Meeker pushed through them and stared at Heather. His eyes widened. "Holy shit." He backed away, grabbing the tall paramedic by the shirt. "Bring her back!”

"But she's dead."

"Do it."

Gravelly Voice applauds this reading then salutes the author. I fall out of my chair in shock. Sydney attacks the television. "That's my book!" I scream

The reviewer comes on. "What can I say? This IS the greatest book ever written."

The host reappears. "Wow. It must be good. That is the shortest review we've ever had. And now a word from our sponsor."

I watch in horror. Some guy names Sy Sakes has stolen my novel and put it up on the Amazon Book Show claiming he wrote it. I'm freaking! The sales counter is going nuts. I never knew this show existed until now and was so popular. I'd only installed cable a week ago. In three minutes, over 100,000 orders have come in for the book. The counter is flipping over faster than the date clock on Rod Taylor's time machine in the classic movie "The Time Machine".

I dash to the computer in the office and go to the Facebook page. I can't get on. Too many people accessing it. I hear from the other room the host come back on the television.

"Due to the excitement over this book, we are rerunning the last segment again."

Obscenities fly out of my mouth like prayers from the Pope on Easter Sunday. Sydney squawks and runs for cover. I get on the site. The online tote board shows over 400,000 orders at $5.99 for the e-book and $21.99 for the paperback. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God." I've heard about these book thieves before, but never thought it would happen to me. Somehow, somewhere, he got my book. One of my first readers, I'm thinking, must have been hacked. It can't be me. I'm too cautious.

Finally, I find the number for the Amazon Book Show (ABS). I call. "Do to the high volume of traffic for orders for "Secrets," there is a four hour delay to reach an operator." I don't hang up. I wait while I think what else I can do.

After an hour of online searching and digging and hacking, while still on hold for the ABS, I find Sy Sakes. There's a picture. It's him. The bastard only lives an hour away. Keeping the call to ABS alive on my cell phone, I hop into my car and drive to Lizard Lick, North Carolina. I find his house and rush up to the door.

"Sy answer the door," I shout.

He does.

I shoot that dirty egg-sucking dog down dead.

"Welcome to Amazon Book Services, how can I service you," is the last thing I remember from Friday night.

I'm out on bail now. It's eleven at night on Sunday. Over 24,001,046 books sold in 48 hours before they halted sales. Amazon efficiency has exported the money to an off-shore account already...$84 million. Sy's wife claimed no knowledge on Saturday at my hearing, but today, Sunday, she fled on a late afternoon flight to Belize according to the cops. Her attorney vows to continue the fight for the rights to the book. My lawyer says, despite all my drafts, reviews, critiques, and copies, it will be hard for me to prove the book is mine with Sy dead. "Hard to cross-examine a dead man."

Amazon bans me from their site forever. Barnes and Noble follows suit.

Lawyer says, "Should have changed the title when you were told to do so."
- - -

I awoke from the dream in a river of sweat a few moments ago and penned a new title for my upcoming November book release, "All of our Secrets"

Guest Blog: Book Trailers - Worth the Hype

Rhonda Kay sez--

Based on recent trends by small e-publishers as well as New York’s Big Six, book trailers are becoming the “must-have” accessory for all new releases. Even Amazon threw their hat in the ring last month by promoting a book trailer contest for a novel published by one of their new imprints. The idea is definitely out there, floating in the cosmos, that book trailers are the Next Big Thing in literary marketing and promotion.

But do they sell novels?

Novel Link
Trailer Link

Authors face some rocky terrain as publishing veers into a territory with no map and very few trail markers. The success of ebooks took everyone by surprise; most of us suspected it would happen—eventually—but no one guessed that climates in the publishing industry would shift so quickly.

Now, as both authors and readers, we’re struggling to make sense of the new paradigm. With the changes from traditional publishing to small press or independent electronic publishing, authors must think about marketing, distribution, promotion—a host of things we’ve never before had to face on our own.

Here’s the catch: a writer can pay for a very effective, professionally produced trailer, upload it to their favorite hosting site, wait, and see absolutely no boost in book sales.

The reason? Book trailers are not a magic bullet. They are one more tool in the arsenal of a motivated seller. They will do you no good at book signings, local fairs, or personal appearances unless you’re prepared to have the trailer playing in a loop on a nearby screen. You can’t put them in someone’s hand, autograph them as giveaways, or slip them between the pages of library books for the next reader to find.

However, what a trailer will do is draw the attention of a reader browsing the internet, trying to make a choice between your novel and another beside it on the screen. If your novel has an effective trailer and the other one doesn’t, I’m willing to bet the money lands in your account, not the other author’s. A well-done trailer offers a glimpse into the world of your novel, at the conflicts and the very faces of your characters. It can cause potential readers to become invested in your story long before they turn the first page.

Amazon Link
Scroll down to "Check
Out Related Media"

For authors who are already doing the legwork—making the most of social media and online networking—book trailers are a sure bet as a promotional tool. Trailers fit seamlessly into the cyberscape of most web pages, and by embedding links to them in everything from email to forum and Facebook posts, you can pique the interest of people who might otherwise never search for your novel’s blurb on Amazon. A book trailer alone cannot sell your novel. But a good trailer will work for you in ways no other form of media advertising can.

For example, Ania Ahlborn's novel Seed--you can see an embedded video, which is the live action book trailer. The producer of this trailer, Vikas Wadhwa, is a super nice guy who I hope will lead the charge in live-action book trailer production.
- - -

Bio: Rhonda Kay is a writer and machinima director living in Southwest Virginia with her husband and a herd of animals. She has penned three novels, but the emerging market for book trailers has kept her too busy lately to even think of publishing anything. An active member of both the writing and machinima communities, she is a strong advocate for the use of 3D animation as a storytelling medium. She blogs here.

Book Review: Artful Dodging

I think I won this book in an online contest back in the summer. Though listed as a "mainstream mystery romance," there should be a nod to erotica for unsuspecting buyers. I'm not a prude. Nonetheless, I was surprised when this breezy little tale with a self-deprecating heroine, a drop-dead gorgeous leading man, and a clutch of mildly off-beat characters dipped into something else, and then dipped again, and again. If you like your sex spread out on the pages, you'll enjoy the intense love-making scenes.

Amazon Link

Artful Dodging is well written with an intriguing murder angle that occurred a bit too far into the story. Downside, I didn't believe completely the romantic rapport between Milo and Tristram other than two horny people who wanted to rock the town. In real life, he'd be in jail for a potential date rape the first time and kidnapping the third time they rode the bullet express into the dark tunnel. Kudos, though, to the author on not revealing their pasts at first opportunity. Lesser writers would have stopped the story upfront to lay out the back story. I enjoyed the reveals.

Sadly, there wasn't much tension with respect to the murder plot. The usual finger pointing of potential suspects was there, but I never had the sense that Milo was in any danger while she snooped until the climactic scene. The murder explanation by the murderer during the climax was a bit hard to swallow, and then we had to have the murder plot(s) explained away during eighteen additional pages after the climax and between more romantic dalliances. Oh, yeah. And what's with "Isis’s irritable sneezes and the occasional shaking of her feathers?" Isis is a cat! Haha. Without the strong writing, this would have been a three, but she scores better because of the writing. It's a low-range "4."

MMWUC: Fat Wallets and Young Dragons

Ten Dragons

What's in your wallet? $44, an old Hibachi China Buffet receipt, driver's license (with bad pic), picture of my sweetie at 17, and these cards: emergency medical identification, prescription drug, BC/BS, donor, American Airlines D2, choice privileges hotels, Sam's Club, AARP (yeah, baby, discounts I've earned), two library cards, Quail Ridge Books Readers' Club, membership to Mystery Writers of America, Supercuts (get 8; 1 free - last used 2010), and my credit card. Pretty boring, but I remember why. Big wallets in men's back pockets make for uneven derrieres and that can cause nerve damage. I need to slenderize mine. I pull out the MWA, one library, insurance cards. I can't remember the last time someone stopped me and asked if I belonged to the MWA. The one library card is for a different county. Used to stop there when I worked the census during breaks, and while waiting for elusive people to come home. My driver's insurance is in the car. Why carry another one. I ditched the receipt, but I love that place. I suppose I can dump the AA D2 card. No one asks for it any longer.

The Dragon's Call

Yes, a boring Monday Morning Wake-up Call, but, but, you've found the wallet on the ground. What story comes to your mind? How would you reconcile the older stuff (AARP card) with the picture of a young woman? Would you recognize this person as a writer, who despite a Supercuts card, has a bad haircut on the driver's license? Do you keep the money? Or, do you make efforts to get the entire wallet, intact, back to the owner because: (a) you remember how bad you felt when yours was lost and want a rewarding feeling, (b) you remember how bad you felt when yours was lost and need to make up for it with the case, (c) you're afraid you're in a sting, (d) you're germaphobic and now are flipping out, (e) you laugh and look around for cameras, or (xyz). You pick up the wallet, and snicker, thinking, "Loser..."

Flank Hawk

Before you can finish the thought, a dragon scoops you off the ground, you scream, drop the wallet. The dragon lands in a nearby 1,000 year-old oak tree and turns to the other juvenile dragons. "See. Easy pickings. I can smell and spot a loser from a mile away. Bon appetit."

Remember that the next time you're thinking about that wallet on the ground. Think good thoughts. My dragon friends will be watching and sniffing the air. They are magical, you know.

Tiny though I be, appetite large.

Guest Blog: Does Edith Parzefall Push Her Luck?

Research Break: Sleeping with the Policia Militar

Imagine you've spent months or rather years following Amnesty International reports, reading books, watching movies and documentaries about military police brutality in Brazil. You travel to Rio, the location of the thriller you're working on, Strays of Rio. You explore life in the favelas and roam the fashionable districts of Rio. Military police is ever-present, even on the Copacabana and Ipanema (Rick note: The song, The Girl from Ipanema, is now 50; the girl 68.) beaches. The sight of these well-armed men and women fills you with unease, but nobody else cares, so you stroll on.

Plates and Numbers
smudged on purpose

Then you hop over to the Iguacu Falls for a respite to enjoy nature in the full. You've booked a nice little hotel in advance, close to the main bus terminal. After admiring the Brazilian side of the stunning waterfalls, you return to the hotel and see a military police car parked in the driveway. You pause. It's getting dark and you're tired. Chin held up high, you turn into the driveway and spot two more vehicles. Deep breath. Your bags and travel documents are in your hotel room, and there are no bullets flying yet.

You enter and stare at a man in uniform, cleaning a large knife--rather a dagger really. He gazes up, frowns, and continues to make the blade shine. Then you notice the assault rifle leaning against the sofa he sits on.

For lack of a better idea, you proceed to the reception desk to pick up your key. As always, the lady smiles. From the opposite corner, two more military police officers dart you curious glances.

Edith in the Garden of Eden

You grab the key and escape down the corridor to your room, but all the doors stand ajar. A gaze to the right reveals a man in boxer shorts lying on his bed, a helmet by his feet and an assault rifle on the table. You hurry on past another open door revealing two more cops shedding their uniforms. Faster. Your room is at the end of the darn corridor. No more sideways glances! Quick. The lock resists for a moment but finally yields.

You'd planned to take a shower and then have a beer in the nice tropical garden behind the hotel. Among a bunch of ill-reputed armed guys? Maybe not such a good idea... 

Link to Amazon

The next morning, there's no sign of your infamous neighbors. You ask the receptionist what they were doing here. Smiling, she explains, "Oh, they are after drug dealers and weapon smugglers trying to cross the river from Paraguay. Nothing to worry about."

"Oh, okay." Then you remember the river and the border are only four blocks away... "Is it dangerous to walk around here?" you ask.

Smiling, she waves away your concerns. "No, not at all. Enjoy your stay."

- - -

Nope, I didn't dare to take photos of the armed or naked police officers, and fortunately, I wasn't alone during this adventure. Thanks Monika for playing bodyguard.
- - - 
Rick asks, "So, to what lengths do you go to research your stories?"

Book Review: Short Story Week

The Mermaid Quilt & Other Tales

If you like mermaid tales (resisting all puns here), I've got a gentle book for you, The Mermaid Quilt and Other Tales by Beth Camp. Her slim collection of mermaid inspired tales and poems spans from the impoverished and steamy coast of Mexico to the cold to the unforgiving seas of the Arctic to the lyrical Scottish seaside. Even freshwater mermaids get the treatment during one of the more haunting tales, Rusalka, that embraces a hope for the future during an episode of a brutal purge of the Jews in Russia.

Amazon Link

I don't critique poetry, but the reader will find them tucked between the stories, enhancing the mood of mermaid lore, which has always seemed touching in a sad way. Our mysterious cousins of the deep seem destined to be kept at arms-length because, well, we'd drown in their environment without mystical aids as presented in The Tower and the Net or they'd be taken to a lab for dissection in our world. (Just ask Madison from Splash!) Yet, they seem, like in the title story, The Mermaid Quilt, to have a firm grasp of the power of empathetic healing for our hearts and apply their talents as best they can.

It's a nice, tidy, well-written book. For mermaid lovers, it's a must for your shelves. For those of us who prefer terra firma, with only the sound of the sea not the singing of mermaids to lull us to sleep, it is a top-shelf 4.

- - - 

Amazon link

REDEMPTION: A Short Story

Being accused of murder is bad enough, but having to rely on your estranged and abusive father for help is worse. However, that is Ben Hawkins' predicament in Linda Johnsons' chapbook, REDEMPTION: A Short Story. The twist is: Does dad's drastic solution to Ben's situation really become the stuff of redemption or start another cycle of bad decisions?

The well-written story is enjoyable if a bit short on digging into the complex process of redeeming oneself from past transgressions. The short story is a solid 4.

MMWUC: Lanky Blonde On Couch

Let's focus people. NANOWRIMO is coming in a few weeks. Get those pre-made meals stack in the freezer. Pay those bills ahead of time. Get an outline started. Catch up on your sleep. 50,000 words in one month is so easy for some; so hard for others; damn near impossible for about 80% of the writers who sign up.

My second published novel, A MATTER OF FAITH, was a NANO winner of 79,000 words. And even though I have failed to reach the magical heights of NANO success in recent years, it has certainly jump started several projects. And remember, sometimes you have to eject the crap out of your fingers before magical story lightning hits the keyboard.

So, are you participating? Are you prepared? Even if your answer is no, the only rule is: writers write! Set your own goal and keeping it going, even November, even as you chuckle about us slaves to the 1,667 word per day goal.

I'm cheating. Here's my opening.

--------------------------------

I drained the beer then belched. I wasn't a pleasant sight, but I wasn't in the worst shape. The lanky blond was passed out on the couch, and I could see the redhead's feet, hanging off the end of my bed through the open door to my bedroom. They arrived drunk, got drunker, and I wasn't even sure I knew their names. The blond had a pink bra on that showed through her damp, white tee-shirt and jeans with beaded-thong sandals. Those beads must hurt. I think she played on the MU's women's volleyball team. She had to be about six feet tall. The cute redhead had on a jean skirt with a Hello Kitty pajama top. She was toned and probably an athlete also. She arrived barefoot and in much worse shape than the blond. I think they were freshmen, taking easy summer courses to remain eligible as sophomores.

"Debbie and Mandy," I said.

Ron snorted awake. He was reclined in the lazy-boy we took out of the trash bin a month ago. "What?"

"The names of the girls. I think." I wished he'd never entered my life.

Coach had draped his arm over my shoulder late last spring. "Take Ron in for summer school. Make sure he passes his courses. It's only twelve weeks. What can go wrong?"

The answer was plenty could go wrong. Cue balls have higher IQs than Ron, but he could run. So I kept him running. Two a day practices, weights, morning classes for which my air horn came in handy for getting him up. And then, I let him tag along with me to the radio station while he did homework. Being on the radio was a huge carrot for this dude.

"Girls?" He looked around the living room. His hair flopped over his eyes. He smiled, "Yeah, girls." He righted the chair and his smile crashed onto his chest with his chin. "Damn, I don't remember. When did they come? What time is it?"

"It's three o'clock. The crew has left. I'm hornier than hell, and there's two girls here that we haven't a chance with. Very frustrating." My girlfriend dumped me during the late shift on the radio over the air during an album request hour. Not cool. I could have any 14- or 15-year-old frustrated teenage girl in the tri-county area, but at twenty-six, I wasn't looking for jail time. It was bad enough when they hung out after hours.

"Does your mom know you're out here?" I've asked more than a few. "Oh, it's okay. She's out with her boyfriend. She won't say nothing to me, because then I'd tell daddy where she's been while he was out of town." Yeah, that's the ticket for me. A fifteen-year-old with the morals of an alley-cat with parental approval.

I'd only had four beers all night. I might have even been technically sober. And I was getting too old for this life. I was glad I had put off college for the army, because I probably would have been as young and stupid as these morons had I gone to college at eighteen. However, I needed to be moving on and glad that I only had one more semester left.

I pushed off my chair and headed for my bedroom. Ron peeled himself from the lazy boy and went to the john.

The redhead was face-down on the bed. I rolled her over to wake her up so she and her friend could sashay on back to wherever home was. I knew immediately she was dead.

MMWUC: On Vacation, Writing, and Cows

My question three weeks ago was: Can writers go on vacation?

My answer is: No. As long as there is a story in our mind or one that needs editing or an email reply, Facebook retort, Twitter wisecrack, LinkedIn comment to answer, the truth is, writer's love words and love sharing them. I don't believe a writer can go on vacation like a research scientist. True, the scientist can think about work, but I'm sure they don't take electron microscopes on vacation as easily as a writer takes a pad of paper and pencil as the minimal tool set.

Could you write here?

Thanks goodness for the lack of a vacation. Even cows standing in the fields inspire stories.

Cow stops chewing and asks, "We do?"

- - - BESSIE - - -

Bessie snorted. She cleared her massive air passages just as the crow landed on her back. She snorted again. Bessie mooed; the crow cawed. It was--

"Hello again. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks. Nice batch of yummy, fat flies hanging around you today."

Cow

The crow had been doing this since the middle of the hot time, when Bessie just didn't seem to want to eat any more like the other cows who grazed all day across the big pasture. She only moved when she needed to. She would eat at the corner of the old barn then waddle to the shade of the oak tree to rest and then tromp down to the watering hole. She repeated this six or seven times a day. She'd nibble on grass either side of the path she had created, tossed her feces as fertilizer for a new batch of sweet grass, and allowed her hooves to break the hard ground so that seeds could get a foothold. Every time she had her fill of water and left for the old, rickety barn, the crow would alight on her back. This happened all day long, except for milking time in the milking barn, a time she'd come to dread.

The first time the crow landed on her back, Bessie got scared. She bucked the crow off. The crow cawed several times. It was--

"How rude. What did I do? Just hungry. A bit tired. Your big; I'm small."

Crow

After two more times with the crow landing with a bit more warning beforehand, Bessie had accepted and even looked forward to the crow's scratchy massage of her back. Her tail couldn't reach some places to shoo away the flies any longer and a annoying itch remained from years ago when the man put a harness on her daily and made her walk in circles for hours, listening to the irritating sound of a grinding wheel. She hated the harness and despised the walks in the sweltering heat of the barn that had no air movement. She also hated the milk machine as it bled her dry and then some. He wanted every last drop of milk she could produce. Her teats hurt all the time.

So, the crow hitched a ride three to five times a day now, even as the weather cooled. Bessie didn't say much more than an occasional moo while the crow cawed incessantly. It was--

"See the hawk. Hate the hawk. Why'd the chicken cross the road? What's a road? Ha ha! No seriously, what's a road? Look Buzzards. Oh no! There's the man. Gotta go."

Bessie usually just mooed, "Uh huh." After arriving at her spot near the old, run-down barn, Bessie would head butt it, making some hay that was stored above fall down, and then wait for the mice to get some grain before she ate. Bessie hated mice; the crow was nice enough to pick them up and take them away, removing them from Bessie's sight. It had been much better since the crow had arrived.

Today though, she didn't like the fragrance wafting in the wind, but understood the nature of man and the season of cows disappearing into smelly building. She knew lack of milk production was an issue. She knew it was nearing her time to disappear into the smelly building. It was routine.

She stood there thinking that she had tried her best to keep up with expected fifty-five pounds of milk per day and dutifully walked into the barn morning, noon, and night for milking. It was routine. Cows like routine; she liked routine. However, she was getting on in years. Early in the summer, she could only muster about forty pounds per day. It didn't help that the man would slap her on the backside more often when she lagged behind with filling the tank. The slap on her leaner side just made her tense, and the flow would slow up. She leaked milk now on her path occasionally when the tension eased after milking. The man, more than once, said it was unacceptable. Now, she was lucky she could pump out twenty pounds even with the man encouraging her to try harder.

"Stupid cow. You cost too much to feed. You'll be a side before long." Another slap on the hind quarters. "Should have never allowed the kids to name you. But they're out of the house. Gone. What they don't know won't hurt them." He cackled and moved on to the next cow.

Bessie would try to explain. "Moo." The man wasn't interested in explanations. She'd ask, "Moo. What's a side?" He never answered her questions.

The crow alighted as usual after Bessie took a few mouthfuls of water. Her thirst wasn't what it used to be. She turned and headed back to the old dilapidated barn. The crow talked as usual. It was--

"Cold last night. Saw frost. Kids fledged this morning. Life is good. Did you catch the Packer game last night? What's a packer? Ha ha! You're moving slow today. Are you okay?"

They'd reached the barn; she head-butted it; mice scurried; the crow caught two. Amazing, Bessie thought.

Pop! The sound made Bessie flinch. Something dropped from the sky onto the crow. He dropped his mice. Bessie backed up a few feet. The man came running. The crow was flopping on the ground in a net. It was--

"What is this fresh hell? How do I get out? I don't like this. Where are my mice? Oh no! There's the man. Gotta go. Can't! What is this fresh hell?"

"Gotcha." The man exclaimed. "You black-devil, corn-stealing thief of a bird."

Bessie watched the man extract the crow from under the net. He put a bag over the crow's head. It didn't stop the crow from cursing the man and calling out a word of caution to the other crows gathering nearby not get too close to the man. It was--

"Save yourselves."

Bessie listened. She realized that the multiple voices from the gathering crows were his family: father and mother, grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, and three of his kids, about twenty altogether, though Bessie wasn't very good at math. They were all screaming for the man to let the crow go. Bessie chewed her cud, confused. This is not the routine. The crow scratched the man several times, and before the man got the bag over the crow's head, the crow had bitten him twice. Feisty. Bessie had heard the man call the old gray mare that once. It fit this scene. The man carried the crow to the smelly building, and Bessie wondered if the crow was going to become a side. Whatever that was.

Later, the man came back outside. He had tied a dried corn cob with the husky tassel end hanging down to a small bit of twine. He had tied the other end to the crow's feet. Was the farmer giving the crows something to eat?

The farmer held up the crow, displaying him to the other crows who'd become silent. "Y'all get your noisy, crop stealing selves out of here or one by one I'll do the same to all of you. I know your routine."

The man pulled out a small stick. It was a special stick. Bessie had seen it before and didn't like it. The man used it to make fire for the other thing he put in his mouth, cigarette. Bessie was very much afraid of fire. She stomped the ground and backed up a few more feet. She was glad the other cows were out in the big field. Fire had made them run stupid in the past, and she didn't feel like running, but she didn't want to be near the other cows or the fire. It was hot, it hurt, it smelled, it made other things catch on fire. And then, there would be more fire, and the other cows would run. And she couldn't run fast any longer. She did not want to die in a stampede. That would be stupid.

Bessie looked on in horror. The man whipped the bag off the crow's head, and then lit the stick. The stick lit the husk on fire. "Here take this back to your nest." He let the crow go with the husk on fire. Flames licked up to the crow's behind. The crow flew. The farmer laughed. "Die. Ha ha! Burn, baby, burn." The crow screamed his caws. The other crows screamed back. "What do we do? What do we do?" The crow could barely fly, but he rose, flames tickling his tail feathers. The effort was difficult. He screamed his caw. It was--

"It hurts! It hurts! Damn, it hurts!"

He went to the farmer's house and barely made it to the roof. The farmer stopped laughing. He ran at the crow. "Get the hell off my roof." He picked up a rock and threw it at the crow. The crow obliged and started flying again. He was screaming louder and more often. The other crows were screaming. Bessie was mooing, shedding great big tears to the ground, because she knew this was wrong on so many levels, but didn't understand why.

The exhausted crow paused on the smelly building before the farmer threw rocks at him again. He flew off the smelly building after a small rock nicked him. The farmer turned to his house. The burning husk of the cob had caught the roof on fire. The man ran to the hose. The crow landed on the milking barn with a thud. He cawed. It was-

"Help me. Help me."

Bessie mooed. The crow glided down to Bessie, plopping on the ground in front of her. The first of the crow's long tail feathers had caught fire, the singed smell was repugnant to Bessie. She stepped forward and sniffed the crow. Smoked filled her nose. The fire flickered at her snout. She snorted, and for a moment, the fire retreated. Bessie snorted again with all her might, and despite the pain of the fire brushing up against her cheek, she chewed through the twine, and brushed the freed crow away from the flaming cob. The crow had just enough energy to flap up onto her back. With crow aboard, digging his claws into her hide, she rain to the water hole with the memory of being a calf, running endlessly against the wind and flopping without a care into the water arose. Long forgotten feelings erupted: freedom, happiness, and joy.

She barreled into the cool water. The crow fell in with her. She stuck her whole head under the water.

When she pulled her head out of the water, the pain was still there, but not as intense. The crow, with wings outstretched, floated on the surface like a strange duck. He cawed in relief; she mooed a laugh. Ducks always made her laugh. The other crows had gathered around and were all cawing so loud and at the same time that Bessie couldn't understand what they were saying. The crow farted in the water; all the crows laughed their caws.

A scream erupted behind her, and Bessie turned around to see the milking barn glowing bright yellow and red from the flames. Smoke filled the air. The man was spraying his hose everywhere, but all the buildings were burning, except the dilapidated barn where the Bessie's hay was stored.

Hours later, Bessie sat under the oak tree, exhausted. The crow sat on her back, still and quiet. The rest of the crow family had gone back to their nests. Many other men had come and gone. The house, the smelly building, and the barn were black, smoldering heaps on the ground. Bessie's barn mates had been moved on to other fields or barns. It was routine. They had to be milked. Bessie would sleep under the oak tree tonight. The man in the white coat felt that was best.

"Take some time to rest old gal," he had said.

Some milk had squeezed out of Bessie when she lay down, a bunch of mice and a barn cat from the milking barn had called a truce and lapped up the milk. The spillage was enough to make Bessie feel comfortable. The man in the white coat had gently rubbed something on her snout and cheek earlier. It had made her face feel better, and she had allowed the crow to wipe the tips of his burnt tail feathers in greasy ointment. It seemed to make him happy.

The light was fading; the wind had changed direction and a gentle cool breeze replaced the acrid smell. A big moon rose in the sky. She hoped she'd have the dream where she jumped the moon. It was such a pleasant dream. In the dream she was weightless and without a care.

Bessie's Dream

Over by the milking barn, the man was sobbing. Bessie felt sorry for him. A man in blue stood next to him, writing something down on a piece of paper. "Just how much corn could that crow have been stealing?" The man shrugged his shoulder, shook his head, and sobbed harder.

The crow cawed once: It was--

"Thanks." He bent his head backwards into his folded wings.

Bessie sighed a deep long moo. She thought about the weird day. She was so tired. More tired than she'd ever been. The man's actions hadn't been part of the routine, and she wondered what it all meant, but Bessie didn't have deep thoughts. She was just a cow and glad the fire hadn't done any real damage. The other cows were milked and safe; the crow lived; the man was still there to fix the routine. She chewed her cud a few times, snorted, then went to sleep for the last time.

- - - THE END - - -

Coming 11/1/12, a new novel by Rick Bylina - SECRETS - How do you move on when you wife dies and you're accused of doing it?

And y'all thought I was kidding about my wife's cleaning spree up at the cottage and how it's disrupting my vacation.

The white tornado has struck.

MMWUC: Dreams of my Dreams

The last week at the cabin begins. I'm listening to the crackling fire as it warms my skin, smelling the last essence of a once mighty northern pine toppled last year in a windstorm, much like the thirty mile per hour gusts rampaging outside today. My cup of Folgers coffee, perfectly blended with five spoonful's of sugar and a dose of half 'n half, warms me from the inside. The leaves have finally decide to change colors...a week later than last year. My wife awoke at five in the morning to greet the sun: it hide behind a bank of clouds to tease and anger her. I slept and dreamt of high school friends, some I haven't seen since graduation: Michael Funk was there. Bob Silk was playing a practical joke on someone. Sharon Gyeski giggled behind me in Geography class. Mark Baumeister, Joey Capolunghi, Pete Palmer, and I squeezed into Phil Spies' corvair. Funny thing is, I don't remember Pete doing it in the past. Debbie Betham (God rest her soul) giggled at something, head nodding. On and on it went, but the odd thing is, we were all in Berlin, Germany, where I went to protect our freedom instead of Saigon in late 1974. (Wiping my brow on that one.)

I guess vacation is like that. Stepping away from the current familiar, lounging around on Facebook, ignoring home chores. And if my wife stops cleaning the cottage, shuts off the vacuum, sits and relaxes, I just might let her live so we can both return next year. Otherwise, I'll have a new experience for the senses: the sound of slamming bars in the state penitentiary for murder. I wonder who I'll dream about there?

Is it time to write a high school reunion story? Have you written yours? Did classmates threaten to kill you over it?

Book Review - Cutter's Bizaar

Link to Amazon

And now for something different--Cutter'sBizaar. It is perhaps fitting that the first chapter of this literary coming of age novel is a dream occurring at some unclear moment later in Frank Cutter's life, because the last chapter brings us full circle to the promise the opening reveals about his life, and what the future holds on this continuing journey. The story arc runs true.

Throughout the novel, his dreams (apparitions) paint pictures of the critical points in his journey from a wise-beyond-his-years, 15-year-old cowboy in Wyoming to a fashion photographer of international notoriety by age 25. His innate talent lies in an uncanny ability to get models to project what he needs for a successful shoot, becoming the equivalent of the horse whisperer to the models. And the exact nature of the talent is elusive to me, just as Howard Roark's ability to design buildings of unique beauty in "The Fountainhead" never fully formed in my mind. Is it coincidence that Cutter's tragically-doomed mentor was named Roark? I don't think so. If a talent like Roark's or Cutter's was so easy, we too would know it when we saw it, and most cannot see nor embrace it.

The narration-heavy story has an elusive plot that the reader must work at, which involves Cutter's search for true (perfect) love. Some strong language and sexual situations infuse his journey; however, they are not gratuitous. The writing is clean and uncluttered, and there is a calmness in the voice that invites you along, even when horrific things happens in Cutter's life. I can see action-oriented people grumbling, "Boring," and at times I wished Cutter had not have kept me at arm's length, not letting me in any more than he let many of the people in his life. In sum, it is a very good read and a solid 4 from me. Full disclosure: I was given a copy of the book for a review.

MMWUC - Are we there yet?

I'm editing my novel, still; revising my edits, pouring over critiques, running spell checks, performing grammar checks, looking over what my first readers had to say, listening for echoes, checking for misused words, color-coding sentences to ensure each one shows action, identifying motivation, heightening the emotions of the characters, revealing something, raising the stakes, and tightening the action.

Oh God! Should I remove the scene at the church? Does it really mean what I think it does or is it snoozeville for the reader? Are there some characters that I don't need? Does that guy Bob really need to be in the story? Do I really have to pile bad things on top of bad things on top the horrible things for my protagonist? I feel his pain, and I've gotten teary-eyed at the end of my own story.

The editor has gone through the book and has volunteered to read it again as a reader this time to give me an "emotional" feel about the book and look for anything she might have missed the first time around. But it is at this end game to the book that makes me wonder what more could I have done.

Yes, I know its an unconventional mystery, and is more about healing at times, subordinating the mystery for lengthy periods of time while the protagonist gathers strength and grows while fighting inner demons rather than outer conflicts. Is that a mistake or is it just another way to look at a mystery?

Arg! Maybe I should through it in the garbage can. I've been thinking about a new story.

Fed up with congressional impotence, former Playboy centerfold, Ima Lotta, rejects her cushy lifestyle to run for Congress. "Well, there are a lot of boobs there already. So I'm a natural." After a surprise win of her congressional seat, she quickly becomes a Capital Hill favorite by her efforts to get congressional members to agree on passing measures that are sent to the President for signature. "The work is so exhausting, but so thrilling." She is then voted in as President pro tempore of the Senate, over the objections of many. After the President, Vice-President, and Speaker of the House are killed in a hot dog eating contest during her 36th birthday party, she becomes President of the United States by succession. Then, the fun begins.

Okay, it's late. I'm tired. I'm on vacation. What do you want?

Book Review: Enemy in Blue

Enemy in Blue

Empty your bladder, have your favorite drink ready, sit in your comfy chair, and read. Don't stop. That is the only way to get through Enemy in Blue by Derek Blass. If you stop reading and think about this story, you might not finish it. Suspension of disbelief is lacking because there are so many plot holes throughout. I will not list them in deference to the people who love thrillers that rely on the constant building of hate for characters and unbridled violence to keep themselves entertained, regardless of the lack of commonsense or cohesion within the story.

The writing and twists are fine; the character backstories interesting, but superficial. The plot line has merit, but was born from the thriller-in-the-vacuum of reality hatchery. That's why you need to read it fast. Just like Steve Martin's movie "The Jerk" where you mumbled, "What a jerk," at his antics, I kept mumbling, "This is so stupid," with regard to some of the action. Example: the reporter, kidnapped, beaten, and face blistered from burns, is thrown into a car with the "good guys" for a long drive to Mexico to help fight the bad guys. This is so stupid. She wasn't capable of fighting anyone! She needed medical attention, but I guess the author needed to create a romance angle with the lawyer. And depending upon who was doing the driving in this story, different desperate drivers drove to the same spot in Mexico anywhere from 8 hours (police chief) to 4 days (the wives).

But even for thriller lovers, I don't understand all the 5 ratings. Four maybe. As I read to the end of the story and the unbelievable (not in a good sense) trial, I kept wondering if the author was ever going to bring back the seventh cop at the initial opening scene as a surprise gotcha witness. Sadly, another loose end. And yes, there was a seventh cop. A cop had to be driving the SWAT vehicle as the team rode in the back to the initial crime scene. Guess I should have read faster over that point. If you're detail oriented, this is a 2; otherwise, this is a 3.

MMWUC - Writer's Vacation

Obligatory Cute Animal High-Fiving

As most of the free world knows, I'm on vacation at the family cabin in northern Wisconsin overlooking the shores of Lake Enterprise. But, someone commented, "Does a writer ever go on vacation?" I forget my snappy response, lost in a sea of other words that needed more consideration. But even while being in suspended animation from the act of writing, I've jotted down ideas for seven more stories; two even sound promising. Here's a sampling.

* Sixteen-year-old Evelyn Crishler awoke pregnant, having never known the touch of a man: the second coming or human evolution? Her problems have only just begun.

* At a cabin on a remote lake, frustrated writer Sam Bly finds six dead teenagers while walking in the woods then discovers he's not alone.

* When a small meteorite smacks into a small lake drowning residents in vacation cabins, only Josh Johnson survives, but who is he?

* Four octogenarian women gather at the lake cabin for a last time after coming up to it for seventy years. Will old stories draw them together or tear them apart?

And on and on it goes. So I guess: writers never stop, they just give the keyboard a vacation.
- - -
Five years ago, someone on the Murder Must Advertise site once asked for help with promoting her book. I, never without something to say, wrote back with a dozen ideas. This was one of them.

* Do a rapping' grandma bit about your novel for YouTube.  That'd be different and would attract the younger audience.

"Murder, mayhem in the old south

Crawdads and shrimp fill up your mouth

Old folks read more murders these days

Go buy my book for gramps today.

I am June Shaw and I write books

Dash of murder and girls with looks

C'mon move and live the danger

Buy my book Relative Stranger"

I guess I scared her. The book is now titled Relative Danger. Advise from this odd-ball stranger was just too much to handle.

MMWUC - Flash Fiction Sounding Not Like Me

Owe That Dog a Bone

---------------------------

even before i pull down the black bag Fluffy knows i am going he would shred it but he fears it

the black suitcase masters me

a neighborly wave i am gone wishin i had time for one more cup of joe one more cinnimon roll one more warm embrace one more walk around the place but the cold air smacks me awake and the crossroads of america beckon

i waved at someone on another bus opposite heading

could we switch rides for the joys of coming home

i unpack black bag and a hard rubber chew bone drops out guess he figured an offering to the black bag might keep me home

i owe that dog a bone

- - -

Your wake up call is to write out of your style, your comfort zone. To boldly go where your pen has never gone before.

- - -

WALT WHITMAN TURNS OVER IN HIS LEAVES

------------------------------------------------------------

There was an old man from New Jersey

Who thought that writing so easy

He sat on his bed

and emptied his head

But all his poems turned out sleazy

Book Review: Coast Access

Amazon Link

Got to hand it to Walter Ramsey. He keeps his protagonist, Tucker Lee Anderson, a divorced ex-sports editor now doing investigative journalism with the aid of visions and an ancestral Indian ghost, busy. Coastal Access is the second book featuring Tucker. With the aid of friends, dubious friends, bungling enemies, and a mysterious friend, Doug, Tucker stumbles into a conspiracy that threatens not only his life and the lives of others he loves, but the way of life in coastal Florida.

Truth be known, I read this book in the revision stages, then again, breezed through a published copy. While there are some stretches of believability, beyond the limited paranormal aspects of the story, it is an intriguing read with plenty of twists, turns, and surprise revelations in the taut story. When the action hits close to home, Tucker finally exposes more of himself, deepening the story. I'd like to see more of it in future stories. Some of the secondary characters are not as fully developed as I like, but they serve their purpose to move the plot forward, making it worth rooting for the downfall of the bad guys even when it seems they hold all the cards.

This is a quick summer read that will keep you turning pages. The writing is strong and without grammatical bumps in the night. I found the multiple viewpoints a bit rough to start the story, but it smoothed out quick enough to a comfortable read. With the wide range of characters, there are times when I think Ramsey wants to channel his inner Carl Hiassen. Someday perhaps he will. I can't hang ten or anything else on a surfboard, but I'm hanging a solid "4" for this book. 

MMWUC - What are you doing?

I'm revising my next novel, SECRETS. I received 492 chapter critiques (and counting) from my good friends on the Internet Writing Workshop (IWW). They'll all get a prize WHEN I sell 10,000 copies of this book, which I intend to do. I revised for 1392 minutes this weekend, according to a counter I didn't know was in MSWord2010 -- let me hide all your favorite shortcuts from MS2003. That's just short of 24 hours this weekend.

So, I want to see, in comments, fifty people tell me what they are currently doing to their current Work-in-Progress (WIP) and when we can expect to see it. Telling us, will help motivate you.

Do it!

P.S. Y'all get to high ground down there where H. Isaac is coming.

P.P.S. I still need more guest bloggers for when I'm on vacation. Email me.

Book Review: At Risk

Amazon Link

A mystery about greed and revenge is at the center of AtRisk by Kit Ehrman, but horses dominate the page. I don't know anything about horses other than the one time I rode a horse named Buck. I should have taken the hint from his name. Nevertheless, all the horse terminology and possible horse shenanigans (in and out of the business) kept me in the story despite some level of detail that I didn't fully understand. Make no mistake about it, this story starts out and ends violently. There is a fair amount of foul language and some mild sex scenes. It may not be everyone's cup of tea. If those elements bother you, just find another story. To me, it felt like an honest, if sometimes a bit raw, slice of life given the players involved.

While the protagonist, Steve Cline, acts responsibly beyond his 21 years, he chooses some terrible moments to act clueless. That reversal threw me a few times. Also, I felt the investigation was slightly off, looking for the microscopic evidence when real evidence sat in plain sight as big as a barn. I won't spoil it, because it was good read, but I wasn't super impressed with the professional investigators. It lead to some yelling at the electrons on my Kindle.

Some unanswered questions remain by the end of the story, but I assume a few of these are answered in other books in the series. Not sure why other reviewers (yes, I peeked) had issues with the love aspect of the story. For me, it heightened my interest and gave the story a bit more depth. I did have some difficultly though with character identification and how Steve managed with multiple episodes without sleep (ah, youth). This is a solid read. Horse fanciers might neigh at my rating, wanting it higher, but I think it is a solid "4".