A friend remembered

Today I had to say goodbye to a very dear friend.

Almost eight years ago to the day, a colleague delivered a spectacularly beautiful, excitable, affectionate bundle of Australian mongreldom to our front door. Patches' previous owners had decided that they didn't have the time to care for her. We were looking for a dog for our son and there she was. I took one look at those anxious brown eyes and was lost.

She was a funny mix of a dog. Her broad forehead and stocky torso screamed Queensland Heeler, as did her need to protect everything and everyone in the household. That chunky body was perched precariously on delicate Australian Shepherd legs and her coloring was clearly a legacy from the Aussie Shepherd side. She was beautiful, with absurdly large, pointy ears and a kissable pink spot on her muzzle.

Patches also dispelled the myth that mongrels enjoy rude health. Her mixed parentage led to a damaged hind leg, probably from racing like a fool around the backyard. There was the time I was summoned home from work to take her to the vet when she was bitten by something and one side of her face swelled up so much she looked more like a pit-bull. Then, there was the arthritis in her neck and spine. A cruel ailment for such a lively dog. We were lucky there because she only ever had a couple of flare-ups. Our other dog, Otto, kept her young.

I had a host of nicknames for her. Fusspot was one of them, because of her fussy little anxious steps and her worried expression. Plus, if my husband and I ever argued she would push between us and bark at him, warning him to keep away from me. She loved to have her chest rubbed and would rest her paw on my arm to keep me from stopping while she sat there grinning.

Then, there's Otto, a lumbering, good-natured chocolate labrador who was twice her weight. Yet, when it came to rough-housing in the back yard, all Patches had to do to bring him down was dive for one of his legs, pull it out from underneath him and that was the match won. They adored each other. They slept side by side, they cleaned each other, fussed over each other but she was always the boss. Today, Otto is subdued and quiet. He saw his friend get in the car and saw me walk into the house with an empty collar and lead. He knows, somehow, that she's not coming home and his sad resignation breaks my heart.

I'm sitting here watching Otto sprawled on the floor without his fussy little shadow. My eyes are burning a little. The Valley Fever that he seems perfectly able to live with, made his friend cough, killed her appetite and left her lethargic. We're leaving in a few days, we can't take him with us and we're hoping to leave him with a good home. He's young, he has a chance. Patches wouldn't have had that chance. I hated the thought of her spending her last days in a crowded, noisy shelter among strangers. It wasn't right, it wasn't the way I wanted to leave my good friend. Luckily, our vet saw that letting Patches go quietly and peacefully in that special, quiet room in her surgery was the kindest thing to do.

Since I was the one who welcomed Patches into our home, since I was the one she protected and fussed over, it seemed only right that I be there when she left this world. I can barely see as I write this. I know, that somehow, somewhere, I'll see my little Fusspot again.

Love you, Fusspot.

I picked up a Stray.

It's been a while since I've played with my blog. To be honest, I'm still not sure what I'm going to do with it in the long term. Then there's all the drama of orchestrating a trans-Atlantic relocation to factor in. Thanks for my former employers we're now up the Swanee with a teaspoon instead of a paddle and have to return to the UK.

I've been distracting myself with a lot of writing and a little reading between spurts of paperwork, booking things, etc. I bought my first e-book the other day. It was written by Ash Penn who is a very fine writer and an ace Beta-reader. Since she's patiently reading through the chapters of my WIP as I finish them I thought the least I could do was to review her latest release, 'Stray'.

Stray is available through Loose-ID and it's frightening how easy it is to buy a book from them. This may bode ill for my bank account in the future.

Anyway, let's stop the babble and talk about 'Stray'.

The protagonist, Terry, is a bit of a bastard when we first meet him. He's cynical, damaged, hopelessly lusting after his housemate, Marc, whose just brought a stray home. The stray, in this case is a pale, delicate waif called Dan. Terry takes an instant dislike to him, believing the lad to be Marc's latest squeeze and, worse, someone who's out to take advantage of Marc's generosity. Terry's way of putting Dan in his place is a rather perfunctory (but hot) shag over the kitchen table.

Alas, that first taste of forbidden fruit ends up not being enough for Terry. In spite of his, apparently, hostile feelings towards Dan, it doesn't stop Terry from availing himself of Dan's charms again.

Where this all leads to is well worth the read. Penn has a real gift for creating very believable, flawed characters, all moving around in very real settings. The story is emotionally engaging and you'll want to know how it all shakes out. There's plenty of misunderstandings, heartache and trouble on the way but that's real life for you. 'Stray' is well worth a read. It's certainly a book that'll be hanging around on my hard drive for a long time to be visited again. It's m/m erotica at its best. It's not just about the sex, it's about the story.

You can click on this link Stray to find out more. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

The Query

Here's the new version. I started from scratch, taking as many comments on as possible!
In this version, Grace actually does stuff, so hopefully the dreaded Passive-bleh stuff is gone.

Thank you all for wading in!

Grace Webb trains racehorses for a living. It’s a career she’s happy to focus on when her fiancé, Christopher Beaumont, is deployed to Afghanistan. At a time when racing yards are losing horses because of the bad economy, a promising horse like Allonby could be the salvation of her father’s yard. Grace welcomes the chance to focus on Allonby in attempt to stop fretting about Christopher’s growing despondency and the frustration of lousy internet connections.

When Christopher is sent home with horrific leg wounds and, as a consequence, PTSD, Grace is determined to help him heal. As she fights Christopher’s nightmares, depression and rage, she also faces a battle to save Allonby’s career before it’s had a chance to blossom.

Christopher, feeling that he’s giving Grace more grief than love, leaves her. Grace couldn’t heal Christopher, but she can help Allonby and keep her father’s yard running. When Christopher returns, seeking forgiveness and a second chance, Grace gives him that chance. This time she won’t let Christopher surrender to his demons. On the eve of the biggest race of Allonby’s career, Grace faces down her worse nightmare – saving Christopher from himself.

..and it's goodbye

for now.

I'm throwing in the towel on the blog for the time being.

I'm not one who can write about writing. There's plenty of very good blogs out there that cover the agony and ecstasy of writing much better than I can. I'm not going to vent about politics or publishing because...meh, there's plenty of those blogs out there too.

If I can think of anything to blog about, I'll be back but, for now, no more Teasers, no more drivel. I gotta get my writing done and get my books out there...some time, somehow.

Thanks to those of you who visited and commented. Those comments have been greatly appreciated. Thank you for stopping by and reading my bits and pieces.

So, I leave you with this. This my favorite song from my favorite Elton John album (Madman Across the Water).

Peace out.

Grace is a bit put out - Teaser Tuesday

I'm back to working on 'Christopher's Medal' again, thanks to some excellent Beta feedback. As seems to be the problem with most of the stuff I've written, it lacked more conflict. I think it's a psychological thing, I feel guilty being mean to my characters.

So, I've bitten the proverbial bullet and thrown a few stones in the Path of True Love. This is from a shiny new chapter. Christopher takes Grace to a Very Posh Wedding at a Very Big House. Unfortunately, one of the guests is Christopher's odious ex-girlfriend, Pippa. She rubs Grace up the wrong way and Grace returns home with a bad taste in her mouth.

*********************************************************

Grace couldn’t shake Pippa’s words. She stared out of the window at the flat, south Lincolnshire landscape and stewed while Christopher drove on oblivious. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and understood why Pippa found it hard to let him drop. She just wished she could forget how much could keep them apart. Grace hated that Pippa had reminded her of it. Hated that she’d reminder her that she was nothing more than a glorified shit-flicker with working hands. The man driving the smart, sporty little car was out of her league. He belonged at dinner parties in big houses, drinking port and talking about rugby. He didn’t belong with her in her little cottage, with a take away for dinner and two filet steaks in the freezer.

“Are you all right?” Christopher turned onto the Fordham Road. They were nearly home.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It wasn’t worth explaining. Grace knew it would sound stupid. “I think I’ll just be glad to get home.”

His hand was warm on her knee. “Me too. I’m sorry I inflicted that on you. It won’t happen again.”

Grace folded her arms across her chest and watched the road. “Good.”

Back at the yard, evening stables was in full swing. The yard echoed with the sound of slamming buckets and the anxious whicker of hungry horses. Grace hurried into the house and inhaled the familiar scent of home. The faint smoky scent of bacon lingered in the kitchen and, in the living room, the cinnamon perfume of candles. Grace picked up her bag and took it into the bedroom.

“Grace?” Christopher stood in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

She unfastened her dress and scrambled out of it. “I don’t want to talk about it. It even sounds stupid when I think about it.”

“About what?”

Grace sorted through a drawer for a tee-shirt. “Nothing, forget it. I’m fine.”

“Grace, darling, you are not fine. You’re sorting though that drawer as if you’re looking for something to kill.”

She pulled the shirt over her head and paused. “I would like to kill Pippa. How’s that for an answer.”

“She doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“No., perhaps she doesn’t, but she doesn’t think I’m good enough for you and maybe she’s right. I’ve just spent the weekend in your world and I didn’t much care for it because it reminded me that I didn’t belong there.” She held out her hands, palm up. “These are my hands, they’re working hands. You said that once, remember? These hands are a constant bloody reminder that I don’t belong in your world. I’m a pretender.”

“Now you’re just being silly.” Christopher took a step towards her. His hands closed on her shoulders. “The only world that matters to me is the one you’re in. This house, this room, you…this is where I belong, this is where I want to be.”

Grace lifted her chin. “I want to believe that. I really do. But look at us, look at you. You’re an officer in some posh regiment. You visit my world but you don’t belong here.”

“Grace, stop talking like that. It’s bollocks.” There was an edge to his voice. His grip tightened when he drew her close, one hand cupped her chin. “Just…stop.” His mouth devoured hers, angry breaths drowned the silence. Christopher backed her to the wall while Grace braced her hands on his chest. She couldn’t find it in her to push him away, not when he pressed against her, all heat and fury. His tongue swept over hers, drawing her in, demanding her attention until she relented. Her breath fell into sync with his.

Teaser revised

It pays to post bits of your work, folks.

I had some feedback from yesterday's Teaser, pointing out things that this oblivious writer didn't think of. Thanks to those of you who took the time to read and comment. Yinz rock.

So, for kicks and giggles, here's the revised version.

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They ambushed us when we passed through a village. It was on the cards. The white flags of the Taliban fluttered from crumbling mud walls and people stared at us with blank, hostile eyes when the armored vehicles rumbled along the narrow, dusty lane. Captain Beaumont was quieter than usual, his mouth set in a grim line beneath three days’ growth of beard. I wanted to ask him what he thought was up but after a week in his company I’d already learned when to keep my journalist’s mouth shut.

After a few stints embedded with various regiments in numerous war zones, I’d developed a bit of a feel for trouble myself. I guess a kid would call it ‘Spidey sense’, I just called it my “Oh shit” sense. Neither me or Beaumont were wrong on this occasion.

They started firing at us from the rooftops, a couple of fuckwit snipers with nothing better to do than taking pot shots at British soldiers. Bullets pinged off the vehicles, spat in the dust and slammed into walls. The explosion came from the front of the convoy. Rolling waves of dust funneled through the alley. Our men returned fire in workmanlike silence but, beyond the uneven tattoo of battle one man’s screams cut through me like a fucking knife.

I tucked my shaking hands between my knees and prayed there wouldn’t be grenades. We were proverbial sitting ducks in armored vehicles of dubious construction. There was sod-all in the APC to hide under. We just had to sit it out and hope there were no IEDs. At moments like this, it was hard not to imagine my paper’s headline ‘Journalist Evan Harrison killed in ambush’. I wasn’t ready to die. I was thirty-two and had issues that needed to be resolved.

“Call in air support.” Beaumont barked into the radio. “Tell them to hurry the fuck up. I can’t send the fucking medic in while those fuckwits are firing at us.”

I didn’t hear the reply but, given Beaumont’s choice language I didn’t think the choppers would be too long. I felt lousy sitting there listening to that poor sod scream when no one could do a thing to help him until the snipers were nailed. Our lot were doing their best and a sharp, pained yelp made me think one of the snipers was hit but the other kept firing, erratic bursts into the shooting gallery. As the long, turbulent minutes passed, my fears of grenades and IEDs faded a bit. The insurgents would’ve used them before now, rather than waste bullets. Perhaps I wasn’t going to make the headlines in the wrong way…this time.

I watched Beaumont. He gnawed at his thumbnail while he peered through the slatted window. His dark eyes were a study in contained agony and fury. I don’t know that I could even being to understand or try and describe what he was feeling. I liked the man. I was also a sucker for brown eyes. Sometimes I wished…never mind.

The roar of the incoming choppers shattered the impasse.

“Thank Christ for that.” Beaumont spoke into his radio. “All right, send in the medic. We’re clear.” He took his helmet off, ran his hand through his spiky hair and sighed. “I hate this fucking job.”

A new start - Teaser Tuesday

Revised version posted 5/12/10

So...um...poor Fin and Angharad, they're left hanging again.

I couldn't resist starting revisions on 'Stolen Summer' I started at the beginning. Taking Beta comments in hand, I needed to expand on Evan's experience in Afghanistan and lay the groundwork for stuff which happens a little later in the book.

So, here's the new start.

*******************************************

They ambushed us when we passed through a village. It was on the cards. The white flags of the Taliban fluttered from crumbling mud walls and people stared at us with blank, hostile eyes when the armored vehicles rumbled along the narrow, dusty lane. Captain Beaumont was quieter than usual, his mouth set in a grim line beneath three days’ growth of beard. I wanted to ask him what he thought was up but after a week in his company I’d already learned when to keep my journalist’s mouth shut.

After a few stints embedded with various regiments in numerous war zones, I’d developed a bit of a feel for trouble myself. I guess a kid would call it ‘Spidey sense’, I just called it my “Oh shit” sense. Neither me or Beaumont were wrong on this occasion.

They started firing at us from the rooftops, a couple of fuckwit snipers with nothing better to do than taking pot shots at British soldiers. Bullets pinged off the vehicles, spat in the dust and slammed into walls. The explosion came from the front of the convoy. Rolling waves of dust funneled through the alley. Our men returned fire in workmanlike silence but, beyond the uneven tattoo of battle one man’s screams cut through me like a fucking knife.

“Call in air support.” Beaumont barked into the radio. “Tell them to hurry the fuck up. I can’t send the fucking medic in while those fuckwits are firing at us.”

I didn’t hear the reply but, given Beaumont’s choice language I didn’t think the choppers would be too long. I felt lousy sitting there listening to that poor sod scream when no one could do a thing to help him until the snipers were nailed. Our lot were doing their best and a sharp, pained yelp made me think one of the snipers was hit but the other kept firing, erratic bursts into the shooting gallery.

I watched Beaumont. He gnawed at his thumbnail while he peered through the slatted window. His dark eyes were a study in contained agony and fury. I don’t know that I could even being to understand or try and describe what he was feeling. I liked the man. I was also a sucker for brown eyes. Sometimes I wished…never mind.

The roar of the incoming choppers shattered the impasse.

“Thank Christ for that.” Beaumont spoke into his radio. “All right, send in the medic. We’re clear.” He took his helmet off, ran his hand through his spiky hair and sighed. “I hate this fucking job.”

“Yea.” There wasn’t much else to say. One of his men was hit and screaming like a stuck pig because we got jumped in a place where we shouldn’t be.