Alleypat's Xanga

blackberry foxons

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 06:13:08 GMT

Checking n w blackberry now to find ebook apps

joshua tree

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 06:39:43 GMT

Bob Mayer's Warrior Writer Online Workshop!

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 18:54:59 GMT

Check out the info for NYT bestselling author Bob Mayer's upcoming Warrior Writer Workshop online!

New stuff!

Fri, 02 Oct 2009 16:36:09 GMT

Well, I've got another article up at The Fort Worth Examiner (examiner.com)
http://www.examiner.com/x-21358-Fort-Worth-Writing-Examiner

And don't forget, it's hockey season! Dallas Stars play their first game Sat. Oct 3rd!

And happy birthday to my granddaughter, Brook, who will be 4 Saturday!

Interview With Author Candace Havens!

Wed, 16 Sep 2009 05:58:20 GMT

Interview with Candace Havens, RWA® Mentor of the Year!

Wednesday, September 16th, 2009

Bestselling and award winning author Candace Havens will be attending FenCon, a science fiction and fantasy writers and fans convention in Dallas this...
Keep Reading »

Writing Conference!

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 20:54:01 GMT

September Writing Conference: FenCon

Here's the skinny on this month's main writing convention for the Dallas/Ft. Worth area!

Alley

Ft. Worth Writing Examiner

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 19:00:19 GMT

Redoing Scene 1 of WIP "The Angel Project"... here's what I got so far

“And so it came to pass, the Winged Warrioress slew the dragon and freed her beloved.” Zeba tugged the quilt snug under Katie’s chin. “Now, it’s time to sleep and dream your own dreams.”

“And?” Katie knuckled her eyes as she snuggled under the cover, her long, brown hair streamed across her pillow like Medusa.

“And they lived happily ever after.” Zeba chuckled as she leaned over to kiss Katie’s forehead.

Katie smiled, revealing her impish dimples.

“To sleep, young lady!” Katie’s mother stood in the doorway, her hand on the light switch.

“Thank you, Auntie Zee.” Katie whispered.

“You’re welcome, sweetie.” Zeba rose from the bed. Before she had closed Katie’s bedroom door, Katie was asleep. Zeba followed Sarah down the hall to a small kitchen. All the kitchens in this building were small. Her own was just across the corridor.

“You’re great with kids, Zee. You should think about having some of your own.” Sarah poured them both a cup of fresh brewed coffee. The aroma made Zeba’s stomach rumble.

Zeba grabbed a slice of cinnamon coffeecake off the counter. “You know better than that.”

“Just saying. You can’t live this life forever.” Sarah held her coffee mug with both hands.

Zeba watched as the steam fogged Sarah’s glasses, and for a moment, one of Zeba’s dreams came back to her of multi-colored church windows sparkling with crystallized ice. “It works for me. Besides, you know I don’t do well . . . out there.” She waved her hand over her head.

“Well, you look like shit. Still having those dreams?” Sarah asked.

Sarah had a way of seeing what Zeba was thinking. One of the things Zeba liked about her. Maybe Zeba’s poker face wasn’t as good as she thought. But then, this was Sarah, her neighbor and friend. Only friend, Zeba amended. It was still eerie, all the same.

“Some.” Zeba shrugged.

“That’s what I thought. Here. I brought you some sleeping pills.” Sarah pulled out an orange medicine bottle from her scrubs’ pocket. “One a night. Or day. Or whenever you get home.” She stuffed the bottle in Zeba’s front jeans pocket.

“You didn’t steal these?” said Zeba, shocked at the possibility of Sarah being a thief.

Sarah laughed. “No, you dimwit. Pharm guy owed me a favor.”

“The same pharm guy you dated but think is gay?” Zeba never understood Sarah’s dating guidelines. All was fair game as long as it didn’t come home with her. Zeba didn’t know how she could compartmentalize her life in such a way. But then, Zeba didn’t have a 5 year old daughter to raise on her own.

“Not gay, just . . . openminded.” Sarah broke off a piece of Zeba’s coffeecake and popped it into her mouth. “Mmm. I bake good grocery store cake.”

“Thanks.” Zeba quirked the corner of her mouth up in a half-smile.

“So, you’ve eaten dinner. You’ve put Katie to bed. Want to help me wash dishes?” Sarah set her coffee cup down and grabbed a sponge.

“Noooo, thanks, girl. I’d better be off.”

“So fast? Got a hot date or something?”

“Nah. Joe left me a text. Said there’s a fancy pants running the table.” Zeba shrugged into her black leather jacket and grabbed her helmet.

“The bartender your pimp now?”

“Pimp my ass. Doesn’t hurt to have a little heads up on the action.”

“I don’t see much difference between you and LuLu, except yours doesn’t involve sex.”

“Let’s not get into this tonight, okay?” Zeba wanted to start her night off in a good mood, not discuss her choice of profession, and especially not get compared to a whore. Zeba loved them both, Sarah and LuLu, but they didn’t love each other.

“Okay, okay. Be safe.” Sarah hugged Zeba holding the soaped sponge away from her back.

Zeba never knew what to do with hugs from adults. From Katie, that was one thing. Her hugs were full of love and unadulterated joy. Sarah’s weren’t that different, but somehow Zeba felt invaded whenever any adult hugged her, even Sarah. And though she tolerated Sarah’s hugs better than most, knowing she meant well, she never hugged her back.

Sarah followed Zeba to the door, calling after her as she took the steps two at a time to the parking lot one level below. “Get going, then. And win enough to take us to Six Flags this weekend, will you?”

Zeba swung her leg across the seat and jumped started her bike. The rumble of the Buell soothed her, like a deep, caressing purr of a lion between her legs. She twisted her long hair into a knot at the back of her neck, then settled the helmet on her head and strapped it on. The helmet and jacket would make her sweat, Dallas summer already into triple digits, but she didn’t care. She’d seen what concrete did to people upon impact and though she never planned to wreck, she’d laid her bike down more than once. So, a little extra padding was worth the sweat.

The Angel Project, Scene 2 - 1st Draft

Thu, 13 Nov 2008 19:22:10 GMT

Zeba needed fresh air. The smoky bar atmosphere stifled her lungs, but she enjoyed the stiff drinks and suckers at pool. She gathered up her winnings, five hundred dollars for the night, and waved off further offers to play another game.

“No, boys. Tonight I’ll give you all a break. Consider yourself lucky I’m taking the rest of the night off.” She glanced around to ensure no one took serious offense at her winning and leaving, but the regulars knew her and knew she wouldn’t cheat, at least not get caught at it, nor make any obvious gestures of grifting(?). Not like she couldn’t handle herself. She could duck and punch with the best of them, but she wasn’t as big as some of these guys, and never as drunk, although tonight, the booze seemed to affect her a little more than usual. Or perhaps she was just tired.

Shooting pool for rent was a far better job than what Lulu did. Touching some sweaty cowpoke or 18 wheeler wasn’t her idea of fun. Bad enough she shot pool with them, but then, she liked their money all the same. Less work, more fun, better pay was her motto.

Zeba tipped the bartender his usual ten percent. “Thanks, Joe.”

“Already?” Joe upturned a polished shot glass with one hand and prepared to pour Cinnamon Schnapps with the other.

“Pass. Just need an early night.” Zeba waved him off as she headed for the ladies room at the back of the bar. At the sink, she splashed water on her face. She was tired. She ached everywhere. And her head thundered with every heartbeat. What was wrong with her? A cold maybe. Damned drunk probably sneezed on her. She vowed to double up her vitamin C when she got home.

Then she doubled over the sink and puked. Not a cold then. The flu? Shit. Sara, her neighbor, kept warning her to get a flu shot. Never know what those morons are coughing and sneezing on you, she’d say. Bars are a hotbed of germs and viruses. Well, Sara should know, she worked in a hospital, which, according to Sara, was the number one place to get sick and die. Zeba had vowed never to need a doctor, much less a hospital. She didn’t trust them. She came from a long line of family who didn’t trust doctors. But she did trust Sara. And if she could just make it home before she puked again, she knew Sara would take good care of her.

A decision made, Zeba stepped out of the bathroom as another wave of nausea hit her. Determined to exit the building, she stumbled out the back door, making it to the dumpster before doubling over again and spewing her guts on the concrete.

“Crap.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. This wasn’t good. She inhaled a huge lungful of air. Not the freshest in town, filled with odors of stale beer and urine, but better than carcinogistic-laden cigarette smoke.

She leaned against the rusted dumpster until her head cleared enough that she finally trusted herself to drive home. She reached into her jeans pocket to remove her keys when another wave hit her. She was determined to make it home. She had no one to call. Sara worked the night shift. She had no family to speak of, no one that would claim her anyway. So she was on her own and she liked it like that. But once in a great while, like tonight, she wished she had someone she could call to rescue her from the rare but occasional ravages of being human.

The cold metal keys in her hand brought her back to reality. She’d passed out? She blinked, the image of dumpster legs and trash littered her vision. Then she felt the graveled cement imprinting her cheek. This was worse than she thought. She pushed herself up from the ground, her arms stiff, her back sore. As she made it to her knees, she noticed blood dripping from her sides. Again, her body spasmed and she screamed as pain ripped her back.

Panting, Zeba crawled toward the bar’s back door. She had to get help. She had no idea what was happening to her, but she had to get help.

Another spasm wracked her body. Another scream rent from her throat.

Her body arched with the constriction. Then she felt something tearing on her

New Book Started: The Angel Story (working title)

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 19:09:10 GMT

Friday, October 10, 2008

This is a copy of the quick jot of my ideas on the angel story I’m letting bubble up in my subconscious. It’s formatted like a letter. The X’s are placeholders for filling in later.

This is a letter by the guy who caught an angel in the act of painfully sprouting wings in an alley behind a bar. I want this guy who’s telling the story to be highly intelligent and frustrated because he’s already tried to inform the more established news and scientific publications and specialists about his encounter(s), but of course they thought he was a nutter and the story all a hoax.

So he’s resorted to the last resort to get his news out. He’s sending this to a magazine like National Enquirer (a gossip / rumor mag that runs stories of alien babies etc LOL). You’ll see that I’ve come to these thoughts after retyping my draft (I wrote it by hand one night about 3am), so some things will of course change.

Could I maintain a whole book of this guy following around the angels to catch them, study them, reveal them to the world? He’d become an angel fanatic, maybe go a little bit crazy as the book wears on, doubting himself off and on, (maybe his best friend or close relative sees his house with all the angel sightings notes, newspaper articles on whatever, and pictures pasted all over his office walls, they want to put him in a loony bin), but somehow in the end, he’d finally meet up with one face to face, one that has come to terms with his or her own angel-ness (I want to show their (the angels) struggles too, to deal with this unwanted aberration to their body, unwanted and uncontrollable.).

I don’t know if this will be one angel he tracks or more than one, but I’m thinking not too many, because I’d need to develop the story of the angel thru his observations and letters to the editor of this sensationalist rag (magazine). I think this would make a good series. The concern is developing the story from his point of view, not the angel(s) and keeping it interesting. I’ll have to see how that goes as I write it I guess. Anyway, let me know what you think J. I’ll have more on it later I’m sure as I’m all excited about this new story.

Alley

=================

Date:

To:

From: Carson “Jargon” Delacort III

Subject: Unusual Sighting

Dear Mr. Xxx,

Please find enclosed an image of a woman I shot with my Nikon XX camera last night in the alley behind Red’s Bar. Although grainy and lacking proper lighting, I believe this image validates the rumors of angels on earth.

Be they dark or light, I cannot say, for the film only captures the physical and from that frozen celluloid moment, we must infer an entire history of these beings as part human and part something else.

At this point, however, it is not the history of these winged beings that concerns me as much as their presence and their purpose.

Are they good beings or bad? Are they beings at all, or mere apertures of light and shade spiced with our imagination?

That, Dear Mr. XXX, is my quest – to seek the truth of these seemingly miraculous beings. I’m asking you, as our most popular expert on extreme beings on earth, if one who’s only studied a thing and never experienced it, as you stated in a recent article, can be an expert on anything,

I am enclosing a small souvenir you may consider it a field sample for your personal effects (personal study?).

And I do mean to ask you to keep this personal, between you and myself only, until we have irrefutable proof one way or the other.

Perhaps this could be a hoax. This could also be Darwin on drugs. But whatever our results, we must maintain self-sufficiency and discretion in all aspects of our research and results until which time we feel we’ve gathered sufficient evidence to present to the xxx council. (scientific alien council thing)

I thank you for your patience. If you are still in doubt, test the DNA on the section of quilt. You may find it remarkably relative.

Sincerely,

Carson Jargon Delacort, III

(Then I’d go into this guy’s POV, Carson “Jargon” Delacort, and describe the pictures and the scene he’s sending the editor.)

Fall Fever or Autumn Angst?

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 07:56:57 GMT

Whichever it is, it hits me every year. The slightly cooler weather has me wanting to work on my house. So what do I do at 4am? Browse color schemes, redecorating ideas, revamping rooms. <sigh> This year tho, I've the energy to do it.

Does anyone else get these alien urges to do "seasonal nesting"?