I know I’ve been quite absent from my website, and I’m sorry. But so many things happened that hit me like hammers. First, my friend Holly Lisle died at the end of August. Then, another close friend’s husband got the news that he’s dying too and there’s nothing that can be done about it. And as if that wasn’t enough, my daughter moved, my grandson needs to be tested for ADHD and Autism, and a ton of minor distractions. Just RealLife(TM) at its best.

BTW, if you want to follow my progress on Holly Lisle’s Moon & Sun series, here’s a link to the signup for the newsletter.

With all that’s going on in my life right now, I struggled a lot to write my Bloghop story. Considering the low number of participants this Bloghop, I wasn’t the only one. But I did it and here is my story:

How I Lost Tom

I first met Tom when I was three years old. We were best friends since then. He seemed so grown up back then, and he helped me with everything. His wide eyed smile that went from one jug ear to the other gave me a focal point to talk to, and people never noticed I didn’t look into their eyes for they could not see Tom.

The biggest blessing was that he didn’t talk. Still he helped me face my fears and encouraged me to go for whatever I wanted to do, despite the overwhelmingly loud world. I remember his proud and happy smile at my graduation from police academy.

Of course by then I’d noticed that I’d grown older and he remained ten or eleven but he was still my best friend in the world. I never noticed how much our friendship had changed until I sat in an untidy beige kitchen with thirty year old Amanda, trying to ferret out details about my most important cold case: Tom’s death.

“Did you never have any suspicion who might have murdered your brother?” I’d asked the same question phrased differently many times, and her answer was always a variant of no, clipped and short as if she didn’t really want to know.

“What about your father’s ex-girlfriend.” I studied the surprisingly symmetrical face with eyes as blue as Tom’s and long, auburn hair tied into a tight bun. Her slender frame shifted on the chair like she wanted to run.

“She would have kidnapped Tom, not killed him. She always went on about how underappreciated he was and that he needed more love.” Amanda’s voice held an edge. “She favored him all the time, and that’s the reason Dad didn’t marry her. He wanted to, you know?”

Of course I’d known. And I’d learned a lot from my interview with her father’s ex. “He did ask her but she declined.”

Amanda sat up very straight and shook her head to underline her words. “That’s not true. Dad said that he couldn’t accept a stepmother who played favorites.”

“Maybe your father remembers a bit more about that fateful day.” I hadn’t been able to find a recent address and he would surely know more. After all, Amanda had only been thirteen when her brother was murdered and their house burnt to the ground. Her mind must have been on other, more important things, like boys, before the catastrophe. “Do you have any idea where he is now?”

“Of course.” She gave me an address in a nearby trailer park, a sad choice for living for a once successful real estate agent. Back then, his finances had been in shambles and even the money from his son’s life-insurance had not covered all of his debts. Clearly, he’d never truly recovered.

I hated trailers. They were suffocating and you could hear all your neighbors every time of the day. At least this one was clean. Mr. Dell had asked me and my partner in and we sat on the worn seats of the lounge—not that it deserved such a grand name—recording equipment at the ready. It was clear he knew that this was about Tom again.

“I’ve already told you everything I know, all those years ago,” he said.

Before I could say something, Tom stepped right into the middle of the table between us. “Hi Dad.”

Mr. Dell paled. His eyes widened and he seemed to have trouble breathing. My partner reached for his mobile to call an ambulance while I watched in fascination how Tom’s friendly, blue eyes turned dark and his expression angry. I’d never seen him like this and it scared me to the marrow.

“Why don’t you tell my friend here,” he pointed at me, “how you strangled me as I was eating my muesli until I vomited all over the kitchen? Why don’t you tell her how you stuffed my dead body into a rubbish bin and dumped it in the woods? Why don’t you tell them about the insurance policy you hid in our neighbor’s shed so it wouldn’t spoil when you set fire to the house?”

Mr. Dell complied. Speaking as fast as he could, he told us everything down to the tiniest detail while Tom stood, watching him with those scary black eyes.

Not even an hour later, Mr. Dell was safely locked up in a holding cell. I was just about to sign out, when my colleagues ran around like busy ants, screaming for help. It was total overkill for my senses. I pressed my hands over my ears but still heard that the detainee had tried to commit suicide. He hung himself but his belt had broken from the weight he’d put on it.

When the noise died down after the paramedics had taken comatose Mr. Dell away, Tom appeared right in front of me. “Thank you.” His eyes were back to normal and his smile reassured me. “Dad will remain in a coma for the rest of his life, and I will keep him company. Thank you.”

This time, I didn’t talk. I just nodded, knowing that more justice would be metered out this way than any available in our judicial system. I waved goodbye as Tom faded. After all, that’s what friends did, right?

Visit the others:
Existential Conundrum by T. R. Neff
Harvest by Barbara Lund
The Big Red Eye by Gina Fabio
Broken Hearted by James Husum

Oh, it’s time for the bloghop already. I barely noticed how time flew by since I’ve been very busy writing a new novel. This is the third installment in Holly Lisle’s Moon&Sun series, an Upper Middle Grade or Young Adult fantasy adventure. The series got cancelled on Holly by her then publisher and it took her years to get the rights back. So she wrote several other novels and started a five book Romantic Suspense series she’s still revising.

With that she realized that she won’t have the time to get to the Moon&Sun series any time soon. Cue me. I asked her for the right to write the missing volumes of the series and the right to re-publish the existing books. And she agreed (squeal). So now I’m busy trying to work in someone else’s world without ruining it.

If you want to follow my progress, here’s a link to the signup for the newsletter.

And here’s my Bloghop story:

Spam or Not Spam, That is the Question!

I howled. Three hours! The presentation’s revision had taken three hours!

And then the program crashed and took along all my painstaking work. Plus the original, but I still had a copy of that. My mind whirled and I wanted to rage. However it wouldn’t do with my boss in his office right down the corridor.

Overtime was no option either, with Ellie’s birthday party starting just after my work hours and her mother breathing down my neck about being punctual. If only I had a way to regain my work.

When the boss left his office, pretending to go to the toilet but really checking if we were busy, I opened a random eMail. A red logo flashed: an H written in fire surrounded by a wreath of pitchforks. Weird. The text under it grabbed my attention despite my preoccupied brain.

Frustrated? Angry? On a deadline? We can help. Call … and a phone number.

Yeah, that was spam, no doubt about it. On the other hand, what did I have to lose? And the phone call would be on the company’s dime. My hand reached for the headset and a few heartbeats later a warm alto greeted me.

“Hello dear, what can I do for you?” The woman was stunning, busty with curves in all the right places and long, dark tresses. If I hadn’t been so angry, I’d have found it hard not to stare at her generous cleavage. I didn’t need that kind of distraction. I only needed to calm myself.

“I know you can’t do anything about this but maybe I can vent?”

“Absolutely. Venting is completely free of charge.” There was a hint of a smile in the voice.

So venting I did. About the pressure everybody in the company was under, about my ex-wife and her demands on my time, about the little time I got to spend with our daughter, and about the sorry pay. Then I launched into my current woes and the fact that the presentation was due first thing tomorrow morning. When I was done, I felt empty. With a sigh I added, “Guess I’ll have to think of something to recreate that revision.”

“Or you can sign a contract with us and we’ll do the hard work for you.” The woman was smiling so hard, the top button on her blouse popped.

A second window opened right beside the one with the busty woman. This one showed an H with a golden ring and wings. Another weird one. The logo seemed to glow. I heard some grunting.

“Why won’t this … Ah! There.” The logo vanished and an incredibly beautiful person grinned at me. I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman but it didn’t seem important. “I did it! It’s working!” Their smile turned serious. “You didn’t sign anything yet, did you?”

I shook my head, feeling more confused than ever.

Before the beautiful person could speak again, the busty woman chimed in. Her voice sounded somewhat strained. “We can easily extract your memory and restore the file to the way it was before the crash.”

“You don’t want them messing with your head,” the beautiful person said. “They are known for twisting thoughts and changing memories to suit their agenda.”

“Don’t believe him. We never touch anything not in the contract.” The woman’s smile intensified. She was positively glowing. “But if you prefer we can simply make a copy of you that exists long enough to redo your lost work while you go to make memories with your child.”

“We can promise that exact same thing, and we can deliver too.” The beautiful person glanced at the other window as if they could see it. “And at a much lower cost, too.”

“And,” the busty woman pulled her shoulders back which pushed her generous chest toward me, “I can throw in some fun time with a genuine succubus or three.” Another button popped, revealing more cleavage than I was comfortable with. “And we have no limits on what you can request after signing the contract. It’s for a lifetime of ease.” She bent slightly forward as if confiding something secret. “Fancy your supervisor’s position? It’s as good as yours.”

Gosh, that was tempting. Less work, fewer hours, at least double my current pay.

“Don’t throw your eternal soul away.” The beautiful person looked extremely worried. “Let me make a counter offer before you decide.”

Two clicks and both windows closed like they’d never existed. With a sigh, I sent my computer to sleep. I’d come back tonight, after my girl’s birthday party, and redo the presentation. Not the best solution, but one I could live with.

I shook my head in disgust. How I hated marketeers. They were coming up with better stuff every day. Thank God I was an atheist.

Visit the others:
Two Feet by Chris Makowski
Thief by Barbara Lund
Trampler of Dreams by Gina Fabio
Good Dog by Angelica Medlin
She Stood by Lyn McCarty
Not all Heros Wear Capes by Vanessa Wells
Morning Monsters by Jon Cloud
Some Imagination by James Husum

My colleague Chris Makowski is ready for the Bloghop too. He’s still revising his novel (with elves and stuff in our world, by what he posts about it, it’ll be a fascinating if dark read), so I’m hosting his story again.

Here’s his Bloghop story:

Two Feet

Chris Makowski

Get two feet closer!

Discharged yesterday and now I’m hallucinating voices.

Another bullet chews through the island, deflected by the good thick cast iron in there. Last one put a hole in my Magnalite dutch oven. He doesn’t know if I’m armed, but not stupid enough to dash in and find out the hard way.

Not a word, nothing after the flash bangs – someone hired a pro to finish things.

Bliss is big business, and I’m a headache.

Bullet by bullet, it’s hide and seek. Shoot low, shoot high, a few inches to the left and I’d be spurting instead of oozing blood. My open concept house being used against me, leaving me nowhere to go he can’t put a hole in me.

I’m running out of time fast.

Get Two Feet Closer!

Piece in a drawer I can’t reach, he removed the one under the sink – maybe the other one too, happy me, I’ve got a knife in a gunfight, and he’s a good ten paces into the living room, waiting, sixty feet out of my reach.

My foot twitches.

Get! Two! Feet! CLOSER!

I hear my imagination draw in breath.

You have nothing to lose, Charmyan Broussard!

A sharp twist toward the sink as another guess zips through where I had been, I set my feet against the base board and shove hard, a sprint for my life, come off the blocks and run damn it run hard run Run RUN!

Something rips out of me, through me, from me, he’s standing behind the couch, huge, six feet and then some, pistol coming around –

“MINE!”

BLAM!

I crash to the ground, slide under the table, kick the chair across the room – the couch flies out of the way, leaving me a clear view of …

Me.

A me carved of pure obsidian straddles his ribcage. Her – my – head turns, and that smile appears, the one I wore every time I put someone away.

She puts a finger in his chest, swirls it, and a bluish glaze comes out. Then the finger goes into her mouth, slowing coming out clean.

“Delicious.” Her voice – my voice, only colder, a distant echo. “You’ll have to replace that.”

My gaze follows her finger. Missed me by that much.

“New toaster, check.” She’s still there, watching me.

“Call Dispatch.” Then she leans forward and speaks into his ear. “Heart attack. Should really have used less Peruvian powder before breaking in to my house. Beep, beep – bzzzzzt.”

“He’s dead?”

Her eyebrow Spock’s at me.

One yank and the drawer’s open – Glock’s missing.

“It’s over there.” A flip of her wrist points her fingers into the dining room. “You won’t need it. There aren’t any more.”

A tongue flickers over her lips. “Unfortunately.”

“What are you?”

Standing, she’s my nighshade twin, down to the dribbling smear where I banged my noggin ducking. “I lived under your bed, and knocked on your closet door. You carried me all the way from Port Goode to here, nightmare by nightmare.”

In an eyeblink she’s right by me.

“Don’t you remember your wish?” She crouches. “Over and over and over?”

Memories flow through my head. Days, weeks, months in the hospital, hooked up to bags and machines and monitors. In and out of consciousness, reliving the horrors they’d put me through.

All through, my one thought, my reason for survival.

Find Nathan Hill.

Find Philip Dale.

Put them both in a hole so deep their souls will never crawl out.

“Heart’s desire, released to the night,” she singsongs. All her teeth are sharp, many of them pointed. “You want them. I want to live in more than dreams.”

A hand stretches toward me. “So from now on, you be Good Cop, and I’ll be Bad Cop.” Even with the predatory gaze, her smile is warm. “They’ll never see us coming. Ça va juste?”

He’s dead. I’m alive.

My hand reaches out and she flows into me.

It hurts for just a second.

Oh God, he tasted good.

Visit the others:
Spam or Not Spam, That is the Question! by Katharina Gerlach
Thief by Barbara Lund
Trampler of Dreams by Gina Fabio
Good Dog by Angelica Medlin
She Stood by Lyn McCarty
Not all Heros Wear Capes by Vanessa Wells
Morning Monsters by Jon Cloud
Some Imagination by James Husum