- -Larry Schliessmann's Marlowe Black Mysteries

Writing Noir Mysteries Part 3

2011-08-31T05:34:00.000-07:00

A perfect example of setting the mood can be seen in the movie "Somewhere in Time" with Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour. While the movie is dated, the technique is wonderful and what any writer of historical fiction needs to apply to their story from beginning to end. You cannot have your protagonist using anything, seeing or saying anything "out of time." For example many modern words and phrases were not used in earlier times.

Do your research. Immerse yourself, put objects from the time you're writing where you can see them, listen to the music, read magazines and books printed then. Try to understand their world, their concerns.

After that word from our sponsor, now back to our story.

~~~

Outside lightning flashes backlight the window's signs. It steals a second of your attention, and you turn away from the men by the jukebox when you hear the waitress approaching. Your hand drops from the .38, jacket covering it as you look up, smile and say, "Don't I know you?"

She places your glass of beer, with a two-inch foam head, on a cardboard Reingold coaster, a glass bowl filled with peanuts on the center of the table before answering. "You know that's a pretty weak line."

You smile and nod. "You must hear it a dozen times a night." The beer tastes just right, nice, and cold as it slides down your throat.

"Not from a guy like you." Her smile seems to warm as she examines your face. She nods slowly. "Yeah, I think so."

Now you're wondering what she is agreeing to, so wait to give her a chance to tell you.

"I think we went to school together, but then you disappeared right?"

You point at the empty chair. "Why don't you sit for a second or two if the boss will let you."

She looks over at the bar, and then shrugs, sits and reaches for a peanut, cracks the shell.

"What happened to you back then?" she asks without looking up.

"Dropped out to enlist, fighting seemed more important to me."

"You look like you made it through okay." She leaves the cracked peanut in the bowl, lifts a second one.

"I got lucky." You wish you had not started talking about the war.

The sound of a chair scraping the floor from across the room seems louder than the piano as the player begins "I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm." One of the women standing near the piano starts singing with a million dollar voice.

A quick glance at the two men you hoped to avoid shows you one walking in your direction. He doesn't act as if he sees you, passes by heading to the restrooms.

The waitress, you see when you turn back to her, looks confused as if your sudden lack of interest causes her concern.

What is her name?

"Sorry," you tell her. "I'm too easily distracted tonight, been a long day."

"What do you do these days?" She sounds like she thinks your answer might be important to her.

"I'm a private cop," you start to explain and stop abruptly when you feel the barrel of a gun pressed hard into the middle of your back.

The waitress's eyes widen. She looks over your head and nods as if she received a silent message. "Stop by again next time you're in our neighborhood." She leaves before you can respond.

"Let's go pal," the guy behind you speaks close to your ear. His beer and cigar breath combs you neck. "We need to speak with you outside."

To be continued

Writing Noir Mysteries Part 2

2011-08-30T04:51:00.000-07:00

Walking a darkened street in a noir mystery city, peeling back today step by step, hearing rainfall as the sky darkens once the sun drops below the uneven skyline. It's not heavy rain, but a light shower lifting odors off the sidewalk, the strip of grass with small maple trees every hundred feet. Their leaves are beginning to turn September into October.

The sounds of traffic lessen as evening progresses and your steps lead you away from the vibrant heart of entertainment. You seek solace where most would not look for it, turning a corner when the white and colored neon lights from a neighborhood tavern a block away grab your attention.

Rain on the sidewalk fills cracks and holes, softening the sound of your leather-soled footsteps. The road is out of the way enough that traffic becomes infrequent, and when a car rolls by the tires hiss the water accumulating on the pavement as twists of smoke rumble from the exhaust pipe beneath the chrome rear bumper.

Nearing the tavern, you hear the muffled sounds of voices, light laughter, in the background someone playing an upright piano, you discover as you press your hand to the door slowly opening and entering.

The air feels warm, even inviting, which is when you realize that outside the temperature drops with nightfall. You smell the smoke from cigarettes and cigars, beer and perfume and the people all around the room. Several of those sitting along the wood-topped bar glance back to see who entered.

You reach up and touch the brim of your fedora, a greeting, everyone understands. Several of them nod, or smile a welcome.

You cross the room, noticing the scuffed oak flooring to get closer to the musician. Several women stand to one side watching and listening as his fingers caress the ivories.

A pay telephone hangs to the right of the piano where a small hallway leads back to the restrooms.

On the top of the piano sits a tumbler with a few old dollar bills stuffed inside.

You glance around, spot an empty table, then sit, and wave over the waitress after you hang your overcoat and hat on the brass hook mounted on the wall beside the table.

The waitress looks like a girl you once knew, but now a dozen years older. Strands of her straw colored hair, held back in a ponytail, slipped free, and she blows it away when it dangles before her light blue eyes. Her red lipstick needs refreshing, red nail polish looks chipped. She wears a light green, bibbed dress that hangs below her knees with a lightly soiled yellow apron tied around her narrow waist.

She pulls her hips to the left when a guy at the bar reaches out to pat her. But her face lights with a grin as she shakes her head and says, "Watch where you try to put that hand of yours, buster."

"Can't blame a guy for trying, Pam," he answers, grinning too, and you find yourself feeling more comfortable than you suspected you might when you first entered.

"What can I get you?" the waitress asks, still smiling, when she stops alongside your table.

"I'll have a Reingold on tap and some peanuts if you've got them," you tell her and hand her a dollar.

"Be right back," she says and you again wonder if she's that girl you knew back in the old neighborhood.

Across the room, you see a new jukebox; lights marching up over and down the neon panel-like mantel. A stack of small 78s wait for a nickel to be inserted, lifting and lowering the chosen disk beneath the metal arm with a needle to draw out the wailing voices and back up instrumentals.

Alongside the jukebox, you spot two older men. Neither seem interested in anything but each other. Because of the way they lean forward, their creased foreheads and the silent but obviously angry words they pass back and forth, you unbutton your suit jacket, and let your fingers caress the gnarled grip of the .38 sitting in a worn leather holster under your left arm. You know both men, hoped you might avoid them by coming to that particular neighborhood, and now wait with uncomfortable anticipation for them to see you.

To be continued

Writing Noir Mysteries

2011-08-29T06:26:00.000-07:00

For me the dark nature of noir fiction fills a need. Perhaps it is the simple idea that the information age, filled with digital platforms that take you wherever you desire nearly instantaneously, allows too much "light" into life. It erases much of the mystery, the challenge, until we are left with thrill seeking as a means of escaping the one-way street aspect of it.

Six decades ago, life was closer to true black and white in more ways than just photography. Nothing stood out more than the contrast between the rampant crimes that plagued large cities, and the simple lives of the new middle class struggling to forget, move beyond a brutal four-year war that claimed millions of lives.

I have said it before, some returning GIs never really came home. They lived with the memories of battles raging in the background of their thoughts. They managed to put on a good face, almost faking a normal co-existence within society.

Inside they still wanted, or needed, to prove a point that good always overcomes evil. Yet there was little they could do to make their case over the clatter of ordinary people living around them with that "live and let live attitude" we often seem to seek when we tire of wading through media sewerage.

Even law enforcement sixty years ago, on some levels, was rancid and corrupt. How could the average Joe make sense of it all?

Mickey Spillane slammed a book down on the counter titled "I, The Jury" and the answer became crystal-clear. Noir fiction, although not created during post-war times, was then reborn and gave that lonely misplaced GI in so many veterans a place to retreat and feel that, yes, there was one guy out there who got the job done. Not to mention the dames who rolled off their seamed stockings to whet Mike Hammer's appetite for more than a smoking gun barrel.

Cops loved and hated Hammer. When he walked into a bar, or a room filled with people, everyone reacted and few did so mildly.

Yet, here we are sixty years later and still the need for dark fiction lives and breathes the mystery of dead-end alleys, blood splattered rooms, and a body locked in the trunk of a car dumped in the harbor by local mobsters out to make a point.

There is no end to what writers create; vampires once feared are now walking dead lovers.

For me, however, peeling back the decades exposing smoke-filled rooms, narrow corner taverns, and a killer who walked the street without fearing local cops, needed revisiting. For us today, it was a simpler time six decades ago, but for those living then, it was anything but simple.

When I began writing Marlowe Black mysteries, he ripped apart the Velcro hiding emotional ashes of the day's events. His attitude, actions conveyed my angst. Sounds dramatic, yet so does spending yet another day in rush hour traffic, sitting in a cubicle waiting for lunch, knowing digital reality would never release its stranglehold. Soon face recognition ads will flash in every storefront as we walk down the street to board the subway, grab a bus.

Good god, rip back the freaking Velcro, please and step into a time when privacy meant respect.

More to follow.

The Great Raccoon War of 2011

2011-07-23T07:24:00.000-07:00

All of us know what pains these distant cousins of cats are. Likewise, we all know how intelligent they are too.

Since we live on the border of a state park, and our property is considered a wildlife sanctuary, raccoon invasions are an ongoing dilemma. We do our best to tolerate them despite their method of marking territory, which is using defecation, a stinking and in every other way unappealing leftover of their nocturnal visitations.

Obviously -- for your neophytes -- this tells us what they had for their pervious meals should we want to know. But I’m not a raccoon MD so would rather not know. Okay, I do not know of any raccoon MDs, so it is possible they might not want to know either.

We also live in one of the many areas suffering a severe drought. We also fill a birdbath daily, and have three bird feeders available.

Raccoons do not pay much attention to bird feeders. Too much trouble I suppose, to climb the pole for very little reward. They love the birdbath, and wash God only knows what in it every night. The water is always black the next morning.

Several days ago, one of these creatures woke me at 2:30am crying. They sound like a small child calling for help in the distance. They also cry out every few minutes for up to an hour or more.

After a wrecked night, I decided to use our humane trap and get rid of him or her.

The following night, the trap functioned perfectly. We carried the raccoon in the trunk of our Honda to a large wildlife refugee miles away, and off he went, acting surprised at the new chance for continued life.

Unfortunately, he must’ve been a she. The next night, a louder crier kept me up half the night. First he was calling from a good distance, then got closer and closer.

The next morning, sure enough, he left a steaming, or it would’ve been if this was winter, pile to let us know what he ate, that he was here, and, I imagine, what he thought of our removing his lady friend.

“Okay, pal,” I announced with the usual feeling of human superiority. “You want to be with her, I’ll make it happen!”

Cleverly, I loaded the trap with half a can of stinky cat food, some kind of fish concoction if you need to know, placed far into the trap in a plastic cat dish -- nothing but the finest for our annoying friends -- and smugly went in for the night.

About 10:30pm, I heard a series of noises, which I deduced came from the large metal and wire trap. The final sound seemed to be the door slamming shut.

I slept well.

Awaking early, I went out to rub in my success, let the little creep know what I thought of him and his lady friend’s 2am serenades.

The trap was empty.

The bowl was missing.

Somehow, he managed to crawl into the trap, reach over the pressure plate that, were he to touch it, would drop the door, and removed the entire bowl . . . backing out.

We found the bowl later in the day tossed aside like a drunk might an empty beer can.

I felt speechless. stunned, and began to wonder just how smart are raccoons? Do they really want humans to be aware of their amazing abilities to think through a problem and find a workable solution? Are they next in line in evolution’s plan when we vasty superior humans kill ourselves off as we seem to be in a hurry to do?

“I’ll teach you,” I announced feeling that I needed to prove that humanity ruled, that we are the top of the food chain.

With due diligence, I drill two holes in the bottom of the food dish, ran a wire through them and wired the darn thing to the bottom of the trap.

That night, I filled it with the remainder of the cat food, brushed off my hands over the set trap, and called, “Bring it on!” Kind of feeling like GWB on the aircraft carrier, or was that-- never mind.

Almost exactly twenty-four hours later, the same sounds as the previous night filled the quiet evening.

“Yes!” I thought and slept well again.

This morning, ready to haul his furry butt away to join his lady friend, I strode confidently out to the humane trap, and discovered the door open, the bowl empty and a neat pile of, yup, feces.

“Sonofa,” I started, stopped and had to smile.

“All right! Let the Raccoon Wars begin pal! One of us will be here in the end; the other, well your lady friend is waiting.”

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The Spider, Kurt Vonnegut, and Life

2011-06-22T06:55:00.000-07:00

I do not wax as eloquently as many other writers. The words do not slide from brain to fingertips, but require a forced effort that feels a bit painful at times. I’m slightly dyslexic, hate then and than, and find commas troubling.

A Kurt Vonnegut fan asked him to write down where he got his ideas. Very successful writers hear questions like this with what must be a tiring amount of regularity. I suppose wannabe writers hope to glean a thread of the mystery behind success, hoping it will appear in the response so they can then weave that thread through the tapestry of their lives and, therefore, succeed themselves.

Kurt Vonnegut normally replied with a humorous retort about how, as a young man, he quickly learned he was not good at anything else. I always enjoyed that answer, but once, if not more, he responded with what may’ve been closer to the heart of his need to write, because all true writers sit before a keyboard for one reason alone. They must write, or wither. It's an emotional drive with roots in places that surprises some people, and often ourselves too.

The response he wrote regarding his source of ideas, that I found terrific enough to have it hanging on the wall of my office is this:

“Where do I get my ideas from? You might have asked that of Beethoven. He was goofing around Germany like everybody else, and all of a sudden this stuff came gushing out of him. It was music.

“I was goofing around like everybody else in Indiana, and all of a sudden stuff came gushing out. It was disgust with civilization.”

I agree, and I agree and write because I would rather not wither and die, because civilization depends on the words and ideas of those driven to express them in whatever way possible.

My wife and I have traveled through the last two plus years ducking and dodging life’s deadly assault. She attended six funerals since 2009, family and very close friends. I was with her for four of them. There would’ve been a seventh, but my dear uncle Louis Wilson died in Vermont during the middle of winter.

His death was brutal for me, made more so by the passing of my wonderful mother-in-law. Losing two souls like them was the same as having stars one depends on for life’s navigation suddenly, unexpectedly, extinguished. The loss left me stumbling around in a type of darkness hitherto unthinkable.

The day after my mother-in-law’s funeral, I sat on our ground floor open porch watching a creature my wife and I had nurtured and encouraged since she wove an eight foot web across the porch’s left side where it opens into the backyard.

I sat that day with a blank lined yellow pad and a pen hoping for some revelation to spring forth and save me from the pain choking my heart and mind. The golden spider, a silk weaver whose scientific name escapes me right now, stoically awaited the next insect to cross her path.

Beyond her, the sky darkened, meeting my emotions head on yet the pen remained capped and the yellow pad blank.

Long moments passed as I watched our spider wondering how she dealt with the short life bestowed on her at birth.

Then, the black sky opened and streaks of silver rain pummeled the earth. The cap came off the pen and words formed on the yellow pad.

However, it’s not the words I wrote then that I write about now. It’s the spider that needs a bit of tribute. After that terrible day, we watched and encouraged her. When she failed to get enough water because she wove her web far under the eave so rain did not reach it, we used a misting spray bottle to help her. Each time, her initial reaction was to pull back in a defensive position until she understood what we did. We talked to her before spraying and in time, it seemed, she understood that when she heard those sounds, it meant watering time. She drank greedily, using the water to carefully wash her legs and carapace. So like people in distress, fearful of outcome, longing for a comforting hug, but pulling back as if afraid the hug-giver might also clutch a knife. These are troubling times.

If the spider failed to get an insect for a day or two, we’d trap one and toss it into her web, and received the same defensive reaction from her. But she ate the insects and drank the water. Finally, she deposited eggs into an egg sack she wove. After, she looked shrunken and close to dying. We weren’t ready to lose her too, so resumed supplementing her diet and a few days later, she looked restored.

She left a total of four egg sacks, which we declared we would protect and defend after she was gone. I know that sounds ridiculous, but honestly who cares? At least, we felt, here is some life we can preserve, protect, and see develop. So unlike the people around us struggling against a machine that dissolves their freedom and independence.

The scientific community declares that animals and insects cannot understand or communicate with humans or even other animal and insect species. Yet, on what level do they understand intelligence? Human only. A catastrophic event ended the age of dinosaurs, they say, which made it possible for humans to evolve. This, to the scientific mind was a series of coincidences, not events planned by a force greater then the human mind as if no such force could exist only because the human mind declares it so. Such arrogance. Where did human thought originate?

But life, to me and what I’m writing about is not due to a series of coincidences, or the terminology of correctness such as the scientific name for the yellow garden spider. If you chose to rattle around in the cage of semantics you will miss the values of ordinary life expressed, most often, inarticulately by ordinary voices.

One morning the garden spider was gone. It was late autumn. Her life ended. We then began our daily vigilance, driving off nature’s carnivores when they approached the egg sacks. We succeeded and winter arrived, leaving the unborn to the mercy of cold weather.

Now, with the rebirth of spring, three of the four egg sacks produced dozens of tiny, and I do mean tiny, spiders. They wander around in clusters of ten to twenty, piling up at night when it is cold, and then the next day move further from their “womb”. Their goals are unknown, as is the way they seem to know what to do to reach them.

I suppose all of this has reaffirmed, for me, that life is about the living, not the dying. My father-in-law told a joke last night. It went like this:

A doctor checked on the baby he delivered earlier in the day. He leaned over the bassinet and said softly, “You’ll never escape this alive.”

We will not, not one of us. In time everything that occurs in our lifetimes will become forgotten footnotes to human history. Even the digital age will not, cannot prevent that from happening. But what each of us can do, if we chose, is live life each day with honor and dignity, care for those around us, the less fortunate, the disabled, the elderly.

The greed of the few who think they can determine our destinations should be ignored, and in time they’re squawking and maliciousness will turn to whispers and groveling under the downfall of hope’s life-affirming silver rain.

They speak and act without honor or dignity. And honestly, isn’t that just ridiculous? Like the garden spider, or Kurt Vonnegut’s dry wit, each of us should and must serve the purpose of common good -- life on Earth

A Brief History of Noir Mysteries

2011-01-07T07:03:00.000-08:00

Noir writers wrote with a detachment most of the world felt during the years after World War 2 when a sullen hush washed across battered nations numbed by the task of recovery. Many of those writers were themselves combat veterans, and, I suspect, used writing as a means of recuperation from what we now understand as PTSD. It was as if they pictured their story plots, like men standing in the shadows of alleys while out on Main Street life progressed through the struggles writers used to convey their protagonist’s adventures but did not necessarily partake in.

Although, I believe noir fiction began under the ink stained fingers of John Carroll Daley while he wrote for the Dime Detective Magazine in the 1930s. His protagonist Race Williams was as brutal as life in the Great Depression, used violence to uphold the law as he, Race Williams, interpreted it. Readers enthralled by Daley’s writing, let the story’s darkness shed the light of hope into lives lived hand to mouth, which helped create the genre.

Mickey Spillane, who I was fortunate to spend time with during the last years of his life, as a young boy read Daley’s stories and later used what he’d learned when he walked Mike Hammer off the pages of comic books and into one of the most successful mysteries ever written, I, The Jury.

While I was a young boy, I read Mickey’s books. The pacing, tension and almost machine gun style of writing turned the pages for me. I believe that noir fiction is similar to modern Jazz as introduced in the 1950s and 1960s. It is a free form style of writing, which at times drags the reader along, coddles the senses with imagery, and at other times jerks him up in his chair as if daring him to relax and read. The characters are in your face people, with each other, and a film of tension dangles between them like spider web filament.

When I created Marlowe Black and his illegitimate son Michael Hacker McKaybees, I wanted the tension between them to navigate plots. Marlowe Black whose pregnant fiancee was murdered in the early 1950s (the plot for Sunset Orange Water) refused to ever again consider marriage. He avoided intimate relationships, staying around until emotions grew thick, and he began glancing over his shoulder should his new love face the retribution his first one had due to the nature of his profession.

When the woman who would become Hacker’s mother, announced her pregnancy in 1971, Marlowe immediately decided that he would not be seen with his new son therefore giving the boy the opportunity to live. Marlowe knew he had dragged some of his enemies through the previous decades and felt their hypothetical breaths on the back of his neck.

Now, in the twenty-first century, Marlowe, although a man nearing eighty, continues to work as a PI. He had kept an eye on his son, and provided for him and his mother. He felt pride as the boy grew into a man, but stayed away.

Until the day when an old army buddy’s son, a New York City cop, was brutally murdered and he and Hacker were considered prime suspects. Then all the rules changed, and Marlowe Black knew it was time to educate his son about dealing with criminals the old way, using fists and guns. Shoot first and ask questions should one of the enemy, be lucky, or unlucky enough to remain standing.

A Hand in the Mirror

2010-11-25T07:31:00.000-08:00

Once, I saw a photograph of a painting of the Vietnam War Memorial Wall in Washington DC. A small boy stood with his hand pressed against a name etched into the black stone. From behind the wall, a phantom-like soldier in Jungle fatigues, M-16 in one hand, pressed his hand against the wall so his palm met, from behind, the boy's palm. A father and son reached through a wall of tears to briefly, contact what both lost.

The poignant painting depicted life from both ends, allowing it to meet in the middle as if in defiance of time and space.

I always believed that Christmas transcended time and space too. That regardless of who we lost the previous year, or who we gained through marriage or birth, the fluidity of the season scooped all together in its embrace.

Wistful naivety or pensive innocence, yet somehow, I’ve since learned I was wrong, but acceptance of error came long after awareness.

The too cold night air filtered around the old red painted wooden front door despite my best efforts at weather stripping. The kit I bought, made in China of course, did not provide enough glue so I made do with some I had left over from a summer project.

Outside on the door, we hung an artificial wreath as if hanging one crafted out of real pine boughs might prove us cruel and inhuman. It bore a large shiny, plastic red ribbon and a string of brass bells too thin to ring or chime with any amount of authority. Shaking them was, to me cruel and inhuman when I listened to their pathetic tinkle.

Along with the chill that breezed into the living room, a light frost coated the edges of the windows, and fogged the ornate antique mirror hung in the narrow foyer. The mirror, passed down through the family for a half-dozen generations, had a gilded frame with an early nineteenth century style eagle perched on top. The eagle's pose made me envision, the first time I saw it, the massive bird leaping into the air, talons extended to tear into its unsuspecting prey.

Of course, he would need to first drop the arrows and olive branches, but I always believed that eagles were as close to mythical creatures as any I might ever see, like eight tiny reindeer's hooves clattering the slate roof tiles overhead.

The mirror glass was convex, bulging out like the roof of a dome, distorting images as if the designer knew something about human vanity I did not or could not conceive of.

By that night, Christmas Eve, I had walked past the mirror dozens, or hundreds of times and never used it as a mirror, mostly ignoring its presence. Perhaps, that elucidates my self-importance too well.

Of course, the old glass surface sparkled where the rear silvering remained intact. There were several frayed patches blackened by time's abuse, as the years steadily ate off the silver like a troll collecting coins from those who dared cross his bridge. I never saw any silver flakes sparking light from the floor beneath the mirror and so could never imagine where the flakes went.

The mirror hung high at eye level, which for me was about five foot six. If you stood much taller, you would need to stoop to have your reflection badly twisted into a fisheye distortion of vanity. No one used any mirror to see how bad they looked, so seldom did anyone stop to use this one after the first glance.

The condensation gathering around the edge of the gilded frame worried me. The wood was, after all, more than two hundred years old. How much moisture would be required to damage it, and perhaps loosen the old animal hide glue used by the carpenter when he assembled the pieces in his post-colonial workshop long ago?

There were some scrawled numbers and the letter S written in black paint or ink by him on the rear of the mirror but nothing that made sense beyond the assumption that they represented an inventory, style, or design number. The man remained anonymous in my mind. I might picture his hand-sewn clothing, tools, workshop, stained, and work hardened hands, broken fingernails, a splinter, or two, even his features to some degree. He may have smoked an old style ceramic pipe with a bowl shaped like a head wearing a billed cap, as those now found in archaeological digs. Yet, I would never know more, not his name, or where he lived, and worked.

I remembered that once, when no one was around to see, I smelled the mirror, front, and back. It reminded me of nothing but dried wood and old paint, which felt like a disappointment.

While the mirror was so vividly in my mental focus, I went into the kitchen, retrieved some paper towels, and returned to the foyer planning to clean the moisture off the mirror before company arrived.

As I stood directly before its dome-like surface, I received the usual shocking visual jolt. My nose appeared twice its already large size. A Morris nose, I once heard from my mother's cousin, herself a Morris but without the nose bestowed on male descendants only no doubt.

I moved slightly to the left and raised the paper towel to clean the surface, stopped before reaching my goal and stared at a small feminine handprint that covered from the bottom left center to just over the center of the mirror's curved glass.

Each fingerprint loop and swirl stood out clearly, as if I examined the hand not its image. I noticed the slight bend to the center knuckles of two fingers twisted by age and arthritis. The palm bore the fruits of accidents from years past that resided there in the form of spider web thin scars.

The feel of her flesh against my hand became as vivid as any memory I retained from the time I spent with her. It was not an intimate contact, but at first casual and later as family, welcomed and encouraged. The memories cascaded then, nearly overwhelming me as I found I could not pull away from the mirror that until then was nothing more than an ornamental test of one's narcissism.

It wasn't until I heard her voice speaking to me as if she'd just entered the foyer from outside as she kicked the snow from her boots and carefully peeled the soft cotton-lined leather gloves from her hands after removing her snow dampened wool hat that I looked away from the mirror. Everything she wore always matched, color and style.

I turned to face her and from the corner of my eye, saw movement in the convex surface of the mirror. It had to have been me, but I swore then it was not. The light brown eyes seemed to twinkle, the corners of lips rose in a warm smile, and then, when I glanced directly at the mirror, my breath clouded its surface, erasing any image I may have seen.

Someone raised and dropped the large bronze knocker alerting me that the first of my guests arrived. Before responding, I lifted the mirror off its hook and placed it carefully against the back wall of a seldom-used closet.

I'm having it restored, I practiced in my head as I walked by the now blank wall with an oval fade at eye level. Having it restored. It's so good to see you! How have you been? Have you eaten yet?

Then I opened the door and watched a small parade of relatives walk up the shoveled sidewalk as I forced a smile knowing that would be what she wanted done, and reached out to greet them one by one.

Copyright property of Larry Schliessmann, 2010 all rights reserved.

For the previous 14 years, I wrote a Christmas story for my mother-in-law Ruth Whalen Gaul. She loved writing, had written Christmas plays for children while living in Charlotte, North Carolina, and actively participated in a Charlotte writer's group.
She passed in July of this year, but when I wondered if I should or even could write another Christmas story this year, the above stuttered out.

Happy Holidays to all

And then. . .

2010-10-30T07:38:00.000-07:00

Due to a string of unfortunate events (unexpected loss always knocks me back), and distractions (my obsession with genealogy for one), I've been elsewhere.

I have been busy writing too, finished one SiFi novel, started two more, but all of that caused me to neglect other activities.

And then, I had a story idea pop into my head, well a title for a story, which is often what happens. If the idea jells into mental imagery, I give it some time and then hit the keyboard.

Yesterday, that happened with the phrase "a hand on the mirror", which is still sitting in my head calling to me.

So, I'm going to play with it and post the outcome here in bits and pieces until completed.

We'll see what happens.

Walking through Murrells Inlet

2010-10-09T06:53:00.000-07:00

Some days, dawn is the best time to look around, stop wondering why, and accept that there are greater forces at work in life than those which seem to act against commonsense, and purpose.

Eternity's Why

2010-07-14T13:20:00.000-07:00

Strong wind carried scents of Queen Anne's Lace, layered over Rosemary. I was a boy in search, but not aware if I'd discover something worthy. I just knew the search was my quest.

Each day I asked myself why, but could not always put words behind it so why hung as a suspended moment that enticed the need to search further.

Wandering through forests not yet tamed by metal dozers of promise, a falling leaf, a rustled branch, sparkling water in a small pond I felt certain lay undiscovered for me to find. Why remained elusive, like a shadow seen at noon not at midnight. I knew it would reappear with the sun.

Silent examination, patience's companion, rode my shoulder when I left nature's protection as if I needed advice, or guidance when passing along trails trod by many people.

There was a deep meaninglessness to their haste, a confusion of chatter fired out like static lines of invisible whys. I was not sure they cared for answers, but rather sought definition for escape. They seemed to cling to the refuge their questions wove around them like a garden spider's five-foot web.

The search walked me through childhood, carried me into manhood until confronted with an answer I did not anticipate.

In war, I expended ammunition at an often-unseen enemy while we both responded to the call of life. Why never left me, never resolved, but the silence after conclusion rang with repercussions. The why of war bridges reality and passes into severed spirit. The unseen blood dripping is like the breeze bearing gifts of Queen Anne's Lace, and Rosemary, impossible to recapture and hold on the palm of peace, but balances on a blade of thorn.

Civil War Nurses, The Forgotten Heroes of the Great Rebellion

2010-05-29T04:38:00.000-07:00

Our Army Nurses.

Nurse Matilda E. Morris.

Interesting sketches, addresses, and photographs of nearly one hundred of the Noble Women who served in hospitals and on battlefields during our civil war.
Complied by Mary A. Gardner Holland.
1895

(Written by Matilda E. Morris)

EARLY in the war I conceived the plan of going into some hospital as a nurse; but my friends would not listen to my plan, saying there was work enough to do at home. In spite of this, I could not feel that making shirts, bandages, etc., was all I ought to do.

My mother finally gave her consent, and I wrote to David Todd, then Governor of Ohio, to see if I could get a pass. In about a week came a reply, containing pass and transportation to Washington, D. C. I was not long in making my preparations, yet it seemed a great undertaking, as I was not accustomed to traveling alone.

It was one morning in August, 1862, that I left my home in Randolph, Ohio, leaving my two dear little daughters in the care of their loyal grand- parents, who bade me Godspeed in my undertaking, — though it was a sad parting, for God alone knew whether we should meet again on earth.

I took the train at Atwater, Ohio, Aug. 20, 1862, and at Wheeling, W. Ya., our trouble began. A dispatch had been received before our arrival, warning the officers not to start any train for Washington until further notice was given, as the rebels were making a raid on every train on the B.&O.R.R.

One thousand soldiers were sent to clear the way, and the next morning word came that the train could start.    We knew it was still a perilous undertaking, yet we were 391
glad to take some risk rather than wait any longer. Here I had been befriended by a family of Quakers, who were waiting for the same train.

The gentleman had been over the road a great many times, so he could point out all the places of interest. He had been employed by President Lincoln as a scout all through those mountains, and was only taking his wife and sister to Baltimore, then would start on another scouting expedition. He gave much valuable information, and a letter of introduction to some friends of theirs in Washington. We did not see anything of the enemy, but heard occasional firing, and of course knew what that meant. We parted at Annapolis, never to meet again; and that evening I arrived in Washington, but it was too late to see my husband, who was wounded and in a hospital there. I was very tired, and glad of a good night's rest at the hotel.

When I awoke I could scarcely believe that I was at the Capital of the United States (or, rather. Divided States,just then). At nine o'clock I went to Armory Square Hospital, and found my husband's wound much worse than I had expected. I will not try to tell you how we felt, to meet again after so long a time, although under such trying circumstances.

When the surgeon came to make his morning call I told him why I was there, and what I wanted to do, and learned that there would soon be need of more nurses.    The next morning I reported to Doctor Bliss, and we had a long talk, which ended by his engaging me to begin my duties as soon as more patients came.
He told me to remain until he needed me, but I was not idle very long.

One day I saw Doctor Bliss coming up the walk in great haste. "Ladies," he said, "it* you have anything in particular that you wish to have done, do it now, for your ward will soon be full, and there will be plenty of work for us all. The enemy are coming this way, and there will be a big fight to keep them from entering the city."

This was August 27th. Then came the Second Battle of Bull Run. The excitement in Washington was intense. We could hear the cannonading constantly. There were only a few patients left in our wards, and we put everything in readiness.

We were near both of the river depots, where the wounded would be landed. Soon we heard a great commotion outside, and, looking, I beheld what I never wish to see again. A sadder sight one could not imagine than those loads of wounded men. That day my life as a hospital nurse commenced. Our hearts and hands were full, tending to so many. Some died before they reached the building.

Each ward had fifty beds and two nurses; but at home we think it hard work to care for one patient. It was a hard day for us all. First we gave each a drink of cold water, as that was their only cry.    I shall never forget one poor fellow who was lying near an old building.

He looked as if he were dead, but I stooped to make sure, and thought I saw Ms lips move. The man who was carrying the pail cried : " Come along he is dead, fast enough." "No, wait a minute," I replied, and began to wet his lips.

Very soon I had him revived so much that he could drink out of my cup. He was a NewYork Zouave. The next time I saw him he was on his way to his regiment. After water had been given to all we went around with bread and butter and coffee. Oh, how the poor hungry fellows did relish it! I had many a "God bless you " that day. A great many had been carried into the wards while we were working outside, and we next procured washbasins, soap and water, and went to washing the blood from their faces — a work that was very grateful to the men. This occupied the time until midnight.

I might write volumes about what happened in this one hospital, but shall have to pass over a great many events.

One battle followed another, and each furnished wounded soldiers.    I remained until after the battles of the "Wilderness and of Spottsylvania Court House. I have a little Testament that one of my boys gave me. He picked it up in the Wilderness. Poor fellow, he died on the way home. His father came for him, and stopped in Philadelphia to get another son who was so badly wounded that he was not expected to live many days. Another son was at the front. The father wrote to inform me of his boy's death, and he said that the mother's heart was almost broken.    And so it was all through the war: fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, all suffering for the same cause.

After being in Armory Square Hospital a long time I was transferred to Findley Hospital, also situated in Washington, where I remained several months under Doctor Pancoast. We did not have much to do, and I made up my mind to go to the front. The doctor said he would like to have me stay, but finally made out my discharge papers. He also gave me a splendid recommendation. I feel very proud of these papers, as I do also those given me by Doctor Bliss.

In order to go to the front I had to enlist with Miss Dix. After going through with considerable red tape she employed another nurse and myself, and had us sent to Sandy Hook, near Harper's Ferry, where we reported to Surgeon Barnes, in October, 1864. He told us there was not much to do, as he had just sent away a lot of wounded men; but we had better stay, and perhaps there would be more in soon.

I said, "No, let us go farther down into the valley."

So he gave us passes and transportations toHarper'sFerry. They were made out to take us to Winchester, Va., but we could not go for several days, as General Sheridan was there with his cavalry. We all remember the battle, and the victories he achieved in the valley of the Shenandoah. In October, when things became a little more quiet, we started for Martinsbarg. We had not gone more than half way when we had quite a thrilling adventure.

Suddenly our train came to a standstill. The rebels had been there the night before and torn up the track for miles, and wrecked and burned the train ahead of ours. There we were in a barren country, not a house in sight, and with the enemy all around us. The rebels had made a mistake, and they were wild with disappointment. It was our train that had the pay-car attached, and that was why we had so many soldiers aboard.

Report said that a lady had been burned; and as Miss Evans and myself were walking- along the track, I found a piece of partly burned hair that surely had come from some woman's head. There was melted glass and iron all around — ruins everywhere; and we were glad when the road was repaired and we could leave that awful place, the sight of which made us nearly sick.

We reached Martinsville late at night, very tired and hungry. The next day we started for Winchester, and oh, how it did rain ! But we never stopped for rain in war times. At the station was an ambulance train to take us the remainder of the distance.

I think there must have been a thousand soldiers to guard the stores, for an officer "had said, " The rebs are thick as flies in August along that route."

General Custer was with us, and several other officers whose names I did not learn. It was a dreadful march. The boys waded through mud and water the livelong day, but not a murmur could we hear. At noon we halted at a place called Bunker Hill.

There was wood on one side and an open field on the other.    It was a dreary-looking place.    Soon after the train stopped we saw two men riding into the woods, and supposed they had gone as scouts. In a few minutes we heard a shot at no great distance, and soon saw the same men returning with a pig across the back of one of the horses. I never saw anything prepared to cook as soon as that pig. They did not stop to scald it, as the farmers do, but pulled off the whole skin, and in a short time the animal was in slices. In the meantime a fire had been started, and soon the coffee-kettles and frying-pans were on.

I told Miss Evans I was going to have some of that meat for our dinner. She skeptically inquired how I should get it. I took a can of condensed milk and some salt, and soon made a trade.

The boys seemed to enjoy the fun, and some of them carried us some coffee. It was a cold, dreary ride, but after a great many halts and skirmishes we arrived in Winchester about midnight. The next day Ave reported to Doctor Hayden, at Sheridan Hospital, which was composed entirely of tents, some so low that we had to stoop to enter; but they were all full of badly wounded men. If the scene at Armory Square was dreadful, this was a thousand times more so. Here the men lay on the bare ground, with knapsacks, boots, or any- thing for a pillow that would raise the head. Pas- sing along, I saw things that made me sick at heart. A young man not more than eighteen had both legs shot off.

He could not live, yet he seemed cheerful. We did what we could for them with our limited means; but finally our supplies gave out, and even hard-tack became a luxury.    We were told to care for the Confederates as we did for our own, and we obeyed orders; but deep in my heart I could not feel the same.

We remained there until it was safe to move the men to Baltimore. 'We had hospital cars,which are a little wider than ordinary ones, and are placed on springs. They have on each side three tiers of berths or cots, suspended by rubber bands, and so arranged as to yield to the motion. I made two trips with this train, and the men said it went like a cradle. It was a pleasure to take care of so cheerful a company. My journey lasted two days and nights, and I think I never passed forty-eight hours so fraught with both sad and pleasant memories.

We reported again to Miss Dix, who sent us back to Findley Hospital, where I remained until April, 1865; then went into the city to stay with some friends named Edson. One of them was (Miss) Dr. Susan Edson, who with Doctor Bliss were prominent figures during President Garfield's sickness.

One day I saw an immense crowd gathered in front of the War Department. Secretary Stanton was reading a dispatch from General Grant,— " Richmond    and Petersburg are ours. "

This caused great rejoicing, which deepened when the news of the capitulation of the rebel army was flashed over the wires. The next night we went to the White House, to hear the President speak. I shall never forget how his face lit up with joy. But ah, this was his last speech! A few brief days of wild rejoicing followed; then the bright future was suddenly overcast as Treason guided the assassin's hand in its deadly work. The mighty had fallen, —Abraham Lincoln, the noblest of martyrs, to a noble cause!

While I was at Armory Square Hospital he visited it several times. And how the boys would rally if we told them "Uncle Abraham" was coming. would go down one side of the ward and up the other, shaking hands with every one, and speaking a kind word. He would shake hands with me and ask me about my work and my home, and charge me to be good to “his boys”.

I have often seen the tears roll down his careworn cheeks while he was talking with some wounded soldier.

After the funeral I went with friends to Richmond, and visited many places of interest.
Among them, that terrible death-trap, Libby Prison, and do not understand how any of our men came out alive. I saw the basement floors paved with cobble stones, and a little straw was thrown here and there. The floor was so slimy we could hardly walk; yet here our men had to eat and sleep.

I saw Sheridan's army pass through the place on its way to Washington. The men had many strange pets on their shoulders. Some had owls, others coons, and one had a bantam rooster, that crowed several times in my hearing.

It took two days for them to pass, and we carried barrels of water for them to drink. so many left to go home.

The Secesh were surprised to see so many left to go home. I was talking with one of Fitzhugh Lee's cavalry men, and told him that was only a small branch of our army.

He replied, "Madam, we are beaten, but not conquered."

May 18th I started for Washington. I reached the boat in good season, and supposed I was all right, but a colored man soon came to me and said, "How came you on this boat ?''

I told him and showed my pass.

" Oh, you are all right, madam, so far as that goes; but we never carry passengers on General Grant's private boat."

I said I was exceedingly sorry for the mistake, and he could put me off
at the next landing. During the conversation a military-looking man had seated himself near us, and seemed to be reading; but I knew he heard every word, and I also knew very well who he was.

He soon laid down his paper, saying, " Sam, what is the matter?"

"This lady is on your private boat, sah."

He came to me and said, "Madam, will you please to tell me all about it? "
I did so, and he answered: "I don't see anything very serious about this mistake; there is room for us all. Make yourself perfectly at home. We only go to City Point, but you can change boats there.”

Then turning to the waiter he told him to " make the lady comfortable while she remains on board."

This gentleman was our good General Grant.

At City Point we shook hands, he bade me good-bye, and I thanked him again for his kindness, then continued my journey. In the meantime my husband had secured his discharge papers, and we bade adieu to our associates.

Peace reigned once more. All that remained to be done was to go home and make glad the hearts of those from whom we had been parted so long. father was at the same station where I left him almost three years before. Soon we met mother, sisters, and our own dear little girls.

This was a great many years ago, and those girls have children of their own now, and we are grandpa and grandma. They often coax me to tell a story of the war. My father and mother have long since gone to the home to which we must soon follow; but it is a pleasure to recall the fact that I had a part in the beneficent work in which it was woman's peculiar privilege to serve her country. I feel abundantly rewarded by the knowledge of having done something to alleviate the suffering of those who gave health and worldly prospects, ties of home, and even life itself in the perilous service.

Sweet flowers and tender plants creep over the graves that were made so long ago on many a field and hillside; and thus tender memories arise to enwrap the gaunt figure, and veil the grim visage, of "War, that must forever stand a central object upon the canvas that portrays the history of those memorable years.
I thank God for all his mercies and blessings during all these years. It was He who led us through; and if we love and obey Him, He will take us unto Himself, where all will be joy and peace, forever.

112 Harbor Street, Cleveland, Ohio.
Matilda E. Morris.

--
I selected Matilda E. Morris because my mother’s grandmother was Mary Lee Morris born August, 09, 1865. Matilda’s husband would be Mary Lee’s distant cousin.

Larry Schliessmann (AKA Marlowe Black)

Lest We Forget - Memorial Day 2010, Memorial Day 1913 - G.A.R.

2010-05-28T04:20:00.000-07:00

Memorial Day Oration.

MAY 30, 1913

Delivered by

James Shera Montgomery, D. D.

(PASTOR METROPOLITAN M. E. CHURCH)
WASHINGTON, D. C.

At

Arlington Cemetery, Virginia

PRINTED BY THE DEPARTMENT OF THE POTOMAC. G. A. R.

FOREWORD.

"O Beautiful ! my Country ! ours once more
Smoothing thy gold of war-disheveled hair
O'er such sweet brows as never other wore,
And letting thy set lips,
Freed from wrath's pale eclipse,
The rosy edges of her smile lay bare,
What words divine of lover or of poet
Could tell our love and make thee know it,
Among the nations bright beyond compare
What were our lives without thee?
What all our lives to save thee?
We reck not what we gave thee?
We will not dare to doubt thee,
But ask whatever else, and we will dare!"

The Rebellion

The War! The War! Shall we recall its animosities? No!

May the bitter enmities and the hot antagonisms of the fiercest conflict that ever swept across the breast of any nation be forgotten, and may we cherish with the better angels of our nature "malice toward none and charity to all" with the will of God and the conscience of the Republic as our guide and inspiration.

Rather let this day arrest the whole country in its commercial march and learn anew how great the scope and how terrible the character of that war. May these emphasize our form of government, the safeguard of popular sovereignty, the protection of the rights of citizens and the promotion of the general welfare of our Nation, and how appalling the cost of the privileges and the opportunities of our united country.

The statistician tells us that there were 2,731 battles.

The slain of the Union Army on battlefield were: Officers, 5,221 ; enlisted men, 90,868; died of disease, 183,287; a grand total of 279,376.

The killed,wounded and captured, including both the American and British armies, during the War of the Revolution, were about 22,000 men.

The loss to either the Union or Confederate army at Gettysburg or the Wilderness exceeded this number. From the discovery of America to the Rebellion, the slain in battle in our country, in all our wars, were less than the combined death returns of the two armies at Shiloh.

At Racour (1746) the lost was two and one-half per cent of those engaged; at Lignitz (1760) Frederick the Great lost six and one-half per cent; at Wagram (1809), where the intrepid McDonald, under the Emperor's eye, charged the Austrian center, the lost was scarcely five per cent; at Austerlitz —the battle of the three emperors— with its "sun of promise." where Napoleon prevailed against the combined Russian despotism and Austrian tyranny, his loss reached only about fifteen per cent; at Waterloo, where set Napoleon's star, the Iron Duke Wellington lost about twelve per cent.

Gettysburg, the turning point of the War, where the thoughtful Meade wrung victory from a brave and chivalrous foe that battled for another destiny, and the Wilderness, and Spottsylvania, where death was like a monster from hell, each shows losses above thirty per cent.

This is enough!

Here was the spirit of the Cavalier and the fidelity of Cromwell's ironsides battling for supremacy. It is now too late to say what ought to have been done, or what might have been done, but let this be said: We cannot measure the gallantry of our heroes on this, our Nation's funeral day — is written on the page of history in letters of divine illumination -- for is is inestimable by any standard that we possess. Even the rarest gift of eloquence cannot compass the task. The fillets that once set upon their youthful brows have long ago blossomed into enduring fame, and it remains for some bard, inspired by the majesty of his theme, to unite their deeds to immortal verse and song, and both shall become immortal.

FINIS.

"He speaks not well who doth his time deplore,
Naming it new, little and obscure,
Ignoble and unfit for lofty deeds.
All times were modern in the times of them,
And this no more than others. Do thy part
Here in the living day, as did the great
Who made old days immortal ! So shall men.
Gazing long back to this far-looming hour,
Say : 'Then the time when men were truly men;
Though wars grew less, their spirits met the test
Of new conditions; conquering civic wrong;
Saving the State anew by virtuous lives
Guarding the country's honor as their own,
And their own as their country's and their sons.'
-Gilder.

The above is a small part of the total speech. But to me, a combat veteran, this section rang true, was both painful and hopeful, and reminded me that we should never give up the quest for world peace versus endless warfare that shreds the lives of those among us who honor their Nation and sacrifice their lives while so many others sit back and idly do nothing more than await the outcome.

Or instead, regard the defense of their Nation as someone else’s problem, one they believe they are too busy or, worse, too important, to engage. Until, of course, comes the day when the enemy might prevail, and then I am certain, those same men and women will blame the loss on those of us who wear the uniform and the scars of patriotism.

Larry Schliessmann (AKA Marlowe Black)

Might be a joke. . .might not

2010-05-27T06:45:00.001-07:00

KNOW THE SYMPTOMS......PLEASE READ!

Thank goodness there's a name for this disorder. Somehow I feel better even though I have it!!

Recently, I was diagnosed with A.A.A.D.D. - Age Activated Attention Deficit Disorder.

This is how it manifests:

I decide to water my garden. As I turn on the hose in the driveway, I look over at my car and decide it needs washing.

As I start toward the garage, I notice mail on the porch table that I brought up from the mail box earlier.

I decide to go through the mail before I wash the car.

I lay my car keys on the table, put the junk mail in the garbage can under the table, and notice that the can is full.

So, I decide to put the bills back on the table and take out the garbage first.

But then I think, since I'm going to be near the mailbox when I take out the garbage anyway, I may as well pay the bills first.

I take my check book off the table, and see that there is only one check left.

My extra checks are in my desk in the study, so I go inside the house to my desk where I find the can of Pepsi I'd been drinking.

I'm going to look for my checks, but first I need to push the Pepsi aside so that I don't accidentally knock it over.

The Pepsi is getting warm, and I decide to put it in the refrigerator to keep it cold..

As I head toward the kitchen with the Pepsi, a vase of flowers on the counter catches my eye--they need water.

I put the Pepsi on the counter and discover my reading glasses that I've been searching for all morning.

I decide I better put them back on my desk, but first I'm going to water the flowers.

I set the glasses back down on the counter, fill a container with water and suddenly spot the TV remote. Someone left it on the kitchen table.

I realize that tonight when we go to watch TV, I'll be looking for the remote, but I won't remember that it's on the kitchen table, so I decide to put it back in the den where it belongs, but first I'll water the flowers.

I pour some water in the flowers, but quite a bit of it spills on the floor.

So, I set the remote back on the table, get some towels and wipe up the spill.

Then, I head down the hall trying to remember what I was planning to do.

At the end of the day:

the car isn't washed
the bills aren't paid
there's a warm can of Pepsi sitting on the counter,
the flowers don't have enough water,
there's still only 1 check in my check book,
I can't find the remote,
I can't find my glasses,
and I don't remember what I did with the car keys.

Then, when I try to figure out why nothing got done today, I'm really baffled because I know I was busy all day, and I'm really tired.

I realize this is a serious problem, and I'll try to get some help for it,
but first I'll check my e-mail.....

Do me a favor. Forward this message to everyone you know, because I don't remember who I've sent it to.

Don't laugh...if this isn't you yet, your day is coming!!

Future Vision Year 2050

2010-05-09T05:38:00.000-07:00

By 2050 or much sooner, computers will program themselves, create architecture; diagnose disease and write patient treatment plans.

Computers will design clothing and all necessities, toys, furniture, etc.; create all entertainment, movies, Sitcoms, e-books, plays, poetry, and new games. Computers will use holographic display for 3D/HD characters and scenery.

Computers will write programming for and program all robotics.

Robots will create robots.

Robots will mine, and process raw materials, cut trees, and create all related products.

Robots will cut, assemble, and sew clothing, shoes, toys, furniture, other necessities, objects for pleasure, buildings, do all factory work.

Robots will perform surgery; fill prescriptions at pharmacies, do physical examinations using laser and other forms of technology.

Robots will plow, seed, tend and reap all food harvests; inseminate, breed, raise, slaughter livestock; fill and deliver grocery orders; cook and prepare ready to eat meals for sale at supermarkets; prepare, cook, serve meals at restaurants.

Robots will remove and process trash and garbage, and perform 100% recycling.

Robots will drive all vehicles used for deliveries and commercial buses, trains, airplanes, subways, taxis. Computers will control smaller family-size and recreational vehicles.

Robots will power and control all space vehicles, shuttles and off-world exploration. Robots will design, build and place new satellites into orbit, remove and recycle outdated equipment and technology.

Robots will build new construction, demolish and remove old structures; design and build all forms of infrastructure, roads, bridges, tunnels, power grids, water, and sewer.

By 2050, nine billion plus humans will walk the earth. Seventy percent or more will reside in mega cities.

Humans will be cerebrally wired for communication and entertainment, receive orders and instructions through personal WIFI.

Viruses, worms, and new forms of disruption will plague the communications network. Computers will write the spyware.

What will humans do? Fight political, religious, ideological wars, and breed to fight more wars? What else remains?

However, robots will do this more efficiently too, faster and with less emotional and physical expense and impact.

Robots do not require salary, vacations, health insurance, sick days, or any benefits. They will work 24/7/365 until they wear out, self-replicate, with improvements and continue.

Without purpose, humanity will be very expendable. Plan ahead, maybe the end really is near. Humanity will not end with a bang, but with a sputtering whimper of lost creation.

Facebook Data Mining. . .again

2010-05-04T04:47:00.000-07:00

"ATTENTION EVERYONE--There's a site called Spokeo.com - a new online phone book w/personal information: everything from pics you've posted on FB or web, your approx credit score, home value, income, age, etc. You can remove yourself by first searching for yourself on their site to find the URL of your page, then going to the Privacy button on the bottom of their page to remove yourself. Copy & repost."

http://www.spokeo.com/

Faith is not Fear

2010-04-28T05:58:00.000-07:00

Faith is not Fear.

Several weeks ago, I published the article "Faith is not Religion." When I did, I felt somewhat reluctant, not wanting to wade into the religious quagmire spiraling through American politics. If you have not read the article, you might want to read it before finishing this since I feel no less reluctant to write this article.

As we all know, there are three dominant religions in current history. Two of these began as what I think of as relief valves for the original, which is Judaism.

The Jewish religion was, as I understand it, founded on the backs of those who suffered for their faith. Their God was an angry demanding and unforgiving deity. This God maimed, punished, and killed those who dared not obey without hesitation, without question.

Then, a man who many now claim to be the Son of God walked the lands of what was then Palestine. Everyone knows the stories of His deeds, His words, His lessons, and His death. Central to His message was compassion, loving one's enemy as one's friend, turning the other cheek, building plows out of swords. He healed the sick, welcomed all to listen and follow. He spoke of a loving, forgiving God.

Centuries later, another man, the Prophet Mohammad walked the same ground, offered, I believe, an enlightened message, teaching the need for harmony and education. He too spoke of a loving, forgiving God.

I do not believe that either, Son of God or Prophet, intended hatred and fear to be central to what they felt humans needed for peaceful co-existence.

Yet now centuries later, followers of all three religions seem to feel it necessary to reach far back in time for the Old Testament God's discriminating lack of compassion so they might now beget a future.

Fear is not Faith.

I write this with conviction. I do not think followers of the three religions can ever live together as long as fear is the batter from which loaves of justice are baked and shared during meals.

However, humans, it seems, need to dwell on the past to seek a future. I think that knowledge of the past can be a foundation only, not building blocks for the unseen and unknown tomorrow.

We expend too much effort; exhaust too many lives ramming wet clay cast from spilled blood into barricades and levies, to keep out the undesirable element, which too often is the element we would see if we had a spiritual mirror to gaze in to.

Elected leaders, men and woman entrusted to speak publicly, to promote reason, and doctrines of faith, twisted and writhed under the erotic and enticing caress of wealth and fame. They distorted truth for personal gain, not the common good. They used basic human psychology to further whatever agenda they received payment to promote.

Those leaders, speakers, or their masters, knew too that fear is the heart of religion. Therefore, they used religion.

They understood, it seems, that as time passed, throughout history, men rewrote, adjusted, and added to the original teachings of the Prophet and Son of God. They created demons, burned witches, hung or disemboweled heretics, dunked the innocent, stoned, whipped, or killed disobedient wives and daughters, beheaded non-believers.

Many at one time waded through flowing blood in the streets of the holiest of cities.

They performed these acts as needed to control the masses, the peasants, serfs, slaves and willing but uneducated followers, without regard for truth, justice, or the teachings of the Son of God or the Prophet.

Politicians and their moneyed masters also restricted education, or lowered the standards of educational success.

Until all the people of Earth can set religion off to the side of discussion between our cultures, we will never discover true peace. Moreover, when religion is dragged back into the rooms where cultures meet to resolve differences, those meetings must be curtailed until religion is again outside.

Peace is a living without fear. Fear is not faith. Fear is religion. With true faith comes true peace.

Listen to the voices of men and women filled with religious fervor, and you will hear anger, and know that anger is often an expression of frustration or confusion. Those emotions are deeply rooted in fear. Too often, the fear taught us by religious leaders.

The book that most influenced me as a boy

2010-04-19T13:29:00.000-07:00

At the age of fourteen, I sat down on a rainy afternoon, bored and “trapped” inside. My mother, an avid reader, kept many books on the shelves in our recreation room. The shelving wrapped around, or up one side, over and down the other side of an upright piano that once belonged to her grandmother.

No one in our family played piano, or admitted it if they’d attempted the task. I was not prepared to sit on the bench and pound the keyboard.

I’d started reading while in elementary school, but I knew that any teenage boy caught reading the children’s books that mostly lined those shelves, would, if found out, die from embarrassment. Besides, I really was no longer interested in most, and those that might’ve held my interest, well, I’d read them before.

However, boredom works wonders, or at least it does with me. I truly hate boredom. After sitting alone in that room for fifteen or so minutes, I “struggled” to my feet, and glanced along the book spines, hoping to find something good.

It seems strange now as I think back, that I hadn’t noticed it in the past, but as I was about to turn away, I spotted the title Green Mansions on a plain, yellowing hardcover spine.

With but a small amount of reluctance, thinking the story would prove to be yet another attempt at juvenile entertainment, I slid the book off the shelf and flipped it open to read the author’s name on the title page: W.H. Hudson.

Clearly the writer had something to hide, I thought and the intrigue drew me in.

When I read the first page, I felt satisfied that W. H. Hudson did not write children’s books. In fact, the 1944 edition I own now (of course I still have a copy) states: Green Mansions, A Romance of the Tropical Forest. A rather risque, for the time, drawing by E. McKnight Kauffer is to the left of the title page. Wonder if I saw that back then, hmm.

Well, I was fourteen and once I started reading, I could not put the book down. That was a first for me. Not only had I selected the book without suggestion from an adult, but it was terrific and I was hooked on science fiction and fantasy....um, no, not so much on romance.

ABNA Expert Reviewer's comments on "Drop Dead Cadillac"

2010-04-01T10:07:00.000-07:00

Before I comment on their comments, here are the Amazon.com Expert Reviewers opinions regarding my novel "Drop Dead Cadillac."

Feedback: Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Reviews

ABNA Expert Reviewer

What is the strongest aspect of this excerpt?

The strongest aspect of this excerpt in my opinion would be the eccentric writer. I did like him. Although I don't find this character to be a total package, I did find him somewhat interesting. I wonder if the writer and Black will need to team up to solve this mystery.

What aspect needs the most work?

There are just to many questions in my mind about these characters to find them totally credible. Why would a well known writer (millions of readers about the world according to black) live on the outskirts of a 'rotting corpse dumping ground for mobsters'. That doesn't make any sense to me, and this needs some work. Black seems to be some sort of private investigator. He didn't seem to give much thought to taking this job from a writer who may be a "certified" fruitcake. what will the relationship be between these two guys, if any? I think their opposing and strong personalities would make them unlikely bedmates for this mystery. But that is what would make this story good. The problem is we don't get any hints if this is a possibility or not.

What is your overall opinion of this excerpt?

I could find this excerpt good, but that is the problem. I am not sure what is going to happen down the road in this story. I would love for these two unlikely fellows to have to join up together and solve this mystery. I don't know if that is what this write has in store for me though. I also believe these two main characters need some better development or descriptions for me. They just aren't believable with the information I have been given.

ABNA Expert Reviewer

What is the strongest aspect of this excerpt?

The author doesn't miss a detail in describing the scene or the characters in his story. The opening sounds interesting and readers are given a good mystery in the excerpt.

What aspect needs the most work?

The book starts out too slowly and the author spends more time describing unnecessary moments in the scene instead of introducing us to the character.

What is your overall opinion of this excerpt?

I thought the story was promising but it did not seem that original and we weren't given much insight into who the main character is. The author spent a lot of time explaining every little detail of the surroundings which will make for an absurdly long book if it continues in the whole manuscript.
_________

Now, it's my turn.

First, any writer must acknowledge that every reader will read what they want, not necessarily what you wrote. It is difficult, if not impossible to do anything about this.

Second, reviewers -- like anyone else -- make assumptions when they have only a section of a novel to read and review.

Third, their opinions are theirs alone.

Fourth, many of Amazon.com's expert reviewers specialize in nonfiction and maybe should not review novels.

What I liked about their comments were that, for the most part, I can easily fix the "problems" without worrying about altering the plot. Marlowe Black is a PI, which comes up later in the story, but really should've sooner.

The eccentric writer -- name withheld to avoid fictitious lawsuits -- is a man well into his 70s, has lived in his home for more than 30 years, it wasn't always a bad area. He loves his home, period. We all know older people like him.

An excerpt is meant to lead the reader into the plot, not to deliver it in 5000 words or less. Although it may not be apparent to the second reviewer, character development requires description of the character's surrounding. Thus lots of detail, especially in fiction is necessary and does not imply a story will be too long and burdened with too much detail. Just ask David Weber, Elizabeth Moon, Harlan Coben, Laurell K. Hamilton, James Patterson, to name a few writers who use a lot of detail in description.

To state that the writer's use of description implies an "absurdly long book" demonstrates the expert reviewer's possible lack of knowledge regarding the average length of a mystery novel -- 60,000 -- 90,000 words.

Lastly, I think both reviewer expressed enough curiosity regarding how the characters would gel and work to reach a successful conclusion, which -- while it could've been stronger -- showed that the excerpt did work in that regard.

Here is a link to the excerpt: http://www.scribd.com/doc/20069062/Drop-Dead-Cadillac-Chapters-1-2

Amazon.com's ABNA contest

2010-02-27T04:38:00.000-08:00

It's a first step and I'll take it!

My novel "Drop Dead Cadillac" is one of a 1000 general fiction novels in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest to move into the second round of editorial reviews.

Since the total number of entries for the contest is 10,000, I'm happy about this.

If you are interested in reading an excerpt, it should be available on the amazon.com website under ABNA contest.

If not there, I have the first two chapters on Scribd.com (http://www.scribd.com/doc/20069062/Drop-Dead-Cadillac-Chapters-1-2).

"Drop Dead Cadillac" is a Marlowe Black Mystery set in NYC 1951.

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Zombie, my Zombie

2010-02-20T07:00:00.000-08:00

How-to-enjoy that first touchy-feely date.

By now, you must be breathless with anticipation. Relentlessly, you tracked him down, watched, and waited for him at midnight of the last six full moons, until finally you saw him. Your heart raced as he shambled across the uncut lawn, dodging tilted and ancient bone white tombstones at Mount Clementine's Cemetery.

I know you felt hesitant, understanding that each word, every movement might be misconstrued by him. After all, he has been festering beneath six feet of earthworm-ridden moist loamy earth for decades...at least.

Yet, now his history is not important, only the excitement of the moment of first contact.

Therefore, here are a few tips to make the night special, this most exciting time of you life.

First, prepare to ignore the following: the way his hands feel kinda like raw fish in a pail. The way he smells, kinda like chop meat left out on the counter for a few days or months.

Second, when you run your fingers through his hair, hide your disappointment, even horror when clumps of it cling to the delicate flesh of your palms, follicles caking under that expensive manicure you got just for this occasion.

Third, as his lips graze yours hold the kiss as long as you can...about as long as you can hold your breath. Never, I repeat, never allow his tongue to touch yours until you feel certain it will not...well, you know, break loose at an inopportune moment. Do keep in mind, that your Zombie really is dead. He might be animated, but expectations beyond that should be kept in check.

Fourth, when he places his hands on your lower back, do not shudder. If you do, not only will he feel it and know you are quite repulsed, but your quivering muscles might jar loose a fingernail or two, or more and, well, guess where they might end up. That's right; at the end where you do not want them.

Fifth, let's back up. Before you even meet the first time, I suggest you invest in a Zombie bag. The Fifth Avenue Zombie Bag has a number of pockets, all lined with a space age waterproofing material. It also has a double strap like the backpack you carried in school and it comes in colors that blend well with your first meeting place...the cemetery. Colors like cool morning mist green, shimmering moonlit freshly turned earth, gleaming headstone off-white, and my favorite, pink veined gray granite. Oh, it's wonderful!

Sixth, use your Zombie bag whenever something comes loose and well falls off. He will want to reattach fingers, toes, even limbs before returning home before the next sunrise. As they fall off, plopping greasily to the sidewalk, slip on your kid leather, rubber-lined Fifth Avenue Zombie Gloves and quickly, discretely scoop up the part and slip it into an empty pocket. Do not worry; the Fifth Avenue Zombie Bag has fifty-five pockets of varying sizes. However, a word of warning here, try to avoid examining the parts or pieces. Unpleasant surprises might spoil your date.

Seventh, sneaking your Zombie into your home might seem easy, but occasionally Zombies cry out, producing a loud gargling snarling sound that is both repulsive and alarming. He cannot control this urge and often the noise will be loud enough to get every dog in the neighborhood howling. Lights will flip on, and neighbors will open front doors shotguns in hand. Well, it would not do for you to become a Zombie before your time.

Eighth, intimacy is, well, let's put it this way, forget about it! Remember that old timey saying "Loose lips sink ships?" Now a bit of basic logic compiled with what we already know about Zombies and disassociated body parts and you get the picture, right? Remember, physical intimacy as in more than just hooking up, may end up down right disgusting or worse. You may need a trip to the emergency room. Think about explaining what happened.

If you apply all of these helpful hints to your first and, well, every date with your very own Zombie, life will be sweet...in more ways than one.

PS: Some Zombies are truly nasty ex-humans so beware, or you may be the prime rib he has been waiting for. Mace or a Taser will work wonders in these situations.

--

Copyright February 20, 2010: Larry Schliessmann, all rights reserved.
This article is not to be shared. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold by you or given away by you in whole or in part, that is an infringement of U.S. copyright laws. Violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

3 pictures - 3000 words

2010-02-13T12:00:00.001-08:00

February 13, 2010.

The Living Eyes Syndrome in Writing

2010-02-04T06:30:00.001-08:00

Or, eyes of mine wherefore art thou now?

I am an avid reader, but have a problem with some writers that I really need to get out in the open.

To keep this simple, I will ask some questions and because basically, I am seriously sarcastic by nature, I might even answer one or two.

One: When you write, "Their eyes met?" Did two people pop out their eyes first, hold them aloft so they might get to know each other's as couples?

Two: "His eyes roamed the room." Do you keep them on a leash so you can reel them in when you need to see something?

Three: "Her eyes darted about." Looking for an object to inflict punishment on, correct? Darts of anger flashed from her eyes! Can you see those little lightning bolts? ZAP!

Four: "Her eyes fluttered when he kissed her." Is this while they roamed the room, or have they returned for the close-up experience fluttering with angel wings (like tiny cupids) while hovering overhead?

Five: "His eyes went up and down her body." Now that's just plain creepy, although not quite as bad as "He eyeballed her." Okay, I want to make some comments here, like, what else, exactly, did he do while eyeballing her, but I'll let you fill in the blanks.

Six: "His eyes scanned the area before entering." I know, something like question 2, however, the disassociated shiny and intelligent, no doubt, orbs are now taking independent action to a new level. Kind of like 007. They are about to enter an area, but we do not know what or even why.

"Seven: "She eyed me when I approached." Sounds like tiny wet global weapons. Eyed him versus shot him between the eyes, kicked him between the legs. The idea makes parts of me shrivel with anxiety.

Eight: "His eyes stared down at the floor." Okay, that's a redundancy 'down at the floor'. My question here is: if his eyes are doing the staring, what the hell is he doing while they stay busy? Does he need time to think without distraction?

Nine: "He kept his eyes on the box." Guess that's better than keeping them inside the box. Someone might close the lid, and then what?

Ten: "Her eyes met his for the first time." Sorry, I had to do this variation of number one, and here is my question. What did her eyes do when they met his for the second time move beyond visual flirtation? Think fluttering.

Eleven: "He suddenly sat up, eyes back on his PDA." Where were they before he sat up? In his pocket or resting on the palm of his hand? And then just a few paragraphs later "His eyes were still on his PDA." Now I'm just confused. Why leave them there? Are they of no use elsewhere? How long can he go without?

Twelve: "She wiggled her eye at me." Or "blinked her eyes at me." Eyes do not blink, eyelids do. And wiggle? Please. Certain body parts wiggle while walking. You can wiggle you finger, or um, well you know, um your toes.

Thirteen: "His eyes drifted towards the door." Leaving him standing in the dark, no doubt. Perhaps it's better he is in the dark.

Fourteen: "Exasperated, she rolled her eyes." Did she shake them first, blow on her fist? And what did she get? Snake eyes, you lose!

Fifteen, the last for now: "The stranger's eyes fell on me hard." Ouch! I mean, how hard can they fall? Did the stranger just nod too vigorously?

Sorry, but eyes cannot act as disembodied independent individuals out to show you or a companion the way. I mean some of this stuff can be downright gross, and now that you are aware of this problem, see what happens whenever you come across one in a story.

If you're a writer, please for the love of God, stop it!

Time for some fun!

2010-02-02T11:39:00.000-08:00

FOR THOSE WHO LOVE THE PHILOSOPHY OF AMBIGUITY, AS WELL AS THE IDIOSYNCRASIES OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE...

1. DON'T SWEAT THE PETTY THINGS AND DON'T PET THE SWEATY THINGS.

2. ONE TEQUILA, TWO TEQUILA, THREE TEQUILA, FLOOR.

3. ATHEISM IS A NON-PROPHET ORGANIZATION.

4. IF MAN EVOLVED FROM MONKEYS AND APES, WHY DO WE STILL HAVE MONKEYS AND APES?

5. I WENT TO A BOOKSTORE AND ASKED THE SALESWOMAN, "WHERE'S THE SELF-HELP SECTION?" SHE SAID IF SHE TOLD ME, IT WOULD DEFEAT THE PURPOSE.

6. CAN AN ATHEIST GET INSURANCE AGAINST ACTS OF GOD?

7. WHAT IF THERE WERE NO HYPOTHETICAL QUESTIONS?

8. IF A DEAF CHILD SIGNS SWEAR WORDS, DOES HIS MOTHER WASH HIS HANDS WITH SOAP?

9. IF SOMEONE WITH MULTIPLE PERSONALITIES THREATENS TO KILL HIMSELF, IS IT CONSIDERED A HOSTAGE SITUATION?

10. IS THERE ANOTHER WORD FOR SYNONYM?

11. WHERE DO FOREST RANGERS GO TO "GET AWAY FROM IT ALL?"

12. WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN YOU SEE AN ENDANGERED ANIMAL EATING AN ENDANGERED PLANT?

13. IF A PARSLEY FARMER IS SUED, CAN THEY GARNISH HIS WAGES?

14. WOULD A FLY WITHOUT WINGS BE CALLED A WALK?

15. WHY DO THEY LOCK GAS STATION BATHROOMS? ARE THEY AFRAID SOMEONE WILL CLEAN THEM?

16. IF A TURTLE DOESN'T HAVE A SHELL, IS HE HOMELESS OR NAKED?

17. CAN VEGETARIANS EAT ANIMAL CRACKERS?

18. IF THE POLICE ARREST A MIME, DO THEY TELL HIM HE HAS THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT?

19. WHY DO THEY PUT BRAILLE ON THE DRIVE-THROUGH BANK MACHINES?

20. HOW DO THEY GET DEER TO CROSS THE ROAD ONLY AT THOSE YELLOW ROAD SIGNS?

21. WHAT WAS THE BEST THING BEFORE SLICED BREAD?

22. ONE NICE THING ABOUT EGOTISTS: THEY DON'T TALK ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE.

23. DOES THE LITTLE MERMAID WEAR AN ALGEBRA?

24. IF YOU SPIN AN ORIENTAL PERSON IN A CIRCLE THREE TIMES, DO THEY BECOME DISORIENTED?

25. HOW IS IT POSSIBLE TO HAVE A CIVIL WAR?

26. IF ONE SYNCHRONIZED SWIMMER DROWNS, DO THE REST DROWN TOO?

27. IF YOU ATE BOTH PASTA AND ANTIPASTO, WOULD YOU STILL BE HUNGRY?

28. IF YOU TRY TO FAIL, AND SUCCEED, WHICH HAVE YOU DONE?

29. WHOSE CRUEL IDEA WAS IT FOR THE WORD 'LISP' TO HAVE 'S' IN IT?

30. WHY ARE HEMORRHOIDS CALLED "HEMORRHOIDS" INSTEAD OF "ASSTEROIDS"?

31. WHY IS IT CALLED TOURIST SEASON IF WE CAN'T SHOOT AT THEM?

32. WHY IS THERE AN EXPIRATION DATE ON SOUR CREAM?

THE MAIN REASON THAT SANTA IS SO JOLLY IS BECAUSE HE KNOWS WHERE ALL THE BAD GIRLS LIVE.

34. DO INFANTS E NJOY INFANCY AS MUCH AS ADULTS ENJOY ADULTERY?

Author unknown, but has a terrific sense of humor!

Froze Up in Coastal SC

2010-01-11T06:38:00.000-08:00

On days like this even Great Blue Herons wish they could hibernate.

Creating a PI Protagonist - Marlowe Black is my Outrage.

2009-12-09T04:39:00.000-08:00

Marlowe Black is my outrage, my anguish, but wasn't meant to be.

I have read that a writer's protagonists and, too, his antagonists, are all facets of the writer's personality. While I willingly accept the former, I stand in clear denial of the latter.

The internet age had become a living entity, self-replicating and layered to a depth and height that no one person could experience. It bled time like a gunshot wound bled life. I wanted to experience something different. I needed to escape.

Because, despite the good the internet offered, all of the same trite garbage humanity slammed and adored, worshiped and abused, for centuries had not lessened, but exponentially expanded.

I suppose my expectations that human emotions might somehow evolve into civility while riding the crest of available and nearly unlimited knowledge was the shrill voice of the optimist baying at the full moon of wishful thinking.

Therefore, I selected a decade in American history that I often thought of as ideal.

Then, to take me there, I created Marlowe Black, as a way to lament those simpler times when solving crime standing on the edge of the law was easier than it is now when it's nearly impossible.

Yet Marlowe quickly became more. He became my outrage, my anguish. I created him at a time when life surrounded me with unforeseen, and too often painful, unfathomable events both personal and not.

Suddenly, Marlowe's character defined itself as he led me through his time in history, a time I know of through research and by conversing with people who lived it. Oddly, for me, it turned out that the 1950s were far from simple, far from ideal.

The only significant differences, excluding technology -- although much of what we have today sunk roots back then -- are medical advancements, and societal changes such as civil rights and more equal rights for women.

In the 1950s, women and minorities were poorly treated or worse. After exposure to this type conduct as a cop, Marlowe decided there was something seriously wrong with any such behavior even when the actions or words he came to deplore were on rare occasion his own.

He quit the police force and went private, causing him to become something of a societal outcast, yet he managed to earn respect and friendships.

Marlowe also learned that any woman he became involved with would be a target for the type of criminals he hunted. In his world, hunter and hunted could change places without warning. Victims too often were those caught in the middle. When that occurred, the result shredded slices off his humanity.

The one companion he knew shadowed his actions was death. It waited for him to make one grievous error, then closed in like a starving wolf.

When a killer murdered his fiancée, his emotional world collapsed. Death had hobnailed across his soul and he would never be the same man as before. He was a WWII veteran who witnessed battlefield deaths, but back home it was always different, and too often much too personal.

For Marlowe, some truths were self-evident, especially the ones that blew out of the hot barrel of his Colt .45.

Yet, the compassion that often surfaced laced with his sardonic self-deprecating sense of humor carried him through the type of crisis other men did not survive.

Marlowe walked with his head up, did not wallow in regret, and when time for vengeance arrived, always made certain that vengeance was his or the victim's he fought for.

Additionally, he sought justice for people others believed did not deserve such attention. However, he always questioned his own motives as he delved into the murky, often slime-layered depths of the criminal mind. He suspected he would often fail to understand, and then perhaps be too late, but he also knew justice hovered within the tendrils of smoke leaking from the barrel of a gun when all else failed.

There was tenderness in him that he denied,and when it revealed itself, he reacted, embarrassed by what he thought exposed only weakness. Perhaps that was the part of his character that attracted women; both the tenderness he displayed and his reaction to the emotion.

He was not the type of man who, if you met him on the street, would be either rude or unfriendly. He tipped his hat to women, took time to give directions to lost newlyweds, helped out the needy, the homeless, and then went about the business of serving justice on behalf of those who could not get impartiality any other way.

Marlowe Black was the answer to so many "What ifs." Now that I know him, I can only wonder where he will lead me next.

Copyright 2009 Larry Schliessmann. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed without the written consent of the author. Violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.
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Faith is not Religion

2009-11-29T04:44:00.001-08:00

Periodically, I beat this drum. It seems especially appropriate now, with Christians waving teabag banners declaring that if you cannot afford it you do not deserve healthcare. These being the people who claim they follow the teaching of Jesus, a man who healed the sick for free, who hated capitalism as he watched it bleed the poor into chaotic despair and utter ruin.

Faith is not religion.

Although the two are often confused, faith can be found outside of religion. Religion cannot be found outside faith, or if it can, then that religion is the raving ranting of politics.

I spoke with a man who claimed he found God. Strange idea, I thought, as if finding God took nothing more than scanning his surroundings with the equivalent of a spiritual metal detector. Perhaps God was a glint of light, a diamond chip lodged in the bottom of his soul he'd not discovered earlier. Suddenly there was God waiting just for him alone.

When I asked how that occurred, he said he found God in his newly adopted religion. He made it sound as if God existed nowhere else. The longer we talked, the clearer it became that this was a man transformed by his discovery. He reminded me of a drug addict or alcoholic, transfixed after the first huff or drink.

I asked how this transformation made him feel. Unbelievable, he said with wide-eyed wonder. Reborn, he added confidently as he examined his hands as if they were not the same hands he bore at birth, his true birth.

For him religion was like a spiritual aphrodisiac. He could stroke it and find satisfaction, arousal, deeper and stronger than anything physical. I wondered if he would survive the first test life dropped at his feet, a tragedy, serious challenge, or would his shelter shatter like stacked crystals.

We walked different paths after that day. I chose the path of faith. He chose religion. You may not yet see or the understand difference, but faith is like a spiritual cloak. Once it's wrapped around you, you do not remove it. You cannot, nor will you want to, open a door and walk outside of faith. Faith is lived each minute, not just a few select hours each week.

Religion is like a trench coat. If life “rains” on you, you hastily don it. Yet you don’t really trust it completely so you pop the umbrella of readings. When you leave your House of Worship, it’s okay to take the trench coat off, set it aside, place it on the night table maybe, hang it up to dry.

Sometimes religion is dictated by leaders who demand more of you, or that you perform deeds you are unwilling to do. Yet a true follower feels compelled to obey, drinks from the glass that reads “Drink This” and wonders why nothing changes as a result but everything seems or looks distorted.

Faith makes no demands. Faith is understanding; accompanied by the desire to prosper spiritually. There is no guidebook for faith; no lesson plan, none is needed.

Religion is laid out in books, road maps that must be read repeatedly to be followed and understood. Without daily immersion, one might drown in misunderstanding, leave the path of dictated behavior, and make decisions for oneself. Frightening thought, making decisions for oneself without religion's God to blame, or to seek succor or solace from.

Faith-guided living becomes a teacher. Such a life requires self-examination. It promotes healing oneself as the first step to healing others. Accepting one's own flaws leads to understanding the actions of those around us. Forgiving ourselves directs us to learn the skills needed to forgive others.

Years passed before I heard from the man who found God. He had abused his body through poor eating, drinking, and too much sun. In the end, I wondered if he refused the medical care that might've saved him because of religious conviction, or because he decided to give up. Perhaps the two were interchangeable.

Religion offers guidance based on the words of men lost to history, words written and rewritten until the ink faded into the obscurity of politics, which was when religion began representing government not faith.

Faith is guidance. Words are unnecessary; action propels the faithful to make the decision best for their spiritual self. And the path lies open, lit by inner light seen by the faithful alone, carried along though eternity.

Searching the Valley

2009-11-09T07:43:00.000-08:00

I looked down into a valley filled with stones. A light breeze rustled my hair, lifted odors of dried and freshly cut flowers to surround me with the mystery of their presence.

I think life occasionally demands more than we feel we have to give, filling us with doubt, stripping away encouragement leaving us soul-naked to stare into the blank blue sky and seek answers that can only be found by looking within. Yet we do not know where to look in those dreadfully frightening moments and reach outward instead.

We go about the task of living, envisioning ourselves as if standing above the fray, examining nuances, seeking ever seeking. Interaction with people, places, objects, animals, all seems somehow shallow, as if the surface of life was peeled away revealing a different, but identical surface that is now a mirror reflecting time but not us.

We stroke through bewilderment, as if we're swimming against rip tides, loosing but unwilling to lament, to relax, and think through what we are experiencing, why we experience it.

It is not until we tire to the point of spiritual exhaustion that we fall, fail, and finally understand. Life does not demand more than we have to give. Life teaches us how to learn to give anew. It is not about doors opening or closing, time passing or standing still. It is about whom we are, our choices, our paths, and why we make them, why we walk them. The message was not hidden except when bombarding words cluttered the air to obscure our thoughts and vision.

Then the waters flowed around us and flooded the valley with new life.

Vampire Life Part 7: What to do with the Ghoulish remains.

2009-10-30T07:13:00.000-07:00

Your vampire lover has been busy, gorging himself on local, well, prime rib. Now, it's up to you to clean up; after all, no vampire worth his canines would be caught alive with leftovers on his hands, or worse under his neatly manicured mother-of-pearl fingernails.

Let's face it, not every hunt ends with a convert. Often, the need to feast and the ultimate pleasure that courses through otherwise depleted veins may blind your vampire to the aftermath of his meal. If this continues, night after night, as you might suspect, the bodies do tend to pile up.

Of course an unused mineshaft nearby would prove beneficial, but even with that available, daily burials would eventually either fill it up, or the stench would alert the authorities. And a water-filled quarry would require weights to drag the leftovers to the bottom.

Oh dear, now what, you think. I must remove the evidence, protect the one I love, or some mindless nitwit from law enforcement tipped off by a nosy neighbor will ring the doorbell in the middle of the night and either arrest me due to what he found in the backyard and garage, or he too will become one of the leftovers.

Either way, your otherwise blissful life with your vampire lover would be trashed.

So, allow me to present a practical solution. Zombies, Goblins, and Ghouls. That's right, you read correctly. All three are easy to train, and move slowly so you do not need worry about being crushed by a fleeing mob of leftovers if something should alarm them and cause a stampede.

They are unduly nervous. Oh well, maybe that is understandable.

Your vampire lover can turn them easily if he chooses to, and...what? You didn't know he had the skill? Where did you think Zombies, Goblins, and Ghouls came from? Really, and I thought he was your lover. I guess he was unwilling to tell you every little secret.

So here's what you can do to help if your vampire is unwilling to reanimate the leftovers. All you need is his spit. A drop or two per leftover will be sufficient.

Collect it while he sleeps, or immediately after his finishes recharging his energy levels with a drink of warm blood.

You know he always drools, but until now, you've been hesitant to admit it aloud. Embarrassing a lover is not proper etiquette. But really, how fast can he swallow six to eight pints without needing to draw a breath?

He will not notice you while he feeds, so don't worry about him making a mistake and feeding on you too.

Now that you've gathered a pint or more of spit, you will need to spread out his leftovers. Shoulder to shoulder is preferable. This will make your task easier and faster.

Use a turkey baster or some other type of dropper and walk along the row, staying above the tops of their heads, and insert one drop of your vampire lovers' spit in each eye. Yes, the eyes, which mythology taught us are the windows to the soul. Obviously that was correct.

If you have more than thirteen leftovers, by the time you reach the last one, the first will have begun to feel the effects.

Stand back in the shadows as they ghoulishly struggle to their feet while examining their surroundings. If they move too fast during the first moments after reanimation there is the possibility you may wear bits and pieces of them that you really don't want on your body. Disgusting.

Finished? How did you do? Are all of them animated? If yes, congratulations! If no, try another application of spit and if then you failed to get the response you needed, dig a deep hole and drag that particular leftover into it and bury it before dawn.

You will need to lock your Zombies, Goblins, and Ghouls in the garage during sunlight hours, but once night falls again and your vampire lover is out hunting, you can either release your animated leftovers into the night, or begin training them to obey your commands. Then, you can order them to find their own hidey-holes in local cemeteries, which rids you of the problem.

See, now wasn't that easy?
___________________________________________________________________________
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Sunset Orange Water

2009-10-11T04:19:00.001-07:00

A .32 caliper pistol found at the scene with the victim's fingerprints on it. The medical examiner declares that the victim, Marlowe Black's pregnant fiancé's, death was caused by suicide.

Two of his friends are seriously wounded shot on different days hundreds of miles apart while Marlowe stood within ten feet of them both.

Marlowe discovers evidence of twenty-four prostitutes killed but not reported missing. Where they lie buried is unknown, that they are dead is not.

The mystery shooter keeps Marlowe on the run, while he attempts to resolve who killed his fiancée and why. Who attempted to take out two friends; who sent several hit men to three different locations to end his life; who killed the prostitutes and where do they lay buried?

All Marlowe needs to do is stay alive long enough to outsmart a man who easily outsmarts him repeatedly until the last gunshot is fired.

Only the Moment

2009-09-29T04:42:00.000-07:00

I stood with my back against the front door, attempting to barricade the entrance to my home.

Certainly, I thought, this will do nothing in the long term, but it'll give me a last minute feeling of control. I laughed humorlessly and added, one final last minute.

I should have listened to what other people told me about the man, years ago when I made the decision to trust him and move my life eight hundred and fifty miles from home.

They warned me; saw something I was unable to while blinded by his generous offer; an offer he never fulfilled. I think friends and family were more familiar with the Post Office ad that states, 'if something sounds like it's too good to be true, it probably is', or they at least understood what the phrase pie-in-the-sky means.

Each of them said, "Don't trust him," or "Think it through," or "Get something in writing."

My response, however, was clear. "I'm a forty-year old man from New York," I told them. "I've been around. I know when someone's out to screw me."

What I did not know was that my new employer knew little about the company he purchased and did not care to learn more. Add to that his age--seventy-five--and his failing desire to communicate openly, a serious medical crisis at home, and a time consuming effort to "save a wilderness area" that just happened to coincide with his vested interest in local water rights and you can see the 'In retrospect' problem.

At first, the transition seemed simple enough. I was to help them set up the company after it relocated to Bluffton, South Carolina, then go home.

However, the new owner had to make an offer too good to refuse. He talked the talk and I listened as if he recited the Gospel according to...well, live and learn.

I tried for four and a half years to influence him to change his business practices, invest in his new company's future and failed, which brought me to where I stood, back pressed against the door, out of work, and soon out of a home.

I leaned heavily and yelled, "It won't help to knock," and hoped my words would carry through the wooden panel as I heard footsteps land on the front porch.

They knocked anyway, and my heart jumped as if seeking an escape route that might not necessarily require the rest of me to follow, and shouted, "Damn it!"

The door moved against my back; the people outside began to force it open.

"What I like about America," I shouted, "is that the people in authority don't really give a damn about whom they hurt. They just blindly follow orders as if the person on the receiving end were less than human."

I turned my head and shouted louder. "Throw in a canister of poison gas crystals! Break a goddamn window and climb in with a can of mace! No, no, better yet, stand back and raze the place with AK47s. Who would gives a good goddamn if you kill everyone? It'll be easier for you after that, you'll only have corpses to drag out and dump with the rest of the remains of my life on the frigging front lawn."

I was breathing rapidly by the time I finished.

What the hell's wrong with me? I thought then. I trust the bastards of the world because they say what I want to hear, when I need to hear it. How many good, simple people have died because of that over the last several millennia? Well, at least I'm not alone, I informed myself as if accepting the consolation prize for the 'World's Biggest Chump' was the same as winning the lottery. I can do the stoop-shouldered shuffle on a bread line, tin cup in hand, begging for a place to sleep...a prelude to a better tomorrow.

"Oh well," I muttered as I opened the front door. "Come on in."

Two of them, one male, and one female, garbed in the county's finest tan and brown uniforms, pushed passed me. They boot stomped into the living room, heads swiveling like robots examining an alien enclave seeking what, for them, would be the easily detectable (we all know androids have infrared-sensitive vision) cache of paraphernalia.

I didn't have the heart to tell them that all they'd find was the last week's dirty briefs.

Tears welled, pushed toward freedom as I watched my belongings unceremoniously dumped on a pile at the foot of the driveway.

I asked them if they needed a match.

"Just burn that shit. Isn't that what you people like to do to the helpless?" I sat on the porch. "Here!"

I cursed as I pulled off my shoes and tossed them out on the roadway. Item by item I stripped until I stood bare-assed and angry alongside the pile they continued to build from the things I had kept in my life.

To my surprise, they did not give a damn that I had violated one of America's most sacred taboos, that I committed the heinous crime of indecent exposure.

And to make matters worse, to my utmost humiliation, the female Gestapo agent stopped and patted my stomach and informed me, "Need to lose a little weight, my man."

Sighing as loudly as possible, I dressed in whatever I could find, and ended up with only one sock and one shoe, different feet of course. I climbed in my car.

My old Audi was the only thing left to offer me shelter. I pounded on the steering wheel until my fists ached, then moved to drumming the seat.

By the time the agents from hell had finished trashing my home, leaving it all in a mound for the rats to nest in, my anger had abated. Fear slithered in to fill the void, but found itself shouldering a long lost, dark companion, Depression.

"Hey," I said to the once buried, now resurrected emotion, "I haven't seen you in a while."

Depression snickered, "About twenty two years, nine months, six days and three hours since my last visit."

Then it sounded hurt, and added, "but who's counting? Certainly not you."

"Listen," I said, trying to speak kindly; after all, it meant well and probably thought I needed to be depressed. "As I remember it, your last visit was an occasion I'd rather not relive...if you don't mind."

Depression was quick to retort. "I had a great time. Do you remember the shuttered windows? Not eating for days on end? Moreover, how about the self-esteem bashing? Crushed that little bastard half to death didn't we?"

Depression glowed with pride and a sense of accomplishment as it wedged itself between Sadness and Fear.

Sadness would be the clear loser, I could see that much. Fear was powerful, shoving, poking, and doing its best to stand its ground.

"Hold on! Wait a minute!" I talked aloud to be heard over the three of them while they jostled for position. "It took me years to recover from my last bout with you, Depression. I'll skip the entire visit this time, thank you very much." Before either Depression or Fear could get a chance to respond, I heard Sadness take a final breath, shudder, and succumb to the pressures the other two had exerted on its life force.

Without wasting an erg of energy, I seized the small advantage gained by Sadness' passing, jumped out of the car and went to my stuff.

Carefully I sifted out what was important, filled my car, backseat, trunk, and front seat with as much as I could cram in, and then squeezed into the driver's seat.

The steering wheel looked a little out-of-round. Shrugging, I started the car and braced myself for a renewed onslaught of negativity. Depression and Fear remained silent, although in waiting for an opening. Sadness was dead of course, and so for the moment I felt rather victorious.

And in the end, isn't it just the moment that counts?

Copyright 2009, all rights reserved. Larry Schliessmann

Looking at the parts of Convergence : dissecting a short story

2009-09-26T10:31:00.002-07:00

Now that it is finished, it is time to separate the pieces, and take a look inside.

First, what are the parts of a story?

The most basic are opening, middle, and ending.

The opening should have a hook to make the reader want more. Let the reader know enough about the central character to make the person seem real and interesting. The writer should also give the reader a glimpse of what upsets or intrigues that character into action. Where all of this takes place helps establish an anchor point. When it happens, may or may not be relevant. Lastly, the why of it all, the conflict, leads directly into the plot.

In Convergence, I used Stephanie's curiosity and her husband's secretive nature. This primary conflict made her act in an unusual way.

After six paragraphs, the reader glimpsed both personalities and discovered the dilemma their intersection created. The reader knew who Stephanie was, where she was, what upset her (again the conflict) and even got a glimpse of how she wanted to resolve the issue: (Across the middle of the page in unfamiliar masculine handwriting, she read: Friday, 8:00am rear parking lot 1111, 63rd Street.).

The middle. The story should build steadily leading the reader to the pivotal point where action carried the protagonist, Stephanie to make one decision that sent the story over the edge to conclusion.

In Convergence that point was: She threw out her hands, but her head slammed into the pavement and she collapsed, blacked out.

I used the middle as a turning point. The pace now must build more to reach conclusion.

The ending: First and perhaps most important, the protagonist should change. She cannot be the same person she was in the first sentence. The theme of Convergence is: sometimes getting involved in an event you would normally avoid may land you in a place or situation you were meant to be in. Had she not decided to investigate what her husband did, Stephanie would not have become the new Dragon Master, which became her destiny.

The ending should tie together all of the component parts, and resolve or answer any questions readers had as they went through the story.

The first clue that something extraordinary would happen was the blood on the paper. Blood usually dries quickly on paper since paper acts like a sponge. This blood was still tacky. The second was: an older brick three story that seemed dwarfed by its modern ten-story plus surroundings.

What was it? A portal, but it blended into the city. Any city you visit will always have several buildings that seem leftover from previous centuries, like churches, or residences. These are fine locations for strange events.

Then there were the cobblestone alley, and the bricked up windows and finally a fenced in courtyard. Not a backyard, a courtyard, and in the center was a depression that held a pool of blood, not dried blood.

When Stephanie confronted the guardian of the portal, he was a dirty gruff man who frightened her, threatened her, and treated her as she expected when caught trespassing.

The guardian needed to be rough to keep out the unwanted. I hid his identity to keep from spoiling the surprise once Stephanie awoke. Although, I did hope the reader would understand his purpose after her location became clear.

Throughout the story, I tried to use dialogue to create tension and conflict, and finally resolution. A goal I did not meet was 40% dialogue, which is a good average, or minimum amount of a story.

For what I desired to do with the story, I would have needed several more characters to achieve 40%, which I did not want. Sometimes too many characters confuse, and convolute the plot. I felt this story was one of them.

What was the plot?

The plot for Convergence: Stephanie spies hotel stationary in a drawer that is usually closed. She cannot resist temptation and examines the paper, discovers a tacky smear of blood, which she at first believes is lipstick.

After reading the address written on the paper, she worries that her husband may be in trouble and decides to investigate.

When she arrives at the address, she walks into a situation that changes everything she believes and alters her life.

A brief confrontation with a man who seems upset by her attempt to enter his property ends with her knocked out.

When she awakens, Stephanie learns she lies in a wooden ship's hold. She believes she is alone, sees distant lights, but when she examines the lights, she learns she is in a place she thinks could not be on earth.

A stranger who seems to appear magically with a candle that emits enough light to illuminate an area around him only then confronts her.

The confrontation ends when he pierces her hand with seven special teeth, and transfers his essence to her making her the new Dragon Master.

I think that is everything, conflict, action, dialogue, imagery, and resolution.

Questions? Did I leave something out? God, I hope not.

Writing a story from conception to completion: part three the conclusion.

2009-09-19T04:44:00.001-07:00

As it worked out, not knowing the end when I started this story allowed imagination to dictate conclusion. In addition, for me, writing is about imagining people, places and things, so this worked out in the best way possible.

I think a story should build from an idea, a vision, a picture, or even overheard words. If I envision an ending when I begin writing, fine. I will try to reach that ending, but know along the way something might happen to alter it some, or even completely.

It's all about the story, period. Writing is a joy. Therefore, here is the complete first draft (thanks to my wife's suggestion that Stephanie wake up and find herself in a ship's hold) with but one read through. I'll tinker with this some later on, and try to do a story anatomy by breaking Convergence down to link its components together beginning with the title.

~~

Convergence (2462 words)

Stephanie walked barefoot to the bedroom door. As she passed the bed, the partially opened drawer in her husband's nightstand made her pause. Since her husband was very secretive, she grew curious and attempted to peek inside. She felt a quick tingle of trepidation as she reached for the small brass knob.

A glance over her shoulder let her see that the bathroom door stood closed, yet she still felt the need for caution. She pulled her hand back.

As she turned away, trying to decide whether to look or leave the room, she saw her reflection in the mirror over her dark oak dresser. The frown pinching her thin blonde eyebrows into steep arches changed her mind.

Once she heard the shower running, she quickly slid open the drawer, lifted out a white sheet of hotel stationary and saw what she believed was a ring of lipstick halfway down its right edge.

Jealousy lanced her heart, brought a sob to her lips, but when she held the paper under the light, she realized that the red smear was blood. Hesitantly, she pressed her fingertip to the surface. The stain felt slightly sticky as if it had not dried completely. Stephanie looked at her finger, saw nothing on it, but wiped it against the edge of the drawer.

Across the middle of the page in unfamiliar masculine handwriting, she read: Friday, 8:00am rear parking lot 1111, 63rd Street.

Glancing up, she attempted to picture the address mentally but failed.

Abruptly, the shower shut off. Her heart skipped and she tossed the paper in the drawer, closed it completely and lay back on her side of the bed with her eyes closed while she wondered, where did the blood come from? And who is he meeting?

She opened her eyes enough to see him as dressed in shorts as he slipped under the sheet, and seconds later, she heard his steady breathing.

Waiting until she felt certain he would not waken, she left the bedroom, and dressed in the laundry room. With her shoes in her hand, she went outside, sat on the white wicker porch chair, and slipped them on. Five minutes later, Stephanie drove into town.

63rd Street wound through the central business district. Stephanie parked near the corner where Peterson Avenue bisected 63rd. She fed the parking meter, and glanced up at the street entrance of the building next to her.

"1001," she read under her breath, and walked to the next building, found it was 1013, and continued until she confronted an older brick three story that seemed dwarfed by its modern ten-story plus surroundings.

A narrow alley ran between 1111 and 1121. When she entered it, she discovered a well-worn uneven cobblestone path. The modern stone and steel wall to her left was lined with windows shaded by vertical blinds.

The brick wall on her right had three windows, two of which were bricked up. The last was at the rear corner, and behind it, she saw soiled curtains that obscured the interior.

Enough sunlight lit the alley that she felt confident that she might find some answers. As she reached the back corner of the building, the alley opened into a small fenced in courtyard.

Woven wooden fencing stood five feet tall and blocked access to the property. She approached it, lifted onto her toes, and peered over the top.

"Oh my God," she said louder than she wanted, when she spied what she believed was blood, gathered in a depression about fifteen feet away.

Determined to learn what her husband had gotten involved in she boldly looked for an entrance, saw one directly behind the brick building, and made for it as stealthily as possible.

She raised her hand to press the latch, and heard scuffing behind her, felt a hand grasp her upper arm tightly enough to force her to cry out.

"I'm sorry," she cried. "I just wanted to--"

"Nothing," a deep male voice demanded. "You will do nothing but turn around and leave here."

"Okay," she agreed and struggled to get free, glancing down at the fingers squeezing her arm and saw that his nails were raw and dirty, stained red.

"My husband is coming here soon." As soon as she said the words, she knew she'd made a serious mistake.

"Why would he come here?" The hand grasping her arm, twisted hard, forcing her to lean into it to avoid serious pain.

Nearly on her knees, looking up into his shadowed face, Stephanie gasped, "You're hurting me."

"Answer my question or you will know pain." He twisted again.

She felt her knees press into the stones yet he did not release her.

"I don't know why," she cried. "I found it written on a piece of paper and there was blo--" she stopped abruptly.

"There was what?" He leaned applying enough pressure to grind the bones in her elbow.

"Blood, there was blood on it!" Stephanie screamed.

He lifted her and then shoved her hard, releasing her arm at the same time.

She threw out her hands, but her head slammed into the pavement and she collapsed, blacked out.

Stephanie opened her eyes to pain and darkness. She thought she heard creaking wood flooring over her head. She reached out, touched the cool surface below, drew her fingers across it, and knew she felt wood.

Using her arms to lever her up, she sat and stared into the blackness, blinking when she thought she saw glittering lights like a mirage, or a distant city. The white-yellow pinpoints winked bright then went out.

She heard male voices shouting, but could not distinguish their words. The headache pounding behind her eyes worsened when she turned onto her hands and knees and struggled to her feet.

"Oh my God, where am I?" she whispered, hearing the flat sound of her voice as if she were in a small chamber with sound deadening walls.

Placing her hands against the nearest upright surface, she leaned to rest, and felt movement through her palms. She turned, pressed her back against the wall, and still felt the vibrations of movement.

Ignoring the headache, the soreness of her muscles, she sidled along the wall in the direction of where she believed she'd seen the lights.

Five minutes of slow progress brought her to a perpendicular wall. She stood in the corner. Directly in front of her, she saw a long split that appeared to be a separation between two hand-hewed timbers.

Forgetting her pain, Stephanie leaned close enough that she could see through the crack as if there was nothing before her. What she saw sucked the breath from her lungs.

"My God, I'm on a boat," she whispered. "But where is this place?"

She stared at the shoreline and realized that the lights she saw flickered because they were flames. Along the docks, and lining the streets leading into a small city of one- and two-story buildings, torches lit the way for the people she saw moving about.

"This doesn't make any sense," she said, shook her head, thinking, I must've gotten a concussion. I'm imagining this place. There is nowhere on earth like this.

She turned away, closed her eyes, took several long slow breaths, and turned back. Something had changed, but not what she wanted to see.

Drifting about fifty feet above the long ancient looking dock, a large red dragon, a least a hundred feet long she guessed, flew by with slow wing strokes. The beast opened its mouth as if to yawn, and spit out a thin spiral of flame that hissed into the water beneath its massive nearly translucent wings.

"Oh this isn't right. These creatures do not exist," she cried, covering her mouth with both hands. She felt her eyes open wider when the dragon acted as if it had sensed her presence, turned its gigantic head in her direction, and then lifted its wings high, their tips turning inward slightly, pushed down forcefully and flew right at her.

She felt a scream tearing at her throat, fought hard to swallow it. Don't let it know you're here, she warned. Please God, please don't let it see me.

The dragon flew nearer. Stephanie used both hands to stifle the scream she could not stop from escaping, and then when a second dragon, a black giant nearly twice the size of the red, dropped from above where she could see, her effort was lost.

Stephanie's scream sounded loud to her, as if it squeezed through the split in the wooden wall and echoed off the surrounding waters.

The black dragon fell onto the red dragon's back, driving them both into the sea. She saw wave boil up as if the two fought to keep each other below the surface.

Then, as one, they reappeared heads first, and like enormous arrows flew straight up and out of sight.

Stephanie felt her knees weaken as she sank to the floor. She crawled back to the place where she woke up, and stopped when her hand landed on something familiar, her Blackberry.

"Thank God," she said as she felt its surface with her forefinger, found the power button and pressed it on.

The screen lit, but displayed nothing more than one line of two words. "No service." There was one other thing she saw in the light from the screen. Blood. The tip of her finger glowed deep red.

I didn't wash after touching the paper Jacob had in his drawer, she realized, and then knew, He hadn't cut his finger, he didn't kill someone or even witness an accident. This is dragon blood.

She held her hand up to eye level, blew on her finger and a moment later heard the bugling sounds of dragon cry. Not one or two dragons but many as if the scent of blood off her finger lifted onto air currents and as fast as time itself, alerted every dragon within a thousand miles of her presence.

"That's perfectly ridiculous," she said disgustedly.

"And why would you believe that?" a deep male voice asked.

"Who are you?" she cried still holding her finger up.

"You sit there with your finger in the air, calling dragons and you did not expect me?" A tall thin man walked to where she sat. He held a lit taper. The flame flickered as he walked to her, illuminated his long narrow face, golden eyes, and flat ears that ended in sharp peaks. Around his neck, she saw a gold chain. On the chain hung a twisted knot of ancient runes that surrounded a single emerald the size of her thumbnail.

She nodded and said as sarcastically as possible, "And you would be the dragon master of course."

"Clever girl," he said, lifted his feet, crossed his legs, and floated to the floor. "So truth be told, you have no idea who I am or what you are doing here."

Stephanie felt foolish. "Well, no actually I don't know either." She sighed and looked at her hands now resting on her lap.

"Your headache is better I assume?" He asked wisely.

"What? How could you know, oh of course. You're a magic elf and once you knew I was in pain, you waved your hands in the air and magic dust fluttered down onto my head and voila, my pain was gone."

"Well they did not tell me they planned to send us a cynic. That makes my task much more difficult."

"Since you obviously do not intend to answer my questions up until now, how about this one? Exactly what is your task?" She leaned forward enough that the illumination from the candle lit her features.

He pulled his head back slightly as if she was too close for comfort. His wide thin lips pinched together as if he needed a moment's contemplation and then he nodded solemnly.

"My task is to train you to replace me." As she opened her mouth to protest, he raised one hand to silence her. "I admit I was expecting a man, but women have been in my shoes in the past so there is no reason that you will not be able to fulfill your ambitions."

"My ambitions! My ambitions, did you say?"

"Well of course you are sitting here in the hold of the Silversmith's ship anchored outside the City of Silver Mountain, home of the world's last silver dragon, are you not?"

She frowned, narrowed her eyes as if she planned to burn him with her glare, and then she thought, Oh my God, this is all a joke of some kind. Jacob is getting even with me for snooping.

"Okay," she said. "You win, tell Jacob I'm sorry and that I will never look at his papers again, and--"

"Jacob? Who is he? Should I know him?"

His tone of voice was like a spike of ice that melted in her chest turning her blood cold.

"Can I touch you?" she asked sounding almost shy.

He shrugged and held out his hand.

Stephanie's fingers looked small resting on the back of his hand. Gingerly, she brushed his flesh. It felt leathery, yet soft and pliable. The hair on his hand was wiry, and moved as feathers might.

She glanced up at his face. "You're not human are you?"

"Did someone tell you to expect a human?" he sounded both annoyed and curious. "We all begin as such, but to fulfill our destiny, well, remaining human would be ludicrous at best, now wouldn't it?"

Then, he dropped the taper and grasped her wrist. Although she struggled to pull free, before she could, he lifted her hand to his mouth and bit the mound of muscle and flesh at the base of her thumb.

Stephanie yelped, "Ow damn it, you're hurting me," and then heard dragons trumpeting outside as if they knew it was time to rejoice.

When he dropped her hand, and picked up the taper, she examined the spot where his teeth penetrated her flesh. Seven small perfectly round holes drilled deep into her muscles, and as she watched they healed, weaving runes between them that matched the pendant she saw on the gold chain around the elf's neck.

When she looked up eyes filled with wonder, she discovered she sat alone. The taper remained standing as if it had been mounted into melted wax accumulated by hours of burning. On the ancient wooden floor, lay the chain and pendant, which she knew belonged to her.

Bravely, she lifted it and draped the gold chain around her neck, stood, waved her hand over the taper, extinguishing the flame, and with a nod and a blink, stood on the forecastle of the Silversmith's ship.

Around the ship and over the city where she now saw hundreds of torch-bearing people walking towards the docks, dozens of dragons filled the sky bellowing their pleasure as dawn rose over the mountains, and a new day of Silver was born.

Drop Dead Cadillac Cover Blurb

2009-09-07T10:42:00.000-07:00

A red 1951 Cadillac half underwater, the bodies of a man and woman drowned in the trunk, one rapist, a reporter and his sister, a mobster and his father-in-law who's a Brooklyn Don, all tied together by one crime.

Add to that the return of the man who killed Marlowe Black's fiancée. And of course, some women. Oh, and a world famous writer who hires Marlowe Black to unravel and tie up the loose ends by discovering who killed the two in the trunk and why, after the writer witnesses their death throes late at night.

Did I mention a dancer who only eats food cited in the titles of popular songs? Oh, and a man who loves his dog more than he loves his wife even during their divorce, which happens after the dog died?

The "what" and "when" is a matter of history. The "why" it happened might even sound easy. The "who" that committed the crime and "how" it was done and covered up might prove more difficult to learn.

Before he discovers the answers, Marlowe Black makes a couple of new friends, but needs to shoot his way through a few new and old enemies first.

Writing a Story from Conception to Conclusion: Part 2

2009-08-31T05:08:00.000-07:00

My plan was to present the written story. Now I'm not because I cannot decide how to end it.

Knowing the end is the second part of story writing, the first being the original idea.

Since I failed to conceive an ending before, or soon after the plot idea gelled, the plot is dangling precariously over the precipice.

Due to this, I'm presenting the story as it stands now, and will let it sit for a few days until I invent an ending I feel is satisfying.

Rather like biting into a chocolate bar and discovering that the raspberry filling is delightful.

So here is the story so far. I would of course be interested in comments and even ideas of how this should end.

Please keep in mind that this is an incomplete first draft only. Stephanie may need to, and probably will, go though more difficulties and life changing events before I'm finished with this fragment of her existence.

Convergence (847 words and counting)

Stephanie walked barefoot to the bedroom door. As she passed the bed, the partially opened drawer in her husband's nightstand made her pause. Since her husband was very secretive, she grew curious and attempted to peek inside. She felt a quick tingle of trepidation as she reached for the small brass knob.

A glance over her shoulder let her see that the bathroom door stood closed, yet she still felt the need for caution. She pulled her hand back.

As she turned away, trying to decide whether to look or leave the room, she saw her reflection in the mirror over her dark oak dresser. The frown pinching her thin blonde eyebrows into steep arches changed her mind.

Once she heard the shower running, she quickly slid open the drawer, lifted out a white sheet of hotel stationary and saw what she believed was a ring of lipstick halfway down its right edge.

Jealousy lanced her heart, brought a sob to her lips, but when she held the paper under the light, she realized that the red smear was blood. Hesitantly, she pressed her fingertip to the surface. The stain felt slightly sticky as if it had not dried completely. Stephanie looked at her finger, saw nothing on it, but wiped it against the edge of the drawer.

Across the middle of the page in unfamiliar masculine handwriting, she read: Friday, 8:00am rear parking lot 1111, 63rd Street.

Glancing up, she attempted to picture the address mentally but failed.

Abruptly, the shower shut off. Her heart skipped and she tossed the paper in the drawer, closed it completely and lay back on her side of the bed with her eyes closed while she wondered, where did the blood come from? And who is he meeting?

She opened her eyes enough to see him as dressed in shorts as he slipped under the sheet, and seconds later, she heard his steady breathing.

Waiting until she felt certain he would not waken, she left the bedroom, and dressed in the laundry room. With her shoes in her hand, she went outside, sat on the white wicker porch chair, and slipped them on. Five minute later, Stephanie drove into town.

63rd Street wound through the central business district. Stephanie parked near the corner where Peterson Avenue bisected 63rd. She fed the parking meter, and glanced up at the street entrance of the building next to her.

"1001," she read under her breath, and walked to the next building, found it was 1013, and continued until she confronted an older brick three story that seemed dwarfed by its modern ten-story plus surroundings.

A narrow alley ran between 1111 and 1121. When she entered it, she discovered a well-worn uneven cobblestone path. The modern stone and steel wall to her left was lined with windows shaded by vertical blinds.

The brick wall on her right had three windows, two of which were bricked up. The last was at the rear corner, and behind it, she saw soiled curtains that obscured the interior.

Enough sunlight lit the alley that she felt confident that she might find some answers. As she reached the back corner of the building, the alley opened into a small fenced in courtyard.

Woven wooden fencing stood five feet tall and blocked access to the property. She approached it, lifted onto her toes, and peered over the top.

"Oh my God," she said louder than she wanted, when she spied what she believed was blood, gathered in a depression about fifteen feet away.

Determined to learn what her husband had gotten involved in she boldly looked for an entrance, saw one directly behind the brick building, and made for it as stealthily as possible.

She raised her hand to press the latch, and heard scuffing behind her, felt a hand grasp her upper arm tightly enough to force her to cry out.

"I'm sorry," she cried. "I just wanted to--"

"Nothing," a deep male voice demanded. "You will do nothing but turn around and leave here."

"Okay," she agreed and struggled to get free, glancing down at the fingers squeezing her arm and saw that his nails were raw and dirty, stained red.

"My husband is coming here soon." As soon as she said the words, she knew she'd made a serious mistake.

"Why would he come here?" The hand grasping her arm, twisted hard, forcing her to lean into it to avoid serious pain.

Nearly on her knees, looking up into his shadowed face, Stephanie gasped, "You're hurting me."

"Answer my question or you will know pain." He twisted again.

She felt her knees press into the stones yet he did not release her.

"I don't know why," she cried. "I found it written on a piece of paper and there was blo--" she stopped abruptly.

"There was what?" He leaned applying enough pressure to grind the bones in her elbow.

"Blood, there was blood on it!" Stephanie screamed.

He lifted her and then shoved her hard, releasing her arm at the same time.

She threw out her hands, but her head slammed into the pavement and she collapsed, blacked out.

Vampire Life Part 6: Protecting Your Vampire Lover

2009-08-29T04:33:00.000-07:00

Keep in mind that the first requirement for vampiric transformation is death. With that knowledge, one must reevaluate the title Vampire Slayer. To slay is to kill, meaning the final product of slaying is a corpse.

Well of course, if you begin your slaying by killing the dead, you can understand the confusion. How does one kill what is already dead?

Therefore, how do we define the efforts of those brave men and women who cast aside fear, dark scary places, and numerous spider webs to slay what is already dead?

Before we do that, let us step outside the parameters of such unreality and examine the vampiric transformation process itself with a brief story.

Joe Bledsoe walked casually along a narrow southern country lane on his way to his local church. He carried with him a well-worn bible and around his neck hung a hand carved crucifix he received for his baptism. Joe was pleased with himself having accomplished so much in such a short number of years. As the Parish's newly appointed pastor, his flock looked up to him for his spiritual guidance and wisdom. At 27, he knew his life path was established with the security of Divine Guidance.

A rustling in the trees to his left, slowed his step. "Hello?" he called confidently. "Do not be afraid, brother or sister."

He allowed a note of optimistic compassion into his voice to encourage the stranger to step from the obscurity of hiding and onto the moonlit path, which Joe trod with the footfall of the blessed.

The rustling came again, only this time the sound was behind him, not to the front as the noise had been a moment earlier. Joe, feeling a lance of trepidation spear into his chest, lifted his free hand to grasp his crucifix rubbing the pad of his thumb over the well-worn surface.

When a heavy cold hand landed firmly on his shoulder, Joe gasped out a sound like a squeak and turned to look at the man now standing directly behind him.

"I didn't hear your approach, brother," he said, hearing a note of excitement in his voice and wondering why the pale stranger made him feel so elated rather than afraid.

"You would not have, brother Bledsoe," the stranger's rich sonorous voice told him. "Nor will you resist me as I relieve you of your earthly coil."

"My earthly coil?" Joe asked sounding confused as he watched the man lower his head, saw him curl back his lips to expose twin incisors as they touched and then pierced the flesh of Joe's neck.

Joe died standing, feeling all that he had been moments before evaporate into memory that, too, blinked out and left him standing in a spiritual void.

Now, for this example to work as I wish it to, the vampire must revive Joe so he becomes a member of the living dead.

Oh, you noticed that the crucifix did not deter the vampire? Nor did the Bible, it seems. Well, not all myths are firmly grounded in reality.

The vampire lowered Joe's body to the dusty earth, and kneeling alongside him, suddenly understood the irony of the moment. With a blood-dripping grin, he used one long fingernail as tough as a knife's edge, to slice his own wrist. Carefully peeling open Joe's lips, prying down his lower jaw, the vampire allowed his reconstituted blood to drain into his victim's mouth.

Joe's eyes popped open as the strangely potent life reviving fluid worked its magic and the vampire withdrew. His wound healed instantly.

Okay, now Joe is a member of the living dead, yet he left something behind. Well, other than his life. He left behind his beliefs, his emotions, and his desire to live a productive existence. After all, he is now a member of that rare breed of humans known as vampires.

I wonder how much we'd fear vampires if they only killed the worst criminals -- oh sorry, I grew distracted.

You see, vampires must feed just like the rest of humanity. The difference being that living humans feed on animals and plants they kill, and vampires live on animals and humans they kill. Hmmm.

Of course, living humans still deal with conflicting emotions, striving for success in their daily activities so they feel accomplishment. After all, life is a gift, right? A gift so stupendous, to waste it might be the worst criminal act a living human can commit.

"Really," said the vampire curiously. "Is that so? Humans do much to enjoy wasting time, hours a day watching TV, online, texting, chatting. Why, I say, that's just criminal."

Yet, the living dead have shed the burdens of emotional entanglement, except for an occasional attraction, or need for companionship. Perhaps immortality confounds immortals.

Living humans know of their finite existence, despite their best efforts to ignore death's carnage and flee its approach.

So where or what is the line that separates the two "life" forms: Living humans from the living dead?

I think it might be that immortality thing again. Did Joe Bledsoe think while he lived, Should a vampire be granted everlasting life here on earth when I am not and will never be?

The only recourse is to encourage those pesky, vampire slayers.

Living humans kill humans with the death penalty right, so why should this be different? Killing the living dead is just repeating that action to make sure it takes the second time.

Therefore, we return to the problem of slaying a human who is dead. Some slayers have reported that a few vampires invite the end with relief. They attempted to starve themselves, but slipped into a "blackout" the way alcoholics do and fed anyway. Heartbreaking really.

Tis better to select a victim than kill randomly unless you dread the procedure.

Now, how does this help you protect your new vampire lover? Well, understanding your opponent is the first step to a successful defense.

The slayer feels driven by normal human desire that is tweaked, not to be mistaken for tweeted. Of course, not every human believes that killing is good. Some despise the death penalty. However, the vampire slayer is not one of them, but instead believes in an eye for an eye.

Think of approaching the living dead and succeeding, ending its existence. The slayer can only safely kill during daylight hours.

Yet what happens if you are with your lover while he sleeps? You can protect him. Use a Taser to stun the slayer and then tie him up. When your vampire awakens, well you understand the consequences and your vampire will feel deeply grateful.

Of course, there is the rare vampire who does not need to avoid sunlight. Unfortunately, he may not be interested in companionship, unless you are willing to be Turned. I know, there is that immortality thing again. However, what would you do to protect and keep your lover happy? Immortality, here you come.

Good luck and happy hunting!
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Show Me Don't Tell Me How-To

2009-08-19T10:33:00.000-07:00

Writers hear those words frequently, but rarely will the phrase be accompanied with an example.

One of my favorite sayings is "Keep it simple." I am sure you've heard it spoken.

I am going to write an example of Show me, don't tell me and do my best to keep it simple.

Here is my Tell me.

Jonathan stood at the edge of the cliff and peered into the valley. A spark of light caught his attention. The light came from the end of a scope mounted on a rifle held by the sniper he tried to escape. He knew if he could sneak up on the man, he might disarm him and become the hunter.

He nearly fell, but did not and dropped to a ledge below where he crouched, found an animal trail, and carefully made his way down to the floor of the valley. The sniper must have heard him or saw him, and approached warily.

Jonathan drew his own gun and when he thought the sniper was close enough, stood and shot him.

Now, here is my Show me.

His foot slipped, sending loose rocks tumbling over the cliff. Jonathan waved his arms frantically, as he began to fall. Movement about two-hundred feet below him that seemed in reaction to his stumble, flashed like a mirror's reflection.

He groaned as his elbow hit the rocky surface, as his fingers dug in scrabbling to stop his fall.

Damn sniper, he thought as he heard a rifle's report, and felt his legs dangle over the edge.

Rock shattered around his face, sent razor splinters into his left forearm. He cried out in pain, but refused to quit, refused to die.

Finally he stabilized, but instead of pulling up, he lowered himself down, nearly panting with fear, knowing the next shot might be the last sound he heard.

After a quick glance, he saw a ledge covered with boulders and let go of the cliff, dropped fast and hard. He hit, rolled, and collided with a huge stone that hid him from the sniper.

"Hope you think you killed me," he muttered, crept around the end of the boulder, and spied a narrow goat path that wound downward.

After examining his wounds and deciding they were superficial, Jonathan low-crawled to the start of the path. A glance down showed him that the terrain would offer him shelter with an occasional opening that might leave him vulnerable if the sniper saw him as he crossed it.

He painfully crab-walked the first one hundred fifty feet, stopped before crossing an open area, searched for his adversary, did not see him, and then stood and ran. His ankle twisted as he neared the bottom, as his foot landed on loose stones. Jonathan threw out his arms, stopping his fall, and knew he was safely down.

However, he heard approaching footsteps. They sounded steady and determined. Reaching behind him, his fingers fumbled with the hold-down, forced open the snap and lifted out the short barrel .38 he carried in a waist holster.

Waiting, holding his breath, Jonathan braced for confrontation. Stones tumbled about ten feet to his left. He flipped off the safety, stood, and blindly fired three shots.

Two echoed off stone. The third hit something soft sounding as if the bullet had passed through water.

He heard a loud clatter, a heavy boneless thud, and then silence. Jonathan held his handgun in front of him, walked over and looked down on the sniper's corpse. The arteries on the right side of his neck pulsed out the last of the snipers blood.

Jonathan kicked the scoped rifle aside, and sat on the nearest large stone with a flat surface, and ran his hands through his thinning brown hair allowing his heart to slow before phoning for help.
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How-To-Write a story from conception to completion

2009-08-18T06:48:00.001-07:00

I begin with a mental image.

Rule number one for me. Let the image write the story. I do not force it, or attempt to direct its flow. If I am stuck, I will stop and find something else to do. The story will usually pull me back.

The following example began when a misplaced sheet of paper in my office grabbed my attention. As I walked past, I saw the color red and printed words.

In my mind, this developed into an image of a sheet of white paper in a drawer with writing or printing on the paper and a red smear that appeared to be a fingerprint.

The paper could’ve been from any source. The printing or words might’ve been a note, a message, or something else. The red might’ve been lipstick, strawberry jam, or something ominous like blood.

I like ominous best.

At first, I considered that the drawer was in a desk, and then moved it to a nightstand.

The printing on the paper became hotel letterhead.

Now, it was used hotel stationary in a nightstand. This was a beginning, but lacked tension.

The red could be lipstick, but then it runs the risk of cliché. It could be paint, which sounds terribly mundane. It could be jam left by a child‘s fingers.

Hmm, a missing child? Something to consider.

By that point, I had what I felt were two workable plot ideas. Since I really enjoy mysteries, be it murder or horror, blood won out.

Therefore, I now had hotel stationary in a bedside nightstand with a smear of blood along one edge.

What I needed then were people. Otherwise, no one found it, and no one cared that the paper was in the drawer.

I decided that a couple would work best. You can adjust gender according to how the plot develops. For my first attempt, I went with husband and wife. The wife finds the paper, and this is the initial result.

~
She walked towards the bedroom doorway. As she passed the bed, the slightly opened drawer in her husband's nightstand caught her attention. Curious as to what she saw, she stopped as she was about to step into the hallway and returned. Since her husband was normally somewhat secretive, she felt a quiver of trepidation as she reached for the small brass knob.

A glance over her shoulder told her that the bathroom door was closed, yet she still felt the need for caution.

As she turned away, deciding whether she should look or leave, she saw her reflection in the mirror over her dark oak dresser. The frown pinching her thin blonde eyebrows into steep arches changed her mind. She couldn't understand exactly why, and decided she would think about that later.

Once she heard the shower running, she cautiously opened the nightstand drawer, lifted out a sheet of hotel stationary with what she believed was a lipstick stain on the edge.

Pain lanced her heart, but when she held the paper under the light, she realized that the red smear was blood. Hesitantly, she touched the surface. The stain felt slightly sticky as if it had not dried completely.

The water shut off. She dropped the paper in the drawer, closed it completely and lay back on her side of the bed with her eyes closed while she wondered if he'd gotten a paper cut, and if not, how the blood came to be on the paper.

She could not recall seeing any cuts on his fingers or hands, but since he'd just returned from a business trip, climbing into bed at 5 am, she had not had the opportunity to look with the light on.

~
That takes care of the beginning and the basic plot foundation. Except there is an important element missing, plausibility.

A story must be plausible from the first sentence. Break the flow of plausibility and the story collapses.

In this example, I now asked, "Why would her husband bring hotel stationary with a smear of blood on it home and place the paper in his bedside drawer?" Of course, we know he is secretive, and believes the drawer is private.

The solution could be one of several. However, I decided to add, “printed across the middle of the page, she read a day, time, and location (in the actual story, I'd use a real day, time and place, which can be fictional).”

One more consideration. What I've written of the actual story so far can be "fleshed out" using the protagonist's five senses. The wife is my protagonist.

Here is an example:

Quickly, she lifted the paper to her nose, intentionally staying away from the blood. What she smelled was not what she expected. The odor seemed masculine, not feminine like perfume, and was not the familiar scent she knew belonged to her husband. As she moved the paper, the odor of blood confirmed her worst suspicion. What did he do? She wondered feeling a flutter of fear stir in her chest.

Using this technique, the 289 words I've written of the story, can become four hundred or more, but never overdo description. If your protagonist is walking or driving through a town or city, go easy on the travelogue, unless you are trying to write a fictional guidebook, which already sounds non-fictional.

Too much descriptive narrative becomes an obvious attempt to add to the word count. You will not fool your readers. Keep your characters anchored in place with just enough detail, but always remember it’s the plot and characterization (action and reaction) that tells the story.

The wife in my example faces a conundrum. Should she confront her husband? Should she follow him or be certain she is at the location and well hidden when he arrives for his rendezvous?

She's not about to call the police and perhaps feels nervous about confrontation. That might produce an unwanted result, like his denial, or even anger that she looked at his private papers. We know he is secretive.

In my opinion, her logical choice is to do nothing or be on site when he arrives to meet the man who wrote the note. We also know she is curious, so it is quite plausible that she will spy on him to assuage her concern.

The writer now has several excellent options. The man he meets might assault her husband, or the two men might plan a crime, or discuss how to cover up a crime. The husband might kill the other man. Whichever, the wife will discover that her husband is not the man she believed him to be (character development).

I understand that this is a well-used plot, but that does not mean it cannot be used again as long as the story does not read like any other developed from a similar plot device.

Regardless of how the plot develops, the writer must weave in ideas and clues from the start of the story. Make the blood smear important in the men's discussion. Ultimately, that should help define the story's conclusion.

Finally, the story must end by answering any questions that the plot presented, and add a nice nasty twist if possible.

Next, I'll write a first draft of the story.
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Why Choose a Vampire? Fiction and Society

2009-07-24T04:21:00.001-07:00

Slowly, blood pooled at his feet. Stunned by the sight, he stared at the slippery liquid as it drained down his chest. The sensation felt both eerie and frightening since it reminded him of slithering snakes, and the inescapable approach of his own death. Yet, he also felt a strange elation, almost erotic attraction.

Unable to speak, for seconds he mentally pleaded with his attacker, Please don't kill me. I have a family. Then felt his muscles weaken and fail.

His heart slowed, stuttered, and stopped. Now, he knew he was beyond the hope of the living.

He felt lips graze his neck, pulling the last drops from within him. Then, as if life was nothing more than a single liquid moment, a large orb of thick cool blood coated his lips, his mouth as he opened it and gasped in air.

His heart resumed pumping, but it felt and sounded vastly different. He could not understand what happened, as strong hands easily lifted him to his feet and a voice said, "Drink this. It is life after death. Do as I command, and live forever."

He obeyed, tasted the eternal elixir, desired another swallow, and begged, "Please, I need more."

He felt too weak to reach out, and leaned against his savior without realizing that he who saved him after death had, beforehand, taken his mortal life without remorse.

--

In the 1980s, bookstores had shelves established for the horror genre. Those years were filled with the fear of world war, high inflation, recession, corruption, and more.

The 1980s gave writers like Stephen King and Anne Rice an opportunity, which both accepted and prospered from.

Then came the Clinton years. Somehow, Bill Clinton brought with him a new optimism. However, many old style politicians, including younger ones who resisted change, immediately went after him as if hope for the future was somehow a threat to their desired goals, which seemed to be maintaining the despair and fear of the past.

They appeared more interested in stopping change, than in welcoming the future as a time of renewed vigor. Of course, Bill Clinton was his own worst enemy, but those who wanted to destroy him wanted to destroy what he symbolically represented too.

During the 1990s, publishers announced that Horror fiction was dead. Bookstores removed it as a separate genre and combined it with science fiction. True science fiction rebounded and carried with it the promise of adventure, and technological advancements that would create a world of equality and promise.

Then came 9/11. The idea "look what science did or failed to do" eroded society. Humanity's cruelest crept from beneath the rocks of Afghanistan, and reminded us that the past was not the only time when men like Hitler boot stomped across innocent life with unjustifiable motivation.

Fiction horror was back, but this time tamed by "Buffy, the Vampire Slayer." Somehow, the once nearly invincible vampire emerged as a vulnerable lovesick boy. Occasionally, the vampire seemed to miss mother's touch more than he cared for his gift of immortality. Movies, TV, and books hunted these creatures of the night as if to replace, or appease the need to crush those who killed without validation.

So, I ask why vampires? Why praise them? Why hunt and slay them? Why do we fear them, yet cannot get enough of what they offer?

Perhaps what they offer somehow makes their existence desirable to us. Immortality, no death, no disease, no fear, no war, no corruption. Injuries heal themselves. Every person is attractive to them and longs for their touch, in spite of the knowledge that a vampire's gift of death and rebirth may well mean the end of life.

2008 reminded me of 1992. An election of hope. I wondered if horror would again be diminished and replaced by true science fiction or another hope-filled genre.

Apparently not this time. Perhaps the despair and hopelessness -- driven by like-minded people such as those who derailed change in the 1990s -- that haunted us since 2001 remains fixed, an immovable object that divided us as a people, so that we now refuse to seek common ground for the most basic of human needs.

Why vampires?

Why not? At least they act logically. We can predict their outcome, their goals, and find some solace in that knowledge.
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A Writer's Space, um, I Mean Life

2009-07-23T04:50:00.000-07:00

There are days when I cannot see the desktop. --->

And there are days when I cannot find the right book, or books.

And there are days when everything just works out without searching, flipping pages, living in a paperless society.

Um, well that last idea is still a fantasy, but hey, I like tactile. Digital has its place, but just doesn't feet quite right. Flipping the pages, sorting through stacks of paper, that is the life for me. The writer's life.

Read more Books! (if you can find them) lol

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Tell us when you were born

2009-07-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

Join a website and you will be required to fill in the blanks.

With some sites, this data seems more important than your user name. If you refuse, you cannot join.

Why do they need to know?

Immediately, I can think of two reasons. First is targeted marketing from streaming video, pop-up ads and email spam.

Don't worry; we do not give out your personal information.

(Right and the thousand people involved in landing men on the moon all kept the fact that it didn't happen secret for the last forty years. Never happen).

Breaking News: Yes they do give out your personal data!

If they did not plan to give out the date you were born, why do they need it? Without a Social Security number, they cannot use your birth date for anything else like confirming you are who you tell them you are.

Well, here is a second reason for them to require that sensitive information.

Age discrimination, which is interwoven directly and indirectly with the first reason.

If you are under ten, or over eighty, there are foods and drugs you NEED to know about. Special clothing styles, insurance plans, movies, toys, books, teething rings, etc.

If you are a teenage male, you have problems with girls. If you are a teenage female, you have problems with boys, although I'm certain they are vastly different from male problems. In fact, some males might be the problem. Sorry, we do not have food or drugs to help you with that.

However, if you click here "Girls VS Boys.org" we have several books available for the low price of $29.95 each. The information we provide will help you through these turbulent years, and for a limited time, we'll add a coupon for your favorite chocolate bar.

Thirty something male or female? Struggling with family, job loss, debt, and planning for the future? Go here: "Help, I thought I knew everything.com" and for a low low subscription price of $29.95 per month, we will teach you how to get it back and move on.

Human over forty-five? Have we got a drug for you! Whether it is flaccidity, or plain disinterest, we can help you today. Click this link, "Gotta Have It.com" and for the low cost of $29.95, we'll help you run the flag up the pole!

Overweight? Wrinkles noticeable? Well, you get the idea.

Now for the largest market segment of all. This is where the real money is tied up.

Over fifty-five? Sex, drugs, and rock and roll a distant fast fading memory? Click here "Back to the Past.org" and for as little as $29.95, we'll help you remember it all. (Psst; sure you want to?)

So the next time you are required to report the date of your birth, do what the website did. Lie! Make up a date. Drop ten years, add fifteen years, pick a month you wish you were born or a day with your favorite number.

Do it for yourself, do it for a free America and all of humanity.
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Why we do not post comments.

2009-07-16T06:22:00.000-07:00

I do not know about you, but usually when I do leave a comment one of two things happens. I get either a snide, snarky response or nothing. Like you, my time is valuable. If anyone leaves you a comment, be courteous and type in the following: Thank you for your comment.

Of course when it comes to commenting on a professional’s blog or website, then nearly everyone posts something. This is my chance to be read by all of his or her followers, we think. My fifteen nano-seconds of fame. WFD

Guess what, the more you post on the blogs or websites maintained by ordinary folks like yourself, the more those same people will comment on yours.

Give online etiquette a chance. It will make you feel better about yourself. Furthermore, if you do not leave crappy comments, and you know what I am writing about, you will not get them in return.

Oops, did I write that?

2009-07-15T04:49:00.000-07:00

About fiction editing with an opinionated advisory.

Fiction writing is difficult enough. Now, with all of the good and not so good people in the marketplace doing everything possible to entice new writers to spend money on their products and or services, writing has become more challenging.

Magazines, ezines, bloggers, newsletters, and the so-called experts all want what writers have too little of, money and time. You have to wonder why, what will you receive?

I subscribe to newsletters from several sources that cover the gambit from editing services to querying and beyond. Most have strings attached, which might include requiring the writer to give out personal information. Beyond an email address, this should be ignored and avoided. Why do they need to know when you were born? Simple, they want to sell the information to sponsors who then will track and target you with advertising. They do not really want to sing Happy Birthday to you.

I wonder about professionals who expend hours every day blogging and firing off Tweets to followers. Where do they find the time to do their jobs? How can anyone feel confident that they will put forth their best effort with each project when a vast amount of time is expended with online activities that primarily are self-promoting?

My advice is simple. Stay away from them. There are a finite number of things a writer needs to know, and by finite, I mean few, very few. Once you know them, start writing.

If you do not know, what I am writing about, take a fiction writer's class, and learn. Buy one book recommended by a professor about fiction writing, which should include advice on editing and rewriting. Do not waste time and money on offer after offer, book after book, blog after blog. They are all telling you the same thing.

Once you have learned the basics, you are ready to write. So shut down the digital world and do it. Forget about writing what you know. Fiction is, well, fiction, imagination.

Writers should write several hours per day. If not several, at least one or two hours. Find the time. Get up earlier, stay up later. Put away the cell phone, PDA, get off the Internet. Writing is a craft. The more you work it, the better the result.

Of course, if you are not writing because you love to write, you will not want to sacrifice the time. Moreover, if you do not love writing, then you will not be happy with the small amount of income the average fiction writer receives.

Writing provides its own satisfaction.

First, always write the complete story from the first to the last word before you seriously edit and rewrite. Always edit and rewrite several times, waiting at least a few weeks or even months between rewrites. The span of time will allow you to seriously step away from the story and when you look again, you will find problems you failed to notice before.

A good example is something I do too frequently. Rewrite a sentence, and miss removing a word, or a comma not needed in the new version. On occasion, I will miss an error repeatedly, until I finally catch it on the fifth or sixth, or whatever reading, hopefully.

Also, do not depend on spell check or grammar check. If you feel you must, click Options at the bottom left corner in the spelling and grammar box in Word. Then check everything. This will give you the best the program has to offer.

Oops. Do not check: Hide Spelling errors in this document, or Hide grammatical errors in the document. Set it to Grammar and Style. These settings will make you grind your teeth, but it will help.

Obviously, a writers group would help with this, too, but not all writers will want to critique as line editors.

I think the absolute best way to rewrite a story is to read it aloud. If this makes you uncomfortable, answer this. How often do you talk to yourself aloud? I will bet the answer is, more than you think.

What is the difference between that and reading your story aloud? The potential of criticism, which you avoid by finding a place where no one will hear you or waiting until you are alone. I used to read aloud in the car while parked at the far end of a huge parking lot. This proved difficult in winter, but I needed to do it. Now, I read in a closed room.

Reading aloud will also help you find sentences that do not work, or sound weird, convoluted, rambling. If the sentence does not roll off your tongue while speaking, it will trip up a reader.

Never, ever, write something that interrupts the plausibility you carefully crafted into your story so your reader will want to turn the next page, or read the next paragraph. If you do, they may not finish.

Do not expect perfection. The most successful writers hire editors. If you can afford to, hire one, but expect to pay around three to eight cents per word. Otherwise, find a friend, or several friends to read your story and ask them to give an honest opinion.

Remember, constructive criticism will help you become a better writer. Destructive criticism is just that, and you will know it when you step in it. Scrape it off and forget about it.

That is it for now. Do not just sit there, create something.
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Writing Annie Blaine, Vampire Hunter, LLC.

2009-07-08T03:23:00.000-07:00

Dismembering the story for a look inside.

I sat down with a few vague ideas that included story location and the ending.

A rainy dismal day evokes a similar dreary emotion. Old unused railroad tracks tell of a forgotten past. A railroad station once the center of a community, when abandoned often houses the homeless, the castoffs.

Enter famed vampire hunter Annie Blaine. Her name sounded mundanely American, a woman one might meet at work, or a library, or on campus. The name would not draw attention to her. Therefore, she must find a way to accomplish that using wits, intellect, skill, guile, courage, and if all else fails boldness in the face of certain death.

Of course, since I did not want her to be an extrovert who stood out in a crowd. Omitting a detailed description allowed a certain vagueness to define her. Obviously, physical fitness was necessary for a woman in her line of work. That was when I decided that I would not reveal more about her. Let her actions and personality do the defining.

I watched as Annie entered a forest that she'd never before visited, following railroad tracks to a place where she would kill the last vampire. Or so she thought.

Along the way, she dealt with doubts, stubbornness, rashness, ingenuity, and a few obstacles she should've seen, should've understood, but failed to do both.

The story peaks when she is injured, and rides that crest until she accomplishes her primary goal: finding and destroying the last vampire.

The disturbing concept that vampires were frequently considered helpless wimps easily trapped and killed, or worse, desperate for love, played into how I wanted the story to conclude.

When Annie succeeded, she learned that she also failed.

The story marches relentlessly to the ending I had pictured. I'd like to tell it to you, but I've done that already. If you're interested, read the story.

http://www.scribd.com/doc/17252906/The-Demise-of-Annie-Blaine-Vampire-Hunter-LLC

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Vampire Life Part 5 – Breaking the News After a Successful Turning – The First Kiss!

2009-07-04T10:07:00.000-07:00

Vampire Life Part 5 – Breaking the News After a Successful Turning – The First Kiss!

Creating the Vampire Edwin Blutleer

2009-07-03T03:51:00.000-07:00

Who did I want him to be and what were his plans and goals? For me, that was the starting point of characterization and the heart of the story's plot.

I knew he was a vampire, and an ex-Templar Knight. In many ways they are opposites and yet synonymous. Both killed without remorse. Both considered their enemies infidels, unworthy of life. Templars were reputedly fearless in battle, loyal to a fault off the field of combat.

Vampires, the living dead, were fearless period. They had nothing to lose, but much to gain. They conquered. They manipulated and walked into the darkness of night without a shadow to mark their passing.

Think about immortality. Think about knowing you would live forever unless you were extremely careless or downright dumb. Immortality was Blutleer's defining trait, which divided Blutleer from his Templar past and contemporaries. 600 years of life, experience and infiltrating societies that changed with each passing war. No vampire with such knowledge would fall prey to any hunter, if such a mortal fool dared approach him.

Moreover, he had medieval combat skills honed under the duress of repeated conflict. Templars trained constantly, knowing a simple injury might end their lives. Additionally, Blutleer struggled with medieval morality, chivalry, and sense of honor.

Then, there was Templar magic. What was it? Blutleer knew it was transmutation, teleportation, and matter manipulation. He learned to use it and the power such magic provided, which allowed him to best any foe or to survive if entrapped without opportunity for escape.

Blutleer was a complicated man due to his history, his experiences, and his well thought out thirst for revenge.

Further complicating his decisions, I chose to have him physically stand out from his contemporaries. Since he was of Germanic ancestry, I selected the classic Nordic appearance of Northern Germans of Scandinavian descent. He was six feet tall, which was well above average for the time of his birth and for the late 19th century.

Of course, he needed an Achilles heel. A weakness that several times in his long life deferred the conclusions he desired. Regardless of all else, he was a man. Enter the Penderfield women. They were a paradox for him and he was the same for them. Neither could resist the other, generation after generation.

In Chapter one, we experience the death of Lilith, a Penderfield woman. In chapter two, we meet Amanda Penderfield Willington and the plot twists like a knife in the heart. Those caught in the middle, well, read the story.
http://www.scribd.com/doc/16391295/Templars-Fire-A-Gothic-Vampire-Novel

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The origin of Templar's Fire, a Gothic Vampire Novel

2009-06-28T10:31:00.000-07:00

When I began writing the story Templar‘s Fire, a Gothic Vampire novel, I started with an image that stuck in my head. I kept seeing this eerie looking guy hiding behind a stone altar peering around the corner as if he was waiting to attack someone. Didn’t know why, but the picture stayed with me.

Since my interests at the time were in researching the Knights Templar due to a Templar ancestor who died while fighting alongside them (in Egypt of course), that eerie guy transformed into an ex-Templar.

Before all of this, I had worked on science fiction stories, with an occasional horror tossed in and really wanted to write a vampire story. However, I wanted my vampire to be closer to the classic style vampire and I wanted him as close to invincible as possible. Since the Knights Templar allegedly knew dark magic, I decided that the Vampire Edwin Blutleer needed those skills.

By then, I had begun writing his tale and knew that he was the guy looking from behind that stone altar. I placed the altar in a fictitious old church in Cornwall, England not far from where an actual Templar church still stands. Who but a vicar would be entering the church early in the morning? The confrontation was set, and I let the characters guide me from there.

Download a copy here: http://tinyurl.com/Templar-s-Fire-Gothic-Vampire
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The Origin of Golf

2009-06-17T04:10:00.000-07:00

Ian McAndrews walked his sheep deep into the meadows of 16th century Scotland. He was unhappy with his flock's appearance. Their once lustrous coats seemed dull and had a bad case of split ends.

Thinking some wild animals hid amongst the thistle, thereby terrorizing his docile lambs, he went out at dawn with a McDonald style walking stick ready to defend himself and his sheep.

Now, a McDonald style walking stick is a cane really, carved to look like a long flat snake with a crook below the head where a man might clasp it. Otherwise, the shaft is bent and twisted several times ending with a fine point suitable for stabbing, should the need arise. The top is the shape of a flat-surfaced knob about the size of a small boy's fist.

As the pale yellow sun lazily rolled over the horizon, Ian McAndrews felt shocked by his discovery. The meadow, his meadow appeared dotted by the most curious white mushrooms he had ever seen. They outnumbered the thistle three to one and that's saying something.

When Ian McAndrews spied his sheep bobbing their shaggy heads as they devoured the offending Disambiguation, his eyes grew wider. For all he knew, they were slowly poisoning or intoxicating his herd, his livelihood.

After a sharp whistle brought his Sheepdogs running, he watched as they corralled his flock into a safe cluster away from the heaviest concentration of mushrooms.

Satisfied with the result, he went to the closest mushroom and whacked it with the pointed end of his McDonald cane. The outcome was dissatisfying. Ian McAndrews was a man for whom outcome was everything so he flipped the cane in the air, snatching it by grabbing the point end and took a mighty two-handed swing at the aberrant mushroom.

The head of the McDonald's cane cut into the top of the stem and sent the round mushroom head fifty feet away from where he stood. With a loud victorious laugh, Ian proceeded to the next one and the one after that.

In the meantime, his shepherd neighbor Patrick McDougal, heard his shouting, and hurried out -- kilt flying behind him like a deflated sail-- to learn if his oldest friend might be in trouble. When he saw Ian knock the head of yet another mushroom, he was shocked, and then decided he might as well just join in and assist his neighbor in clearing the land.

By noon, the men were wagering to see which of them might drive the round white heads the farthest.

Moreover, within two days, men from the nearest village began gathering to have a hand at it, or to bet on who would prove to be the best driver, as shepherds were sometimes called.

Unfortunately, within three weeks, the dry season dropped on them like a draught, and the mushrooms disappeared. However, it could never be said,that Ian McAndrews was not an innovator.

He and his neighbor Patrick worked through the summer until they created a small white ball about the size of the mushroom head. Although, since one of Ian's complaints regarding the mushroom was that it smashed on the first blow, they made their balls firmer, with a nice snug cowhide covering.

Getting their wives to stitch the skin over their balls took some doing, but bribery was not outside the realm of Ian's skills. A little imported French wine, and the best Highland Scotch Whiskey, a few well-placed kisses and caresses, and voilá, their balls were finished. (Sic)

The following autumn, after the shearing, slaughtering, and selling, Ian and Patrick organized the very first round of golf; called a round because they needed to walk around the stream where the now famous footbridge crosses at Saint Andrews to collect the balls accidentally driven over the waterway.

And where did the name Golf originate? They mimicked the sound that the head of the McDonald's cane made when it solidly contacted the first spring mushroom. Originally pronounced "Guf" with a Highland accent.
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Excerpt from Templar's Fire, a Gothic Vampire Novel

2009-06-12T07:13:00.000-07:00

Quiet footfalls traced a path up the steps from the downstairs sitting room, along the abbreviated hallway, and into the Vicar's bedroom. The nearer to the bed they got, the more softly they fell.

Slowly becoming aware of the intruder, he struggled to gather the remnants of his composure. He felt movement on his bed. The vicar sat up violently, tears still wetting his face. He fumbled for the candle on the small table next to the bed. And although only seconds had passed, the vicar felt the dread of one expecting to meet death before the next breath. His hand quaked and he knocked the candle on the floor.

Fingers lightly brushed his arm. He heard himself shout, "No. Not yet.” He held his breath, now afraid exhaling would be the signal, and waited for the end.

The hand on his arm patted him too softly for it to belong to Blutleer. Willington still held his breath. Slowly, he started to black out.

Mary timidly called, "Peter?”

The vicar sucked air noisily. “My God, Mary, you frightened me beyond words.”

“I'm sorry if I did. I felt so alone and heard you moving about. I thought maybe we could talk, or something ...”

The vicar kicked off the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed as he moved to get the candle from the floor. Before he finished he felt a tug on his nightshirt.

“Do we need candlelight?” Mary whispered. “Isn't the moon's light enough, Peter?”

The vicar turned to her, reached out, and touched her warmth. Mary had worn a light cotton nightgown. He watched her rise from the bed, walk to the window and he gasped as she opened the curtain. The moonlight silhouetted her, penetrated the gown, and illuminated a shadow within its embrace. As she walked to him, the gown both hid and revealed her youthful figure.

“Please, Mary. You don't understand what you're doing.” His words sounded feeble, and he knew it.

Mary did not immediately respond. She continued to walk to him and stopped when she stood very close, knees touching his knees. Her hands found the edge of her nightdress and very slowly began lifting.

“No,” The vicar said, weakly and too late. His eyes took control and coaxed the rest of him to follow their lead. He felt his heart rate increase. His breathing became shallow. No longer resisting, his hands reached for her as the nightgown cleared her shoulders. His fingers moved and traced the lines of her collarbones then down gently etching her sensitive flesh.

“I want to lay with you.” Mary's words slid out to caress him. She lifted the cotton sheath over her head and reached to drop it on the mattress. The night air shimmered on her flesh with a gentleness that matched Willington's touch.

His stare followed her hand as she let the gown fall on the bed and lifted both slender arms overhead. His eyes, fully accustomed to the darkness, examined all the details her movement brought to his attention, the swell of her round breasts, her hips, and the flatness of her stomach and the vee tuft of red hair between her thighs. His hands slid down from her breasts to her hips. Her skin was warm responsive silk.

He groaned as a light caught his eyes.

The gold medallion he had hung on the doorknob sparkled with illumination that seemed to spring from within the Willington coat of arms. He stared, transfixed, as the illumination concentrated into a thin beam, shot across the room, and bounced off the crucifix he had hung above the bed. The thin ray lit only the head of his Savior. Looking over his shoulder, the vicar ignored Mary.

The Messiah cried red tears.

“Oh, good Lord. No.” The vicar pushed Mary from him, his hands on her breasts. “I can't do this now. God help me, I can't.” He looked at her and back at the cross. The light had expanded and he saw the droplets run down the tiny body. They dripped from the crossed feet onto the headboard, and then splashed against his pillow.
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Combat Memories Shape Life

2009-06-10T04:09:00.000-07:00

We never know when to expect them, if they'll haunt, hinder or aid us, but memories from combat never disappear.

* * *

The fire still blazed, but standing directly before the hearth was insufficient to warm me. Again, I rubbed my hands on the seams of my blue jeans, but that wasn’t enough to get the feel of her off my flesh. After washing up, I changed into clean clothes.

Stella waited by the fireplace, came over when I approached, and stood behind me, put her arms around my chest, and held me as if I was more important to her than any other man alive could be.

I wanted to suggest that she make a more appropriate selection, that I just might be the man who would live to bury her. However, I drew a deep breath, held in the air, exhaled slowly, put my hands on hers and closed my eyes. I felt as if I'd experienced more than one lifetime's horror.

Death is the ultimate test of faith, I thought and wondered why I remembered my CO at that moment. Captain James Todd Wright led with his presence. When the war began, he was an enlisted man from Savannah, Georgia. With time, diligence and due to extreme bravery, he quickly earned the rank of staff sergeant. After a string of catastrophic battles along the path through Europe to Germany, he became a field-commissioned lieutenant. By mid ’44, he was our company commander.

By then, I’d already fought with him for over a year and remained a friend despite the fact that I refused to climb into an officer’s uniform. I gained the rank of platoon sergeant, felt grateful I lived long enough to gain that honor, and never desired higher accolade. I would have been fine dying with three stripes sewn to my sleeves.

As the Battle of the Bulge ground our company into memories and remains we would never identify, Wright must have sensed the cloaked demon that caressed his neck as it accepted him.

We had hunkered down in a bomb crater running low on ammunition and hope. He turned to me during a lull and after we both lit cigarettes, said, "You know, Marlowe, my minister back home once stated in a Palm Sunday sermon that death is the ultimate test of faith. I think by now I’m ready for that test, how about you, my friend? Together, we've watched a lot of good men die."

"My faith ran dry a few months ago, sir," I said without revealing the surprise I felt, and cupped the ember of my cigarette to pull in a long drag of smoke without illuminating our location.

He laughed lightly. "That’s what I appreciate most about you, Marlowe. You never bullshit anyone for any reason. Hope you never change. I'm getting the ammo I see laying over there. We're both getting low." He pointed at a fallen GI and moved five feet to the right. His head crested the edge of the crater, and a German sharpshooter drilled a neat hole through the center of his forehead.

The fire snapped and a log rolled to the edge of the hearth. I moved Stella’s hands and used the brass tongs to place it back in the center of the flames.

This from Sunset Orange Water, the second Marlowe Black Mystery, seeking a publisher. Inquire within. :o)
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Something a little different - for Veterans and D-Day

2009-06-06T10:46:00.000-07:00

Here is a link to a website where more than 1000 service members, military, police, and firefighters list their publications. These are the men and women who make it possible for us to enjoy freedom and a safe society.

You can start here and look around: http://www.military-writers.com/army/larry_schliessmann.html

These are the men and women who have been, are and will be there for you at you time of need, and defend your freedom too. We aren't perfect, but we do our best.

Honor veterans, active duty military, the police and firefighters too. Where would you be today without their sacrifice? We are not too glamorous but we make a serious difference without the glamour headlines.

Something to think about.
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The vigilante assassin meets the vampire assassin

2009-06-04T04:32:00.000-07:00

The vigilante assassin drove across the state reaching the Atlantic coast at 4 a.m. He had a mission assigned to him by superiors he never saw. They contacted him online using code he read in articles posted on CHNNEWS.net. The title of the article often relayed his target. If not, he searched for keywords in specific order as he scanned down the paragraphs knowing the first sentence of each held one of the words he sought to learn.

Once he finished the assignment, he notified them using the same method and they deposited his fee in his online account.

He slowed, tapping the brakes lightly, bringing his old Chevy pick-up under the speed limit. With one hand, he wiped black sweat-dampened hair off his forehead. After a quick glance, he rubbed his fingers on his jeans. Replacing the truck with a newer model that had working air conditioning would happen once his employer paid for his current job.

Turning left onto Ocean Avenue, he continued until he saw the fishing pier. It extended far into the ocean on spindle-like splayed legs that were cross-braced as if the decking above weighed more than engineers had designed the under-structure to hold.

He parked and switched off the engine, the lights, released his harness and popped open the glove compartment. From within it, he removed a small cardboard box that he had picked up four hours earlier, from a locker at a bus depot in the state capital. The day before, he had received the key from the mail sent to a post office box registered to a local Baptist church.

Now, with the box balanced on the girth of his large stomach, he opened it and removed the .32 caliper handgun, checked the load, jammed the gun beneath his belt at his back.

He heaved his 290 pounds from the S-10, groaned as he straightened, and silently closed the door by leaning against it. The door handle pressed just below his shoulder blades.

He smelled salt air and heard breakers pounding the white sand beaches. In the distance, he heard laughter, voices of people sitting on balconies as if still partying, reluctant to sleep.

His steps were light for such a big man. He strode quickly onto the pier and saw one person standing at the far end, fishing. He smiled grimly, knowing the report from the handgun would be loud, echoing across the water and down the beach to the rows of hotels where the partygoers would hear it and call the police.

However, fear would not deter him. Success of the mission counted for more than his own life.

As he neared his target, he saw the man turn to him. An overhead light illuminated his eerie pale face. For the first time since choosing his role as assassin, he hesitated, unable to do more than stare at the face before him, the white priest's collar around the man's thickly muscled neck.

"What is your name, son?" the man asked him in a voice free of concern.

"You do not need to know my name, priest." He stopped walking, knowing he was too far for an accurate shot.

"Every condemned man has the right to know the name of his accuser."

"I did not accuse you. I act only as God's wrath."

"You are here to act out the results of the accusation made against me by your church fathers who condemn those who disobey. That, son, makes you an extension of the accuser. So again, I ask, what is your name?"

He raised the gun, centered the barrel on the man's chest, and pulled the trigger.

As he did, his victim flinched and dodged to the right. The bullet missed and lodged in the wood railing at the end of the pier.

He swung his arm to follow his target, and concentrated on succeeding, so missed his adversary moving as the man flipped back the tail of his black jacket, and lifted a long barrel .44 magnum from a holster clipped at the small of his back.

He fired the .32 again, missed, and then saw the huge handgun as his adversary grasped it with both hands, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Flames belched from the barrel.

He heard nothing before a giant's fist slammed into his chest spraying blood, tissue, and pieces of bone in a cloud of debris that reminded him an accident he'd witnessed the previous summer. A woman had stepped out of a restaurant after one more drink than reasonable, and into the path of a moving truck. She was dead before she hit the pavement.

He nodded and landed hard on his knees, heard his .32 clatter on the decking.

"Who are you?" he gasped with blood running off his chin.

"I am the vampire Blutleer, but you might call me Father Edwin, the assassin hired to destroy an assassin. That is as it has always been and as it will always be." The vampire raised the .44 as he strode to the vigilante, placed the end of the barrel against the dying man's forehead, nodded, and said, "They wanted me to tell you that there is no heaven or hell. Men who desired to rule the world created all of that from the words and deeds of a blessed man who walked the earth two thousand years ago preaching so he might change the lives of the downtrodden. When you die, it's over, light's out, pal. Hope you had a good life."

Then, with a ferocious grin, Blutleer stared into the vigilante's eyes. "I will enjoy watching your inner light extinguish, puppet, knowing that all of the deaths you caused have now been avenged. But do not to worry, I would never drink from filth such as you."

He pulled the trigger.
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Breaking the news after a successful Turning, and finally that first vampire kiss

2009-06-01T04:26:00.000-07:00

You were smooth, worked your target with the skill you acquired by watching your Vampire master, and from your recent failed attempts. Despite those failures, you persisted, and now you have succeeded in Turning the man or woman of your dreams.

Eternity beckons you like a lover greeting a returning warrior. After this night, you know you will never walk alone again. Sure, you've had your vampire master lurking in the background to keep you company, but face it, he or she was beginning to creep you out. Your vampire master is centuries older than you and you found it difficult to relate. Now all that changes too.

You sit with his or her head on your lap, watching those once-stunning eyes as the loss of blood drains their color. This doesn't affect your feelings does it? He or she is your first successful Turning. His or her flesh has already bleached, the elasticity tighter, the fingernails glow like mother of pearl.

Carefully, you raise your wrist to his or her mouth, watch as he or she lowers his or her blunt human-like teeth and feebly nips at your flesh. Warm with his or her blood pulsing through you, you press your wrist tight against his or her mouth, and force his or her jaw shut so it tears into you. The blood you just ingested slides like puree into his or her mouth.

A single drop is enough to ignite the vampire life force of energy and now your Turnée drinks with enthusiasm until you force him or her to stop. Don't let it go too far. This is an excellent time to begin training him or her on art of pulling out in time.

Now the Turning is complete. Congratulations! You must feel revitalized, rejuvenated, and ready to conquer your world.

But wait; there is one small detail you must tend to first. Not everyone looked forward to becoming a vampire the way you had. Your gift might not seem as appealing to your Turnée.

"What the hell did you do to me?" your Turnée demands to know, red vampire fire glaring in his or her eyes.

"Made you like me," you reply confidently after swallowing the arousal caused by the sight of his or her rage.

"You did what? What the hell are you?"

"You knew what I was before we dated."

"You mean you really are a vampire? That's stupid. I thought you were joking."

Oh, darn, now what, huh?

"Look in the mirror behind us." You turn your head and point boldly.

"Oh my God, I'm not there." Your Turnée screams, hands gingerly touching the rigid flesh around his or her mouth and eyes. He or she jumps you and if he or she were not mostly drained of blood, the surprise attack might've caused you severe problems. No, you cannot have a heart attack.

Now, you could advise him or her that God was no longer in the equation, but perhaps it is best to wait a day or two. Too many new concepts at once can be confusing.

You should suggest he or she get some rest, sleep off the day and you'll return later. By the time you have, he or she will be famished and the idea of hunting for survival will outweigh all other concerns.

Wait a minute, there is something you're not telling me isn't there. Oh, no, don't say it dude, don't tell me that. You did didn't you. You Turned your mother?!?

What were you thinking? Never, ever, Turn a family member. I do not care how much you miss mom and her home style microwaving, the stocked refrigerator, the slap on the back of the head. You're going to live forever with mom at your side! What were you thinking?

Okay, let's review what happened. You found the guy or girl of your dreams and you Turned him or her. Mom and Dad do not fall into that category. Just because you got along before... oh? What? You didn't and this is revenge? Oh, dude, that is so wrong in so many ways. What kind of revenge is having a raging parent haunting you through eternity?

How can this be fixed?

Next: Dealing with Vampire Hunters. How to use them and how to avoid them.

Dude, you are disgusting. I am totally creeped out! And wipe the blood off your chin.
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When a new vampire's attempted Turning takes out the Turnee.

2009-05-23T07:35:00.001-07:00

Well, wasn't that one serious night on the town? You dressed to seduce, succeeded grandly, but oops, slightly intoxicated by success you went and forgot to pull out in time to avoid the inevitable. That's right; the Turnee didn't make it, dropped at your feet looking very pale and flaccid. There is nothing you can do to rectify the mistake, so you must deal with it.

Of course, you are an apprentice vampire so your initial reaction may be like a Normal's reaction to blame the victim. It's not my fault, I didn't mean for it to go this far. It was an accident. I tried to pull out really, I did.

You may honestly think the fault lies with the Turnee. Perhaps he or she consumed too much alcohol while you partied. Then, after you led him or her to a secluded undisclosed location, got him or her to believe that the big moment had arrived after a serious bout of hot foreplay, wham bam and OMG that feels better than it should have felt. Hmm.

Seriously, you really desired him or her, wanted a successful Turning, but the end result was a disappointment. Well, some things never change, right ladies?

Regardless of who or what you may want to blame, you took more than he, or she had to give. In your old life, you might've said you were sorry, or spewed forth a string of vilely vindictive phrases and walked away. However, you're dead now, and so is the Turnee. Only the Turnee isn't about to be Turned, stand up, look at you and demand to know why he or she feels so weak and lifeless.

You, the Turner must deal with the consequences, and complete the task long before the sun rises. However, what do you do next?

You could just leave his or her corpse where it dropped, but there is the little problem of the telltale bite marks. Even the dumbest cop walking the planet will question the double incisor holes. In addition, if you applied proper vampire etiquette, they were neatly placed along the base of the carotid artery just above the collarbone preferably on the Turnee's left side where blood pressure is slightly higher.

You might quickly dig a hole and deposit his or her corpse there, but if you've never dug a grave, well, you'll need several hours without interruption. If you partied until two or three in the morning, you'll run out of time before the sun fries you.

Calling the vampire that Turned you is an option, but no self-respecting vampire carries a cellphone. If he or she forgot to shut it off and went into his or her recuperative trance for the day, imagine the phone ringing while unsuspecting normals walk nearby, or worse, a hunter bearing unwanted gifts. Normals will search for the phone, certain that even if it wasn't their own, nobody who called or texted a friend should be ignored. I mean come on, what are you thinking? Might be an important tweet.

If you were advanced, say, after a century of life experience, you might call your vampire in a way that is ancient as time itself. Of course, if you were that old, you would not've made all the errors you made that put you in such a precarious position.

Ingenuity must rule the night. You may not have discovered this yet. You are incredibly strong. Especially, immediately after a Taking. Even from an intoxicated Takee. Of course, you may feel a bit wobbly.

My suggestion: lift him or her onto your shoulder and take him or her home if you're not already there. You won't need to explain why you're bringing a friend home. No one will notice the body if you hide it well. He or she is not about to smell, since you've drained him or her of fluids. Then, when you wake at midnight, tote the corpse into an area where no one will find him or her, and bury it deep.

I understand we're in an overcrowded world, and the odds are good someone will discover the corpse eventually, but by then they'll not get enough forensic evidence to convict someone who is still living.

Perhaps this solution is something of a let down, but the easiest answer is always the best one. In the future, learn to pace yourself. Pull out several times to help maintain control. A Turning should be respectful. It is an honored tradition dating back thousands of years.

Next: Breaking the news after a successful Turning.
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A new vampire's proper wardrobe and that all-important first date.

2009-05-20T04:26:00.000-07:00

Several weeks to three months beyond the day of your Turning, life will seem vastly different as will your appearance.

By now, your once supple tanned flesh glows pale under moonlight, may appear slightly translucent and feel like chamois. Not to worry, this is perfectly normal for a new vampire. Consider it the new you, and with time you will learn to appreciate and even value your new look.

In addition, the effect it will have on prey may prove entertaining as you watch their alarm fade into adoration before the Taking. Once you have perfected the art of Mesmerization, their expressions will be full of adulation immediately before they feel a deep sense of love.

Male or female, feel free to dabble in cosmetics, as you did before Turning. However, too much vivid color will look garish, something no self-respecting vampire finds appealing.

As an apprentice vampire, you will discover that normally you will not need a wardrobe different than the one you owned previously. You can put away the sunglasses and of course, you no longer need to worry about sunscreen. As I stated earlier, exposure to direct sunlight means death.

On the occasion that your vampire, or perhaps a guy, or gal vampire you've met since Turning suggests a night on the town, and you feel ready to be seen in a crowd of normals, those poor mortal creatures, it will be your moment to shine.

However, what I'm suggesting will require preparation. The only clothes you may own are those you wore when you Turned, unless you were Turned while assuming sex was eminent and you hastily undressed in anticipation. Either way, shopping is the order of the day, er, night.

Be aware that some store lighting may hurt your eyes if you stare directly into it. Otherwise, assuming you're dressed to begin with, no one will really notice you. So feel free to shop until, well, sunrise, or earlier to be certain you return home safely.

While mixing with mortals you'll learn despite the occasional odd look tossed in your direction, that they'll take for granted you are one of them, but since you're so pale they'll think you must hate sunlight, or don't get outside much.

See how clever mortals can be? Wait until you can mesmerize and then you will so understand rubbernecking (sic).

If you and your date are shopping together, and there is safety in numbers, you might ask his or her opinion about what you intend to purchase, or steal if you are broke. You have a problem with that? Come on, you are dead, and besides who is going to stop you? It's not as if you plan to make a habit of it. Moreover, if you're worrying about going to hell instead of heaven, you need to lie down and think about your new life.

What you cannot do while shopping is use those lovely full length mirrors you once preened in front of while dressing. Since you are dead, you no longer have a reflection. This can become a nuisance if you have a salesclerk hovering nearby, which is why I suggest you shop with a companion. They can distract, and also let you know how you look, and if the colors go well with your new complexion.

By now, you may have discovered that your hair does not grow longer than it was the minute you Turned. So why bother with haircuts? You might need to get a trim so you fit in with current styles. Remember, you'll live centuries if you are intelligent and wary of mortals bearing gifts. Styles do have a way of changing with disgusting regularity.

Until now, I discussed dating another vampire. So, let's make this discussion much more interesting.

You have seen a person you've decided you want to Turn just because you can. Yes, it might be just because you can, or any of several other reasons including my favorite hunger. However, why you do anything now is entirely up to you.

Approach him or her as you would have before you Turned, flirt, and be attentive. Guys: don't act like idiots, women enjoy humor and intelligence, not touchy feely on a first date. Gals: you know already what guys want, um I mean, other than sex. They want you to make them feel more important, needed. Just don't get too weak-kneed. You're about to alter the course of their life permanently, or oops possibly end it.

Buy them drinks, dinner, take them to a show, movie, whatever, and at the end of the night, invite them home, of course. I leave the rest up to you. Just remember to use the same technique with him or her as your vampire used when Turning you.

In addition, remember this important adage, you are what you eat. So, if you take him or her to dinner, skip fast food unless you need more fat in your diet. Wine and dine him or her at an expensive restaurant. Trust me; you'll be happy you did.

Happy dating and good luck with you first Turning!

Next: Proper Vampire etiquette and the all-important, clean-up when a Turning goes too far.
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Newly minted vampire? Congratulations!

2009-05-14T04:13:00.001-07:00

The joy of your first Taking, and hints for living your new life (sic).

As with anything worth doing in life, the same holds true for those among us who have recently become the walking dead. I regret how dreadful that must sound, but now that you are a newly minted vampire, you must make the effort to truly appreciate and receive the blessings of eternal life--albeit a nighttime existence.

Since you have spent several of your first days or longer in your hideaway, i.e. casket, recuperating from the bloodletting and the Taking-In-Return with your vampire, you may have had time to mull over your new existence. You should not think of this major transition tritely.

Here are important tips for the apprentice vampire.

Men and women penned volumes regarding a vampire's ability to mesmerize his or her victim. You may have experienced this before your Turning and believed what you felt to be love. It was not, your vampire was hungry. However, now you are a Taker. Nevertheless, mesmerizing a victim is as much about learned technique as it is about innate expertise, so take your time.

Furthermore, who among the living knows how best to pierce the neck with a delicate yet forceful enough bite to draw blood, but not rend the flesh and muscles? Two small neat holes spaced about one and one-half to two inches apart at a slight diagonal along the base of the neck are the mark of a skillful and experienced vampire.

Attention to details is crucially important if your first Taking is to succeed. I cannot stress enough that preparation discipline and patience are equally significant to achieve a positive result.

Remember, should you fail to feed you can go underground where you will learn to absorb nutrients from the soil. There is no telling what might be in the soil. However, it should sustain you for several days if needed, or keep you, well, "vampire alive" until your teacher arrives for your second lesson.

When searching for prey, remember the old saying "the bigger they are the harder they fall." In your new life, you might just consider it super-sizing, and enjoy the extraordinary feast. If your prey's volume exceeds what you might absorb during the Taking, consider sharing with your vampire. Families that Take together stay together.

Should you accidentally walk into a patch of sunlight the way you did when you enjoyed the feeling of heat on your body, the pain will be instantaneous and excruciating. The exposed flesh will boil and stink something awful. Should the experience immobilize you with panic and your vampire is not nearby to assist, you will sizzle into an oily puddle of unidentifiable matter and finally flare into grey-white ash. Your vampire will sweep you away and move on. Remember, your vampire is dead too, and he or she is driven only by the need to survive.

Exposure to silver may be more subtle. Say you wore a silver chain at the time of Turning, once completed and you are a true vampire, albeit weak and helpless, the chain will slowly erode into you, and if left unchecked will decapitate you before you might safely remove the silver. Remember, your vampire will be reluctant to handle silver so again it is all about preparation.

A mature vampire never needs rescuing.

The oldest threat on record for a vampire is a wooden stake through the heart. The Staking occurs while a vampire remains unconscious after a night of mischief. Again, preparation is necessary to avoid this tragedy. Always double back, to check the path behind you when you return before dawn, or after a successful hunt. One of the consequences of super-sizing is over satiation and the sluggishness it causes. So always, be certain no one followed you to your windowless basement, cave, or abandoned house.

Finally, there is talk that a crucifix pressed to the forehead will kill a vampire. As with a lea of garlic, this is more rumor than fact. It is best to allow laymen their beliefs, which in the end makes the Taking less troubling. In this case, myth brings them to you, or notifies you where they live. There is nothing quite like the odor of garlic to bring out the best in us all, and turn away those uninvited guests too.

With centuries of time on your hands, now is the perfect occasion to establish new habits that will carry you through forever. Until you feel sure of your abilities to walk among the living after dark only, I suggest you follow the teaching of your vampire. Remember, for you the moon is not a harsh mistress!

Good luck, welcome, and happy living (sic)!

Next: A proper wardrobe and that all-important first date with the guy or gal you plan to Turn just because you can.
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Definitions of Noir Mystery

2009-05-12T03:55:00.000-07:00

Noir mysteries sculpt imagery from the ice of vocabulary not the stone of definition. Stone is brittle, shaped only by tools. Mood alters ice as it weaves around characters while they struggle to live the plot without knowing their destinations or the consequences of their decisions.

Like the paralyzing sound of hurried footsteps cresting a hollow walkway echoing off water ten yards below, words whittle and change those decisions.

However, it is not enough to experience the crime, not enough to feel the fear or the cold clutch of victory when the bullet fired hits the target, not enough to listen to panting terror as the victim flees death discovering that death was the cold hand he felt clutching his neck and escape is impossible.

When sweat runs fingers down the spine the plot twists, tumbling, turning, the victim slams into facts, betrayal, and faces consequence. Circumstance develops as intent and the hero sinks deeper into a darkness that defines him as a man colliding with justice.

The touch of warm fingers sliding along the jaw, eyes closing, lips brushing, the tip of a knife under the chin, realization, a gasp of surprise, and justice is decided without the rule of law to delay conclusion.

Noir mysteries drip cold from page one. Mood is set, location chosen, a corpse is central to all that matters. Rage, revenge, love denied, the tenderness of moments, leak into hours of regret, racing to embrace renunciation.

We wade through the killer's bloody wrath, witness what the cop or PI sees, feel the grief permeating and miserable until the only relief possible may prove worse than the crime.

From Sunset Orange Water (copyright 2008):

I found a pull chain for an overhead light gave it a tug and felt pleased when a hundred watt bulb illuminated the space around me, and then felt something else, something dreadful when I examined the walls. Every wall held photos and newspaper clippings of murder victims, prostitutes according to the headlines. The oldest dated back to late ’45, the newest was the clipping for Lois. Alongside the news article--the only one not claiming the victim had been a prostitute--about her death, he’d taped a black and white photo of her that he must’ve taken moments before she died. She sat naked in the chair with her hands folded neatly on her lap holding a small black pistol like the one Dunbar handed me the day he came by my office to tell me the news about her death. The connection might’ve been tenuous, but felt like an unwelcome noose uncoiling in my head that locked onto and twisted my feelings for her.

Her beautiful skin showed no signs of a struggle. Blood had run from the corner of her mouth, but I saw no visible bruising. I wondered what he’d told her to effect her submission. However, Lois’ eyes looked wide with the horror she must have felt by his presence as she stared at the person behind the camera. Her stare gave me the feeling that she knew her attacker, and hadn’t anticipated the behavior he exhibited.

In a trained mind, rationality reaches through panic and angst, and guides thought beyond the obvious, the thread of temptation longing to dwell on pity, or the satisfaction of revenge.

The PI or cop feels deeper, like a man running the knife-edge of sanity knowing one slip will end the journey, not looking back, looking forward the distance of a single step only.

Noir is exhausting, exhilarating, daring, shocking, but always dark. The humor shows an ebony sheen those who love slapstick miss. The relief of conclusion is, to the PI, a page turned with more challenges ahead, one of which will eventually shred a piece from his life, again. Yet knowing this, he reloads, slips his handgun into the holster under his arm, and walks into the darkness daring impropriety to challenge him anew.
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So, you fell in love with a vampire!

2009-05-10T07:11:00.000-07:00

So, you fell in love with a vampire. Congratulations! Now, here are a few tips and some advice on how to survive the first intimate encounter.

You might be wondering, "How did I get here?" Truthfully, I’m wondering that too, but put that aside for now and look deeply into the mirror. Not at your eyes, examine your neck along the raised lines on both sides that, if you press your fingers to them, will pulse under the pads of your fingertips.

No pulse? You’re dead so skip the next three paragraphs.

Pulse feels strong? Excellent! It's time to discuss how to keep it that way. One idea is convincing your vampire lover to not suck on your neck. Alternatively, you might suggest he or she wear tiny silver sleeves over their "canine" teeth. The silver might present a problem, but you cannot be too safe these days.

Another alternative, is wearing some kind of protection. Safe sex is good sex. However, you will need to wear a collar that is bite proof. Check with your veterinarian for something in leather. The styles are varied and attractive. If your vampire is particularly aggressive, a bit long in the tooth, you may want to go with a lightweight chain mail collar.

Silver comes to mind, but your vampire might object, pulling his or her head back and hissing, while glaring in your direction. It is never a good idea to get your vampire too angry, so let's skip silver and try something in stainless steel. The collar may feel heavy, but it will prove advantageous when the going gets hot and it does make a nice fashion statement if properly polished.

Once you reach the point in the relationship when you are willing to touch your vampire, do not be surprised at the complete lack of activity within his or her torso. Remember your vampire is dead. His or her heart stopped beating a long time ago, and unless you are willing to donate several pints of your own blood, he, or she will not warm up very much to your tender touch. Do not let this distract you from the reason you are embracing your vampire. Love is blind after all.

The next issue we want to discuss is fingernails. Your vampire's nails will keep growing as will his or her hair. Your vampire's nails, however, will, under moonlight glow a pale off-white. They will look kind of like sun-bleached bone, opal or an eggshell. Your vampire's nails will grow quickly too, and on occasion you may find bits and pieces of flesh and blood under them. That is to be expected. Your vampire must kill to continue existing, not to be confused with alive. Unless you did not feel a pulse when we began this conversation, you are alive and if you are extremely careful, you may stay that way for years to come.

Your vampire's temperature may present you with a problem difficult to overcome. You see, since your vampire is dead, he or she will feel like a corpse. In fact, I have been told that a vampire's body temperature is very low. This helps them remain stable during the long hours of night when they can spend time outside their hideaway, i.e. coffin. Should you need time to recuperate after a long embrace, do not hesitate to explain to your vampire that the difference in body temperatures requires you to take a breather.

If you are not bothered by your vampire's frigid touch, you may be dead too, so do not worry about the loss of sensation.

Finally, we come to the most important event in a relationship, consummation. All of us know, or should if we are adults, exactly what I am implying. Therefore, details are not necessary. If you want details, go online and give it a search.

Your vampire's take on consummation will be vastly different than yours will be. First off, your vampire is dead, so the necessary body parts will not respond as if he or she were alive. Flaccid comes to mind, frigidly flaccid is descriptively better. And of course, since your vampire is dead, there will be no fluids, i.e. lubrication. Be patient and be prepared and I think the first night together will be extremely memorable.

PS: if you have decided that the life of a vampire is the life for you, introduce the idea to your vampire using caution. He or she, depending on the state of their satiation, might become anxious and drain you dry before recalling your request. Your vampire must not suck you dry, but leave enough fluids in your body that when you bite into him or her in return you have the strength for a successful strike.

Next time: Newly minted vampire? The joy of your first kill.
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