The Colors of Friendship by K. R. Raye @KRRaye

Home Late

“Nice of you to call me, so I wouldn’t be sitting up worrying about your little ass!” Imani greeted Melody as soon as she opened their dorm room door.

“So much for hoping you’d be asleep,” moaned Melody as she closed the door.  Avoiding Imani’s expectant stare, she hung up her coat, kicked off her shoes, and wondered how much to tell her friend.

“I’m waiting!”

“Oh, don’t get all worked up, Imani,” Melody said as she stretched out across her bed.

Imani got up from her desk—where it looked and smelled like she’d just removed her fingernail polish—and sat down next to Melody.

“I met someone.”

“Obviously!”

“You were right about the shoes.  My feet were killing me.”  Melody wiggled her toes for effect.  “You were too busy dancing with Trevor and I couldn’t find Lance.  So, I took off to come home.  That’s when I bumped into this cute, Paul Newman-looking hunk named Kevin.  He has adorable, spiky, blonde hair and beautiful, blue eyes that you want to swim in.”  She shot Imani a mischievous look.  “And a body that would make even you drool.”

“Keep talking.”

“I don’t know what happened.  We went to the top of the Union and talked and talked and talked, I mean about every single thing.”  Tingling feelings coursed through her body, so Melody hugged herself and lay down to contain them.  “Kevin’s wonderful!  My God, I never felt like that.  It was so magical.  I kissed him, Girl.  Can you believe it?”  She popped up again.  “And I would have done more, too.  I was just so enchanted.”

“You?  Miss I-Need-to-Get-to-Know-Someone-for-Years-Before-I-Consider-Kissing-Them?”  Imani asked, surprise written across her flawless, walnut-skinned features.  “This guy must really be something special.  Tell me more!”

“That’s really all there is to tell.  I met him, we talked, and we kissed at the door.”

“Well, when are you seeing him again?”  Imani snorted.  “Hell, when am I meeting his ass?”

“Whoa, slow down.”  Melody chuckled.  “I don’t want to scare him off.”  Her voice dropped to a whisper and she felt her cheeks burn again, “although we talked about catching a movie tomorrow after chapel.”

“Chapel?”

“I told you we talked about everything.  We’re both Catholic and we’re attending Mass tomorrow, second service.”

“Get the hell outta here!”

“Watch the language, please,” she replied, giggling.  “So after Mass, we might grab a bite to eat and catch one of the dramas or the sci-fi comedy.  I promise to come home right after that.”

“Shit.  You’re grown.  You can come in whenever you want.  But thanks for the itinerary.  If he’s actually a serial killer, I can give the cops the clues.”

She smacked Imani’s shoulder.  “Ooh, that is so wrong!”

Imani pretended to rub her shoulder.

With a sideways glance, Melody switched the subject.  “So, um, how’s Trevor?”

“Oh, puh-leeze!  Tonight was not like that at all.”  Imani dismissed her insinuations with a wave.  “Trev is just a friend.  You know I don’t think of him like that.”

“Well, maybe you should.”  Melody sat up straight, smile gone.  “He’s been following behind you all year like a puppy dog.  It’s pretty obvious to everyone the boy likes you.”

“That’s too weird.”  Imani shuddered.  “He’s like a brother.  That’s like dating Lance.”

“No, Lance is too much of a Ho to be considered dating.  You’d never get past the second date if you didn’t give him any.  Hell, you wouldn’t get past a second date even if you did!”

They both cracked up laughing.

“Anyhow, nice try turning the tables, but this wasn’t about me, it was about your ass sneaking in here at 2:30!”  Imani stopped scolding Melody long enough to look deep into her eyes.  “Be careful, okay?  Take this slow.  You know you’re too damn romantic for your own good.  Especially since you insist on comparing your love life to your parents, with their supposedly-perfect marriage, and those awful Harlequin rags you read.”

“I know, but I’ve waited so long to feel like this.  Everything about us just clicked and it felt amazing!  Honestly, I could see myself spending every hour with Kevin and never getting tired or bored.”  Her friend’s concerned gaze made her pause.  “Okay, okay!  I’ll take it slow.”

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – New Adult, Contemporary

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with K R Raye on Facebook and Twitter

Website http://krraye.com/events.html

 

 

Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

Excerpt: The Woodpecker Menace by Ted Olinger

The Woodpecker Menace

It was one of those damp, warmish evenings so common to Puget Sound in spring. I was sitting on the deck of our still new-ish house, only now emerging from my little family’s first winter in her. I had been contemplating the mold on the railing over the far edge of a martini glass when I heard what sounded like rapid gunfire.

I sat up somewhat straighter and listened to the booming echo in the surrounding woods—or was it the ringing in my ears? The occasional gunshot on the rural peninsula where we live is not uncommon, especially at cocktail hour, but machine-gunning the gathering dusk seemed a bit much even for our sparsely populated neighborhood.

I heard it again: two or three quick, penetrating bursts. Seemed to be coming from the front of the house, near the road. That’s it, I thought. Roadwork. Must be a jackhammer. I forgot all about it.

Before sunrise the next morning, our three-year-old boy kicked open the bedroom door and announced, “I AM AWAKE.” I heard the jackhammer again. A rapid, relent-less pounding that seemed both to be in my head and wrapped around it. Of course, I thought, that’s what woke him. Damn early though. I’d speak to the work crew up on the road.

But there was no work crew.

I heard it again that evening. And again. I walked down our long gravel driveway to the road. The sound tore open the evening quiet: BDDDDDDTH! BDDDDDDTH! BDDDDDDTH!

My God, I thought. It’s coming from our house!

I crept back up the driveway, concealing myself in the rhododendrons. BDDDDDDDDTH! I slinked behind the house. BDDDDDDDTH! A bright flash rocketed down from the eaves and smashed into the suet basket hanging on our deck. There it was, a tan and speckled woodpecker, shining orange under the wings, talons sunk deep into the suet, twirling at the end of the basket’s chain. It sensed my gawking and turned its evil gaze on me. It took off in a blur and vanished into the tree line, violently beating the air with flashes of banded gold.

Dawn next morning. BDDDDTH! BDDDDTH! BDDDTH! The walls pulsated. The windows rattled. Our boy kicked open the door. “WOO’PECKER,” he said. We lay there, my wife and boy and I, innocents in the dark, listening to this twelve-inch tall bird produce a sound like all the jackhammers of hell destroying the Devil’s own driveway.

I crept downstairs and silently opened the back door. BDDDDTH! The very air was rent. I looked up to the eaves. He was near the apex of the roof, below the chimney, attacking a piece of flashing. His evil little head snapped back and forth with military precision. He aimed his beak at some secret confluence of roof, flashing and gutter and BDDDTH! BDDDTH! BDDDDTH! The sound it produced was stunning, and it was directly above our three-year-old’s room. It seemed an honor, in a way, to be thus embraced by the natural world, as if the arrival of the woodpecker was a sublime gift offered with outstretched arm by the open hand of nature.

Four weeks later, neither my wife nor my son nor I had slept past dawn. Five in the morning. BDDTH! Five in the evening. BDDDDDDTH! Any time in between. BDDDDDDDDTH! The boy started to have bad dreams. My wife demanded action. I searched for an answer in vain until one evening, while sitting on our deck, a small piece of freshly gouged wooden siding floated down and came to rest near my martini glass. The siege of the woodpecker was no longer just mental torture.

Our nemesis had a name—Northern Flicker (Colaptes auratus)—and we were not his first victims. The broad migration range of the flicker spills across North America like so much blood, seeping all the way into the deserts of the southwest down to Central America and even Cuba. The male will “drum,” as the rapid fire hammering of his beak is called, to proclaim his territory, but principally he drums to attract a mate. If decibels were any measure of desire, we had one lonely woodpecker on our hands. Once paired, however, flickers are monogamous. Ensconced in their choice locale, they may remain for a decade. They will defend their territory to the death.

Ordinarily, flickers seek out dead trees for nest excavation but ignore the well-seasoned wood of older homes. In the absence of appropriate dead wood, they will readily apply their skills to any structure for “drumming,” as the bird books modestly call this 20-beat-per-second head banging. Cedar shingles, metal gutters, roof flashing, an-tennae, chimney caps, highway signs—all are ripe targets for drumming. And the louder the better, for drumming is not a search for food, it is a declaration: “THIS LAND IS MINE. LOVE ME OR LEAVE IT.”

It must be said that the Northern Flicker is not only tough, adaptable and fearless—as anyone who has battled it will admit—it is a keystone species. The cavities it creates provide homes for numerous other animals. It is also, ironically, a mostly terrestrial feeder, scouring the ground for ants and termites and other insects potentially harmful to the very same houses it would happily chisel into oblivion by its hammering. “Ant bird” is one of the two hundred or so monikers that have been hung on this terrible creature since our colonial times. Other attractive handles include: Big Sapsucker, Carpintero, Cotton-back, Golden Winged Woodcock, High Holer, Little Wood Chuck, Pecker Wood, Shadspirit, Yellowhammer and, most fitting of all, the Blackhearted Woodpecker for the heart shaped mark emblazoned on its chest, Superman style.

The books urged us to cover up the damage with an array of anti-woodpecker paraphernalia. We took down our suet baskets and bird feeders, enraging the local jay population. We bought a battery-powered motion detecting plastic owl that turned its head and hooted whenever one of our dogs drew near. More extreme measures, such as attaching mirrors near the damage, applying foul tasting muck or stapling strips of Mylar along the roofline were impractical. Our roof, where the flicker chose to drum, is over thirty feet off the ground and too steep to stand on. The idea of renting an extension ladder long enough to reach it and risk plunging to my death while trying to scare away a bird was laughable. For a while.

By April, blood was in the air. None of our simple tricks had worked. The owl batteries had long since died. Friends who had laughed at our troubles now offered sympathy and firearms. I still resisted the idea of attaching anything to our roof, strictly out of concern for my own safety. I was not going to risk my life staple-gunning plastic ribbons to the gutter. Even if it worked, I’d have to go back up there and rip it all down. Or would I? Would we have to leave it there indefinitely? We needed a better answer.

One of the less helpful sympathy gifts we had received was a stuffed animal version of a Northern Flicker Woodpecker. We were encouraged to “try some voodoo on this guy and see what happens!”

Our son commandeered the toy and incorporated it into the menagerie of stuffed monkeys, bears and other exotics that accompanied him to bed each night. He carefully propped each one up among the pillows at the head of his bed, to watch over him as he slept. “We love you all the time, but now it’s time to go to sleep,” he intoned, which was exactly what we said to him each night.

As I tucked the boy in and observed the woodpecker in his burrow of pillows, I realized we were going about this whole thing the wrong way.

What if we welcomed this bird instead of fighting it? What if we installed a woodpecker house on our roof, right at his drumming spot? Perhaps he would move in and stop drumming there?

I went to a local tool store to rent the dreaded extension ladder. The aging owner behind the counter demanded to know what I was about. I found it difficult to say out loud, but admitted that I planned to nail a birdhouse to my roof to keep a woodpecker from hammering my home to pieces. He stared at me. “Is it a Flicker?” he whispered, as if one might be listening. “Had one on ah house ah mine once.”

My heart quickened. Here was a survivor of woodpecker battle, full of knowledge to share. “What did you do?”

“Moved."

Somehow I managed to climb the ladder, carrying a two-foot tall, six-by-six inch woodpecker house stuffed full of cedar sawdust (to give the flicker something to excavate), a cordless drill, and a bunch of screws. Cheating death, I installed this new totem, and waited for the silence to begin.

The hammering went on. The woodpecker house failed to attract, discourage, or even interest the woodpecker in any way. It occurred to me that this bird was obviously a veteran of many conflicts with humans. And there was that arresting phrase I’d read: “Will defend their territory to the death.” It began to hit home.

I am not ordinarily bloodthirsty and am a sincere believer that nature is best left to its own devices. But after more than two months this living hammer had still not attracted a mate despite its singular, incessant and spectacular hammering. After all, I too am part of the evolutionary circle of life. Sometime in May I decided that if he didn’t find a date soon, this woodpecker was going to be selected against.

Like all migratory birds, the Northern Flicker is a protected species. However, the federal government has kindly provided, in its familiar tortured fashion, a process by which one may obtain a permit to kill a woodpecker that is damaging property or driving a young family insane. My years in uniform had made me a competent rifleman—and I have been known to trim lofty tree branches with a shotgun—but I was not eager to start blasting holes in the side of my house to kill a bird. I took the decision seriously. With the grim and disciplined patience appropriate for such a measure, I began the tedious filing and phone calling necessary to obtain the two permits that would become my license to kill.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Fiction / Short Stories

Rating – PG13

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Ted Olinger on Facebook

Website http://www.woodpeckermenace.com/

Excerpt: Sex and Death in the American Novel by Sarah Martinez

I opened my eyes really wide, taking in all the colors and shapes of the place, wiping the previous vision from my mind, replacing it with bland speaker, wooden podium, pathetic brother, evil mother.

I watched Jasper's mouth again; he licked his lips after every few words, and at one point he picked up his glass of water and took a long sip, then went back to his talk. I imagined a scene where Eric still wanted him, but I got him. Eric, as in all my fantasies, started in a tight tank top, like one of those Abercrombie models; no matter which way he turned there was another delicious landscape of muscles for my eyes to linger on. The hunger in his eyes, the darkness and longing no longer focused on me, but instead Jasper. Up at the podium he stood like he was afraid a sniper would get him. What if he needed protection and Eric and I were the ones assigned to protect him?

“Someone is after the Author,” Eric says to me from several feet away in my fantasy. He speaks into a hidden microphone at his shoulder. We are on a protection detail like the cops on TV.

“Copy that,” I say speaking into a microphone at my wrist. I stand close to Jasper in my dream: stern, watchful.

Jasper flipped another page, ran one extended finger over the top portion of the page, gave the audience an apologetic smile and went on reading. Poor thing lost his place. What if at that minute a shot were to ring out, and right then with sure catlike movements I tackle him and roll to a crouch with my gun hand sweeping the air. Once Jasper hits the ground I drag him to safety while Eric exchanges fire with the sniper, ultimately killing him. Eric stands, looking down, chest heaving, deciding between going to Jasper's side and checking the sniper to make sure he is no longer a threat.

“Go. Go. I'll stay with him,” I say.

Jasper is in my lap, I run my hand along the side of his face, brushing his inner ear, and he closes his eyes in gratitude and takes my hand. In this fantasy my own shoulder and biceps are rock hard, stronger than his puny ones. I am superior and in charge and he knows it.

The soft texture of the area around his eyes gives me a protective pang in my stomach, longing, or something else, a stirring deep inside my womb; I want to take him into me and hold him safely there. Where the fuck did that come from? Sometimes my fantasies strayed into the most bizarre territory, but since no one was looking, I let it go. If this were on paper I would be crossing it out, and cranking my music louder.

In the rich, velvet-lined theater of my mind, I study the face of the man in my arms; so much younger and more vulnerable without his glasses, though the stubble itching the heel of my hand reminds me he is indeed a man. I might linger over this, enjoying the sound the short hairs make when I run my palm over them. There is a gratifying feeling of power and superiority to hold him like this. Jasper's gaze will suggest gratitude, and after a short space of time I lean in and graze his lips with mine—taking that full lower lip between my own, exerting a light pressure, and he melts into me, like a woman would, with a sigh.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Literary Erotica

Rating – X

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Sarah Martinez on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.mywildskies.com/

BoX by Lucas Heath

****

Barry had a different reaction to his predicament which began with a panic attack and then a surge of rage. He was alone, trapped in a glowing white cube with no food and water. He spent an hour kicking and slamming his fists against the walls, but without leaving any indication that he had done so. They were solid and seemingly unbreakable. He had tried grabbing the gun from the pedestal in the center of the room, but a strong surge of electricity knocked him off of his feet the moment he touched it. He wept and fumed as he stomped around the room, trying to figure out what he could do to change his circumstances.

"I don't deserve this!" He ranted for a while, though he wasn't sure if anyone was even listening. Someone had to be listening, right? They wouldn't just lock him up and leave him be, would they? Who were they? Why take him? Barry was only a waiter at a small restaurant in Buffalo, New York. Why was he so special?

He finally sat down and looked at the clothing he was wearing. Someone had changed him while he was unconscious. He wore grey sweatpants, a grey sweatshirt with his name embroidered on the left side of the chest, and he was barefoot. Apparently allowing him to have socks and underwear would be too much of a luxury.

What if he had to go to the bathroom? There weren't any toilets or sinks, or even a bucket. How would he get food? The walls were solid and left no indication that they could contain a door. There weren't even any vents in the room, and so the thought of running out of air made him finally calm down and begin to breathe more steadily. He stared for a while at the bloody knuckles he had gotten from punching a wall and finally wiped them against the leg of his sweatpants.

Something had to happen soon, and he would have to wait until that moment came.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre –  Thriller / SciFi

Rating – PG13

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Lucas Heath on Facebook  & Twitter

Website http://lucasheathbooks.com/

Sleeper’s Run by Henry Mosquera

CHAPTER TWO

Somewhere in a Middle Eastern desert, under a moonless night, my eight-man Special Operations team is engaged in a furious firefight inside a remote compound; bullets and rocket-propelled grenades fly everywhere. We all have beards and shemagh scarves, making it hard to tell us apart from our opponents in the darkness. The only marked difference is the controlled and efficient manner in which we face the overwhelming number of enemies. The fact that we’re locked in such a nightmare means something has gone terribly wrong with our mission.

Our combat controller, James Sanders, a sinewy African-American with sharp features and intense eyes, is calling for an air strike to bail our sorry asses out of this hellhole, when one of our teammates is hit.

“Man down!” someone yells. But I’m already on it. I call for covering fire and run to help my fallen comrade.

“Hold the line!” our team leader says.

I reach my fallen friend, Matt Haze, an all-American boy who looks like he could bench press a horse. I immediately check his vitals; he’s dead. No time to feel sorry. Mourning will have to wait until the mission is over and we go back into the world—if we actually manage to do so.

I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I train my gun to the shadows and see a kid no older than twelve crawling on the ground toward a corpse’s weapon. Don’t do it! I think, shooting around the boy to scare him away; but the kid is determined to prove his manhood. Don’t! I put the boy in my crosshairs as he picks the gun up and aims it at me, leaving his childhood behind. Goddamnit! I’m about to pull the trigger, but the kid is no longer there. The silhouette of a man stands in his place; he is about to shoot at me. I open fire.

Gasping, I open my eyes. I’m face down with half of my body out of bed, and a puddle of drool by my face. I’m still wearing my street clothes and the clock says it’s almost noon. A half-empty bottle of tequila rolls on the floor as I stumble to my feet. My head feels like a construction site in the middle of summer.

The dream is just one of many recurrent ones. No one who experiences combat goes through it unscathed. But this nightmare’s sudden twist in the end—with the man appearing—is a whole other ballgame. There is a lingering feeling that he is somehow familiar to me.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Political Thriller

Rating – R

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Henry Mosquera on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://redroom.com/member/henry-mosquera

The Titan Drowns by Nhys Glover

Lizzie wasn’t aware that she was crying until she felt the cold drops fall onto her hands. It was a dream-come-true. Bertie wanted her to come to New York and live with him and his new family. She would be able to continue her education after all.

Then the awful reality of her situation hit her anew. She was with child. She was unmarried and with child. There would be no further education for her. In the coming months, all her time would be occupied by the demands of motherhood. And even if she were to finish her degree, working was frowned on for those who held the important role of mother.

What would her brother think when he found out she was a fallen woman? Would he renege on his offer because her moral character would infect his females? If Bertie had been like their father, he would react in exactly that way. However, Bertie had always been rebellious and a free thinker. That was why America had seemed such a perfect place for him to go. Maybe that freethinking would extend to acceptance of a dishonoured sister.

Or, maybe not.

What if she were to write and tell him she was a widow? She could claim to have married a young man who subsequently died. But her brother named her as Elizabeth Faulkner with her employer’s address on the envelope of his letter. How could she then tell him such a tale if her parent’s solicitors had told him different?

Even so, the more she thought about it, the more determined she was that possessing a dead husband was the only way that she would be able to navigate her new circumstances. The idea of lying to her brother was repellent, but the idea of him rejecting her was even more repellent. And in America, there would be no one to say she had lied. She could start afresh as a young widow doubly weighed down by the grief at the loss of parents and husband.

A hundred dollars awaited her at the Western Union. That was about twenty pounds, if she calculated rightly. That would be more than enough for a second class ticket and the cost of accommodation in a nice place for the time it took to get a suitable steamer berth. For the first time in more than a year, Lizzie felt as if her life was finally looking up.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Romance

Rating – Between PG13 and R (sensual but not erotic)

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Nhys Glover on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://nhysglover.com/

Malled: A Tale of Revenge by Lee Tidball

THE DOCTOR

Blood.  Lots of it.  Makes me kind of nauseous.

“Why would it make you nauseous?” you ask.  “You’re a trauma surgeon.  You’ve been on call half your professional life.  You’ve see it all; junkies overdosed, gangsters mutilated, accident victims maimed, abused kids, little old ladies all bloody when their wheelchair got rammed by some jerk that hadn’t seen them in the crosswalk.  What’s the big deal?”

I’ve never seen an angel all bloody. 

That’s what gets me about this one.  Of course, she’s not really an angel; certainly no halo or wings or harp among her personal effects.  But there’s a glow coming from this 18-year-old, like she’s just descended from heaven or found true love or something.  Even as Frank puts her under, she wasn’t screaming or crying or carrying on, just smiling serenely, said something like “Don’t worry, I’m not dying tonight.”   I step back for just a second; the contrast between all that blood and that glow is just too stark.  Before I vomit, I assume my professional demeanor.

“What’s the story?”

“Gunshot wounds.  We've found two bullets, looks like more.”  Heather, the head trauma nurse, is already at work.  No one’s better at her job than Heather.  She could be making gazillions at Big City General, but hates the commute and the young buck interns that always hit on her there. 

I check out the bullet wounds.  Both are remarkable in that they didn’t hit anything vital.  The first is a shot through the right bicep that missed the radial artery by a couple of millimeters.  Didn’t shatter the humerus either.  The other passed through the right deltoid muscle without touching the scapula.  I think maybe she is an angel, or at least has one watching out for her.  

“I found another one!  Aw, shit,” says Selena, the other trauma nurse on duty.  She’ll be as good as Heather in a few years.  She’s going to have to see a lot more blood before she gets there, though.  She still gets too excited.

I swing around the table and check on this wound.  Again, uncanny luck.  The bullet hit her in the left breast, but it must have been hanging ever so slightly down, because the bullet tore through the tissue in such a way that it hit nothing but the fat!  Just a centimeter or so in, and the thing would have taken out at least three major organs, including the heart.   “It’s just a boob shot.  She’s lucky,” I say without thinking.

Even Heather sneers at me for that one. 

Thankfully, the bullet was a fairly small caliber compared to what we usually see in here.  Maybe from a cop’s boot revolver or some other such cheap .22 caliber pistol. 

I start work on the right bicep wound.  The closure will be delicate—I’ll have to watch out for that artery.  “How’s she doing, Frank?”

Our anesthesiologist isn’t the best, but is certainly capable.  He checks his readings. “Stable…so far.”

I work on the closure.  If it’s tight enough, the torn muscle fibers should grow back together.  Maybe even as good as new one day. 

We continue working.  Filtering through the door we hear Episode Number Uncountable of the continuing drama between our no-nonsense Head Nurse and her all-nonsense assistant, Nurse Jones.  Jones is the only true asshole in the whole trauma team at the Rural Town Hospital.  I suppose I should be thankful that there’s only one, but how can I?  Her grating voice is like skunk stench, permeating every corner of our department, making me suddenly want to regurgitate.  As if the bloody angel weren’t enough.

“We should call.  It's protocol.  You can't just not do it,” says the pudgy little pustule.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre –  NeoGothic Horror / Thriller

Rating – R for violence & language

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Lee Tidball on Facebook  & Twitter

The Passion of the Christoph by Christoph Paul (Excerpt)

The Infinite Jest of Picking Porn Titles

While getting my MA in creative writing I managed a porn store in northeast DC where the most important job was picking out which new releases we would carry. To do this job well I had to make picks based on our clientele, who was 80% older African-American/African, 10% Hispanic, 7% slumming gays from DuPont Circle, and a few old white guys who thought the Internet had spies and/or communist rogues. To make this important decision all I had was a fax paper listing the brand, theme, and title of the movie, with no pictures of the covers.

Yet each week I would pick videos that ended up selling, leaving my boss very impressed. So along with recommending we give out free watermelon gum (yes, we really did), he said he wanted me to create a report for a new employee on why I chose or did not choose a new release video so the uninitiated employee could learn the ropes.

As an aspiring writer, I took great pride in the assignment to show this new employee that we were not just picking videos, but engaging in the all-important subjects of the humanities. To finish the report I left the new employee a bibliography to back up my choices and educate him on The Infinite Jest of Picking Porn Titles

WHITE GHETTO—SHEMALE “MY GIRLFRIEND’S GIANT COCK”

I will have to get at least one shemale video. Though this is a good title; one of our most popular tranny series is Transsexual Prostitutes¹⁰. I once received a call from a concerned customer’s wife worried that her husband might actually be seeing transsexual prostitutes. I calmed her down and said that this is a fad and men only watch these videos but do not act on them. She cried a little and said something in Spanish¹¹. I felt bad for her and tried to comfort her saying, “It is very popular in the Hispanic community, but I don’t know why.” She then said she married a maracone¹², and hung up.

I am not sure why but the predominant customers who rent tranny movies are Hispanic men, who I assume to be in the closet. I asked this hot Hispanic girl¹³ who cooks hamburgers at my favorite establishment, The Korzo Haus¹⁴ why this was, and she said it was because no one is thought to be gay in the Hispanic community and if anyone asks he could say it wasn’t that “Maraconeish” because she had boobs. That aside, a big penis on big breasts is always a good transsexual movie. I will select this one unless Tranny Prostitutes is available.

ABIGAIL—LESBIAN “LONDON KEYES”

The actress London Keyes¹⁵ is a quite possible lock; she is a special combination of an Orientalist Fetish¹⁶, an hour-glass figure, and a generous backside. She is also a fan of anallingus¹⁷ which can be appreciated in the porn renting community. Though these are all positive attributes, the African-American majority does not care for lesbian videos¹⁸ and she does not fit the Caucasian Orientalist Fetish; I would have to pass on Mrs. Keyes. (Though I appreciate her style and sexual proclivity; it is not about the writer–it is about the customer.) Also the brand Abigail sounds artsy and like art films, art porn is not appreciated by the general porn public. In the end, people want to see Transformers over The Tree of Life.¹⁹

CHEATER’S CLUB—CUCKOLD “CHEATING WIVES”

Cuckold movies²⁰ do very well. There is a surprising amount of white men that come in and buy these videos. They usually look like accountants or the managers you would see at Bennigans who never excelled in sports like Dodgeball. There are some interesting theories about why many men would be into watching or getting cuckold: Evolutionary, male-to-male competition or what Dr. Robin Baker coined as “Sperm Wars”²¹ has played a role in reproductive strategy. The theory is that we could be programmed to be turned on by infidelity to make sure to produce other fighter sperm. This also plays into the idea of concealed ovulation and women liking certain types of men when ovulating²². Or it could just be the decadent times we live in. There are no easy answers to this phenomenon but until it gets figured out the writer would look for covers of dorky guys looking upset while their wife is being banged by a big penis stud.

HUSTLER—SHEMALE “SHEMALE SUPERSTARS”

This would be the second shemale pick unless Tranny Prostitutes 74 is available. The Shemale Superstars Series has very much tricked the writer. Every time the writer looked down at the face on the cover and found the woman very attractive, then looked lower and enjoyed the breasts, and then went lower to check out the vaginal area the writer saw a very large penis²³, being tricked every time. These men have such attractive feminine faces that it fools everyone who looks. Another popular title is Tranny Surprise, if that or Tranny Prostitutes are not available then I will select these two tranny films and will continue to look too low when it comes to tranny covers; it is very much porn store Groundhog Day.²⁴

POWERSVILLE—CUM SHOTS “COLLEGE SPUNKFEST”

Now the owner suggested we get one blow job film but we officially call them facials. Our customers would refer to them as “head joints.”²⁵ If you look on the back cover you will usually see a young girl with what looks like Elmer’s glue falling off her face. The philosophy and symbolism of the facial is quite a novelty and could appeal to the sense of power, as if to say, “I have so many sexual options. Instead of leaving my semen in your vagina for reproductive purposes I will leave it on your face.” On a side note, the image I’ve seen for this certain sexual practice will always be a girl at a beauty salon getting ready for a facial (the one for beautification purposes) looking in a mirror and seeing a large cock with sperm coming out toward her face. Not sure if it’s a lack of creativity or if this is the best way to advertise for the genre²⁶?

CABALLERO—GAY “THE 300”

Now this would be a good pick for gay men of all colors. The title would suggest the men would be rather buff, have good-sized penises, and I noticed gay men want a minor story they can watch after eating a good meal or after they have watched a design show on Bravo²⁷. Another definite yes.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Humor / NonFiction

Rating – NC17

More details about the book

Connect with Christoph Paul on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://christophpaulauthor.com/

Widow Woman by Julia Tagliere

Chapter Two

Rationally, I knew that meeting at Mom’s house afterwards was part of the ritual of saying farewell, but I found it difficult to play hostess. Catherine stepped in and I gratefully spent the time pacing the short halls of Mom’s house instead.

Walking past the hall table, I picked up a framed snapshot, remembering I’d taken it with the Brownie 127 camera Mom had splurged on as a graduation gift. In the photograph, Mom held a pitchfork, posing beside Catherine in the style of American Gothic, except that Catherine sported a ridiculous sunhat. They were both laughing.

Although Catherine rented a small flat near the Cokato elementary school after her husband died, she’d always come to Mom’s for her gardening fix. Together, they transformed the yard into a wonderland. Looking at their faces, I couldn’t help but smile, if briefly.

Next to the gardening photograph stood a picture of Mom and me at my wedding. I fought her tooth-and-nail to get her to wear a dress of any kind. Once she’d started wearing pedal pushers there’d been no going back, and she groused and complained the whole time we shopped for a suitable mother-of-the-bride dress. I remembered our fierce arguments with a rueful smile. I believe Catherine “secretly” intervened and won: Mom wore a dress and smiled broadly in the picture.

Resuming my pacing, I heard my father’s familiar, raspy voice and went to look for him. I found him in the dining room, conversing politely with Pastor Alan. Hank struggled to maintain an earnest expression, but I knew the strain of pretending to be a believer was rousing his nicotine jones, a vice I inherited from him.

The irony of Hank’s visibly hale presence that day did not escape me. Mom, who’d never smoked a day in her life, was dead and gone, but my father, tough as a mule and just as stubborn, remained an unrepentant chimney of a man who dismissed, publicly anyway, the rising health concerns about smoking.

In spite of professing disbelief about the dangers of smoking, Hank had begun several quitting campaigns recently, always claiming that this time he meant to kick the habit permanently. Like him, I had recently kicked off another attempt, which led me into my secondary addiction to peanut M&Ms. My attempt proceeded in fits and starts; even now the crumpled pack of Newports I had stashed in my purse tugged at my mind.

Hank caught me staring at him and grinned broadly. I decided not to worry about Peter finding me smoking. Let him catch me. I jerked my head invitingly in the direction of the front porch, pantomiming having a smoke. Failure loves company almost as much as misery does. Hank made an excuse to leave the pastor and joined me on the porch swing moments later.

“How’re you doin’, Queenie?” I smiled with fond remembrance at Hank’s use of my childhood nickname.

“I’m all right, I guess. How about you?” I answered, rummaging through my purse.

“I’m fine.” A smile snaked up the sides of his craggy face as he saw my cigarettes and silver lighter. “You know, I really am trying to quit.”

“I am, too.” I plucked two Newports from the pack and lit them, handing one to Hank. He looked at his and grimaced before taking a drag—he was more of a Lucky Strikes man. “I have a feeling most people would say that this is a bad time to try quitting, though, Hank,” I said, exhaling with satisfaction.

“Is it ever an easy time?” he asked, raising a shaggy eyebrow. I didn’t answer.

We both pulled long on our cigarettes, drawing the smoke in deeply. I closed my eyes, letting the smoke burn away the tightness in my chest. I felt a surge of gratitude that Hank and I, after years of yelling at each other, didn’t have to speak aloud to each other much anymore. Silent, companionable smoking formed much of the basis for our adult communication. It wasn’t exactly the father-daughter relationship I’d craved growing up—the possibility of that had vanished along with my calling him “Dad” in the stormy aftermath of the divorce—but I remained grateful for whatever it was we had now. It was better than yelling.

“How was the…the service? Everything went all right?” he finally asked. Service wasn’t exactly the word I would have used to describe our small trek up the hill, but it was what Mom told Catherine she wanted.

“Fine. You should’ve been there, you know,” I risked saying.

He didn’t bite. He took another long pull off his cigarette instead, staring out at Mom’s garden, suddenly looking wistful. “They really fixed this place up nice. Your mom always had a real green thumb. I bet it’ll be beautiful when everything starts blooming.” Although Hank lived less than an hour away in Litchfield, he said it as though this was the first time he’d ever been to Mom’s house. Maybe there were too many women around. Observing him over the years, I saw how formal and stiff he became on the rare occasions he found himself in the company of Mom and her friends, even Catherine—and at times, me.

But rather than push him on that, I only nodded in agreement, realizing how much I would miss seeing the garden’s colors after I sold the house.

“They made a perfect team,” I said after a bit. “Mom did the digging and Catherine did the planting.”

Hank grunted unintelligibly.

We fell silent, the sole sound coming from the grating of the chain as we pushed the swing slowly back and forth with our toes, our long legs moving in tandem. Even with the chilly spring air, I welcomed the peace and quiet out here on the swing.

“Is it okay that I came here today? To the house? It feels a bit awkward,” Hank mumbled unexpectedly. He spoke so softly I almost missed it, rumbling out a surprising echo of sadness and time gone by.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Women’s Fiction

Rating – PG13

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Julia Tagliere on Facebook & Twitter & GoodReads

y1 (Excerpt) by Sherrie Cronin

Chapter 2. December 1999
There are between six and nine hundred muscles in the human body, depending on the classification system used, and by December 1999 Zane Zeitman had memorized the names, locations and functions of each one of them. He kept his little project a secret because he didn't want people to think, once again, that he was trying to be a know-it-all. He wasn't. The truth was that he had done it largely so that he wouldn't fall asleep in class. Dozing off in there inevitably got him in trouble, making life less pleasant. At thirteen years old, Zane had concluded that one of the keys to happiness was getting adults to leave you alone.
So in his computer class, he studied the muscles in his legs and feet. Learn the name of it. Find and flex it. Learn to use it better. In science, he concentrated on identifying, locating, and manipulating each of the muscles of his torso. In Texas history, he worked in detail on his hands and arms.
But he saved the human face with its fascinating more than forty muscles for English class. While keeping an ear out for the necessary tidbits on literature, he contemplated the subtle upper lip movements caused by the zygomaticus minor and amused himself by focusing on the changes that he could make in the area between his eyebrows by learning to exercise his procerus muscle. No question, the muscles in his face were absolutely the most interesting ones to learn to maneuver. He tackled them in English, obviously, because during English he was the most bored.
While Zane struggled to flex his orbicularis oculi, a small but industrious segment of the world's population was spending much of its time confronting the possibility of chaos and doom. These computer programmers, mostly aging geeks who knew machine code and legacy programming languages like Fortran, Basic and C, found themselves hired by companies the world over to fight small personal battles with ancient (that would be 1950 through 1980) software. Their mission? To see that computers, and all the myriad of utilities, finances, government records, shipping, and communications largely run by these machines, would not all come to a grinding halt because decades ago well-meaning programmers just like themselves had told computers that years only had two digits.
As the year 1999 neared its end, another segment of the world’s population wrote increasingly horrific articles about this villain, dubbed Y2K, telling of confused computers leading to the end of modern society as we knew it. As the end of December approached, security forces the world over went quietly on the highest of alerts. Just in case.
Prince's 1982 hit "1999" ($) was rereleased again in time for year’s end, and at least seven other recording artists did timely covers of the song, leaving much of the world’s population singing that they personally intended to start partying like it was 1999. It was an exciting time to be alive, this end of a millennium.
But wait. It wasn't actually the end of the millennium, and everyone past the age of four knew it. Because the Gregorian calendar, based on a perceived date for Christ's birth and now in common usage the world over, had begun with the year one, not the year zero, everyone knew that December 31, 2000, not 1999, would mark the real end of the millennium. And no one cared. December 31, 1999, was the big day. It was the day on which the odometer turned over, the day on which all the nines rolled into zeroes. It was the day that everyone cared about. It was the day on which the world might end. It was the day on which everyone wanted to be somewhere safe. Or somewhere special. Or both.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Speculative Fiction

Rating – PG13 (occasional crude language & main character is gay)

More details about the author & the book

 Connect with Sherrie Cronin via GoodReads

Website http://ytothepowerof1.org/

Bedtime Stories for the Insomniac (Excerpt) by Matthew Yaeger

Feeding Time

“You can't call yourself that, I'm pretty sure you can get sued.” Richard said to the young man in the van with him.

“How so?  It's my name, ain't it?”

“Donald is your name, but when you add that MC in front of it, you are setting yourself up for a lawsuit.”

The younger man shook his head, beaded rows of plaited hair clacking against each other. “Whatever man, I don't think they're going to care.”

“You think they haven't sued people for less?  Besides aren't you worried that other people are going to make fun of you for that name?”

“Nah, it's just a name.  Hell, every DJ has a goofy name now.  At least I'm not throwing random numbers into my name or nothing.  I saw a poster for an MC the other day and you know what he called himself?  Check this, he calls himself MC Freeze.  Only instead of e's he used the number three.  How are you supposed to pronounce something like that?  I keep it simple.  Donald's my name, so MC Donald.  Besides, once kids hear my beats they forget all about Big Macs.”

Richard thought that if kids heard his beats they would forget about anything but trying to find a set of earplugs.  They had been sitting in this van for over two hours and during that time MC Donald played some of what he called music, and what Richard thought was the sound of a speaker being tortured slowly.  Maybe that was what kids now thought of as music and that his time was past.  Richard was just hoping that Donald would not take the conversation as another opportunity to listen to his CD.

The van was Donald's so he did not want to say anything rude, except if he started playing that CD again he wasn't sure he could keep quiet about it.

“Goddamn, how much longer this guy gonna be?” Donald asked.

Richard was wondering the same thing.  They had been sitting across the street from a strip club waiting for a guy to come out, and Richard thought that he and Donald may have already run out of conversation topics having already covered weather and music.  The van was uncomfortable, with springs in the seat having nearly worn through the cheap material that covered them.  Not to mention Donald was chain smoking one cigarette after another.  The menthol flavored smoke was making Richard's eyes water but the smoke covered up other, less attractive smells in the vehicle.

“I don't know how much longer, hopefully soon.”

Uncomfortable silence and cigarette smoke filled the van.

“How'd you get involved with Marco?” Donald asked.

Richard sighed, while he and Donald did not share the same taste in music, what they did have in common was that they both owed Marco.  He wasn't sure he really wanted to share his fall from grace with this young man with greasy cornrows and a foul smelling van.

“I needed a loan, times have been tough.  You know, with the economy and all.” Richard said, hoping that would suffice.

Donald nodded his head. “Yeah.  I know how that is.  I needed some help too.  You wouldn't believe how much it costs to produce a decent CD in a music studio.”

Silence filled the van again as Richard tried to wrap his mind around the fact that the guy next to him was in this situation because he borrowed money to produce that crap he had heard earlier in the night.

“So,” Donald said, “why'd you need the cash?”

“I needed it for everything.”

“Well, I hope it was worth killing for.”

Richard hoped it was as well, and tried to spend the awkward silence reflecting on the circumstances that had brought him to this point.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Horror

Rating – PG13

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Matthew Yaeger via Twitter

Jack Canon’s American Destiny (Excerpt) by Greg Sandora

“Hold on, Sandy,” I warned as we slowed quickly to negotiate the first turn.

“Please be careful,” Sandy pleaded as we tore through it. The thick rear of  the car fishtailing, tires screeching, turn by turn we made it to the ground  level. We tested the acceleration, racing full throttle the entire length of the  floor. I hit the brakes hard, skidding right through the exit booth. The attendant raised the traffic arm just in  time.

Ceramic Brake Pads, built to withstand enormous heat, allowed the car to stop  faster than it accelerated. Sixty to zero in a mere 2.3 seconds…on this stop, I  could’ve used another tenth of a second for Sandy’s sake.

“Oh my God, Jack, you almost hit the bar. You’re the last guy on earth that  should own a car that goes this fast.”

“Oh Honey, I knew we weren’t gonna hit the bar. This car was made for this  type of handling.”

I really did know it as fact. In practice this morning, me and the kid worked  it out. I slipped him a twenty.

“You think that was fast, you haven’t seen nothing yet!”

“No, I really have,” Sandy grabbed tight to the armrests.

Looking only to my left I hit the gas and we flew out into the street.

“Jack, are you sure…?”

I answered by putting the pedal to the floor, “We’ll just take her around the  block.”

We could feel only mild vibration as we tested the claim of zero to sixty in  2.5 seconds. We were momentarily pinned back in our seats.

“Wow!” I said. Driving as fast as I could, barely stopping at one corner before speeding up to the next, each time announcing to Sandy how fast we’d  gotten up to.

“She just kept saying “You’re gonna get us killed.”

Take a Journey for the Greater Good in this intensely gripping, loving thriller. Join Jack Canon and his insanely loyal team of friends and family as they make their all-or-nothing run for the presidency. You’ll laugh out loud and have your heart ripped in two; all while holding your breath, sitting on the edge of your chair. You’ll become emotionally committed as you find yourself standing behind your new courageous – unstoppable heroes – forced to take unimaginable steps to reach their goal. You’ll be shocked at the heart-wrenching cost.

JACK CANON’S AMERICAN DESTINY – TO SOMEDAY HAVE THE POWER, TO DEDICATE THE HIGHEST OFFICE IN THE LAND–TO MAKE THINGS RIGHT. THIS TIME HE’S ALL IN.

Meghan’s Review. this reader captured the essence of the Story of Jack Canon. Both men and woman will enjoy the book.

“‘Jack Canon’s American Destiny’ is one of those intense political thrillers that simply deserve to be made into a movie for full, complete enjoyment. This is especially true right in the wake of the recent Academy Awards and movies like ‘Argo’ and ‘Lincoln’ bringing home the bacon. But on its own, this book is immersive—you can live and breathe in the world of Jack Canon—his full range of concerns, from picayune to grandiose, consists of things that are close to every American’s heart.

Jack Canon is an everyman—you can relate to his positive traits, even his minor character flaws, and mostly you can relate to his will get the presidency. Cleverly written, sprinkled with the right amount of “spice” to keep the level of interest high, ‘American Destiny’ is a tale that grips your heart and squeeze it—Jack Canon’s mission to redistribute wealth and give everybody cheap energy is not exactly acceptable in the eyes (and pockets) of those whose businesses will be affected. And from there, the plot thickens.

Finishing the book, your heart aches because you know Jack Canon isn’t real—he’s an ideal, made magically alive by the sheer talent of Greg Sandora. But that doesn’t mean we cannot aspire. As in the book’s timeline, 2016, maybe the book is telling us to be really, really wise in our choices. Meanwhile, download a copy of this book and sink your teeth in the kind of literary entertainment I’ve never seen since Alex Cross.”

Joanna’s Review. “Jack Canon is an idealist. He’s on the road to fight the good fight and the only road that will allow him to do that is the one leading to the White House. Great plan, but plans don’t always end up going the way we want. This Senior Democratic Senator from Kentucky is a kind, smart, charismatic family man. He is a man of superior intelligence who isn’t afraid to admit to a mistake. He has always been faithful, but he has a very intimate, hands off relationship with Sandy his assistant. Hopefully this won’t derail his campaign…

“Jack Canon’s American Destiny” is a sly ride on a slippery slope. This fast paced thriller is packed with political issues that mirror what we have going on today. If you notice, the villains are a conglomerate of who we have deadly problems with right now, so it echoes what we deal with on the global level at this time.

The author, Greg Sandora, manages to introduce all this well written madness in a way that will keep you glued to this book. Sandora has used well flushed out characters, timely villains, an image of our present president therefore the actions are very relatable to the reader.

Want to have some fun? Want to read something that will have you dangling over the edge of a cliff in that good way that starts your heart pumping and your adrenaline kicking in?”

Diane’s review .“I rarely choose a book about politics, but since becoming addicted to the hit show Scandal, I thought Jack Canon`s American Destiny might be an interesting read. To my amazement, I totally enjoyed this political thriller.

Allow me to congratulate the author on his impressive debut. As a writer, he has a talent that allows an immediate connection with his characters, especially Jack.

The book moves at a relaxing pace. But I must admit, I became extremely absorbed when the author reveals an unexpected twist making it a suspenseful page turner!

I can’t wait to read the highly anticipated sequel.”

Jackie’s review. “Get ready to take a ride. The suspense, the loyalty, the inside world of politics all wrapped into a thriller you will not want to put down. I am recommending this to my book club and any book club who wants a good read for a change.”

Terry’s Review. I have read this book in it’s infancy stage and was amazed. The final product riveting. Ben Affleck, you are the perfect Director, Producer and Actor to be Jack Canon. It is ready for the big screen. Read it now and you will want more of Jack. This book will inspire your next election choice. We need a real life Jack Canon for President. Move over Alex Cross, here comes a new generation hero. This is a story that can take many turns and always keep you waiting for the next chapter. It is written from the heart with passion, but with some hope for all Americans that fiction can be real if you only want it bad enough. So for you politicians out there that want to be the next President, read this book.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Political Thriller

Rating – PG

More details about the author

Connect with Greg Sandora on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.gregsandora.com/

The Way Life Is by Rick Johnson

When I got home, it seemed like a strange place to me, one I wanted to avoid. I had never been without Patty for any length of time since we had met, and certainly not in any sort of traumatic situation. I didn’t want to go into the apartment without her there. I knew that if I did, I would be faced with the disheveled bed, our night clothes strewn about, all evidence that indeed, the past few hours had actually happened and there was no going bac

But, in I went and immediately flopped down on the couch in the living room and tried unsuccessfully to sleep. I got up and phoned my mother and told her the news. I was happy that talking to her made me feel better, but the fear and agitation returned when I hung up the phone.

I sat down and tried to clear my mind by writing about the great event:

Sara was born today! It really wasn’t very nice. I hated to see Patty in such pain. It made me sic

She’s a pretty little baby though, so small and smooth and cuddly, like a little dol

I’m all butterflies now. I can’t sleep and my stomach has a mind of its

The whole thing was a bit of a shock that I’m just now beginning to get ove

I sure hope we’re a happy family; she scares me so much. Patty and I have always been so good together. Sara won’t come between us, will

What will I do today? I’m sure not in the mood for classes or that college. I wish I were graduating. Patty and Sara and I would go away, buy a house somewhere and be a nice little family, just the three of u

Life will never be the same will it – no more hopping up and taking off for a beer, no more spontaneous pizzas, or movies. There won’t even be any more little walks around the neighbourhood, just the two of

We’ve been together so long, I hope we’re able to adjust to another person in our ever-so-private gr

And what about Sara? Will she enjoy life with us? I don’t know where she has been but we have to make life as good for her here as it was where she came fro

I don’t know – I guess it will work out alright. Anything that gets me all this agitated can’t be all

I returned to the couch and managed to doze off awhile, then got up and went to visit my sister on the way back to the hospital. I took Patty a bouquet of flowers in a small ceramic pot shaped like a child’s worn running sho

When I arrived about 1 p.m., Patty was sitting up in a bed just inside the door of the maternity ward recovery room, off the main hallway. It was a large room with several curtained-off beds and a number of nurses moving about doing whatever it is that they do in such a place.

Patty’s hair was now neatly brushed and she looked great to me, although worn, her eyes still revealing that she had cried not long before. Best of all, as I bent to kiss her, she smelled like my Patty again, the dominant antiseptic scent of the place we were in was drowned out completely by the personal scent I knew so well and loved so much. I felt reassured that I had not lost her, or our relationship, as I filled my lungs with the comfort of her presenc

“You look great,” I said. “And you were great this morning too, by the

“Was it just this morning,” she said. “Seems like ages

“Have you seen the baby?” I as

“No, not yet, but they said just before you came that they would be bringing her here so I could feed her. I hope I can do that properly

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Self-Help / Mental Health

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Rock Johnson via Facebook

Greedy for Life: A Memoir on Aging with Gratitude by Lori Stevic-Rust (Excerpt)

The weatherman, Dick Goddard, was reporting on the extreme cold temperatures and the risk for significant snowfall. It was November 1962, one of the snowiest and coldest winters in Akron, Ohio. The ringing of the phone in the kitchen woke my mother from a sound sleep. The clock on the nightstand next to her bed read 2:45 a.m. While she was in the process of jumping out of bed, my father was already in the kitchen answering the phone. He returned to the bedroom and said, “It was the hospital. Your mother has started to bleed internally and they are preparing her for surgery.” My mother recalls a feeling of numbness climbing over her and her voice repeating, “Oh my God. They said she wasn’t strong enough yet for surgery.”

Two weeks prior it was discovered that my grandmother had bleeding ulcers in her stomach. She apparently had been showing signs of bleeding, but she ignored them, believing that would heal on their own. One morning when she was on her way to work at the local diaper store at 4:30 a.m., she collapsed near the car. She had been hospitalized for two weeks while the doctors tried to stabilize her. They knew she had lost a significant amount of blood and was not strong enough for them to attempt to surgically intervene. Unfortunately, the bleeding had restarted and emergency surgery was necessary. My grandmother’s recollection of that evening was waking feeling weak and ringing for the nurse; then she began to see pigs on the walls, and everything went black.

My parents arrived at the hospital as my grandmother was being rushed down the hallway on a gurney with several doctors and nurses running behind. One of the doctors stopped to tell them that she did not have a pulse and admitted that things did not look good. They saw that my grandmother was catholic and suggested that now may be the time for the family to contact a priest. They went on to say that they had called a Dr. Fox, who was one of the best surgeons on their staff, and he was prepping for the surgery.

My parents joined my grandfather in the waiting room for what would be an all-night vigil that lasted until about noon. As family stories go, I am told that as the vigil of waiting for news of the surgery continued, the doors at the end of the hall finally opened. My mother recalls the hospital hallway being long and dimly lit, so when the doors opened, it created an image of a small silhouette of a man in a surgical cap walking toward them.

They all stood as he approached, anxiously searching his face for clues on what he was about to say. Dr. Fox, or as the family has referred to him over the past fifty years, “the man with kind eyes and God’s hands,” let them know that Nana was still alive but not out of danger. They had to remove three fourths of her stomach. He then gestured to my mother’s belly and instructed her to go home and get some rest, as she was nine months pregnant with me. He felt she should go home to prevent early labor as I was to be born two weeks later. As my mother cried, he assured her that he would sit with my grandmother through the night but it was now out of his hands and in God’s.

Whether God played a role in my grandmother’s recovery can be debated by many. For her, she believes that her purpose on earth had not been completed. At the age of fifty, my age, she felt she still had so much to accomplish and so much to see and enjoy with her family. She always seemed to understand and accept that she had a purpose for being alive. With age that purpose seemed to become clearer and the drive to fulfill it became more intense.

For me, I wonder what my life would have been like if she had died and I had never met her. When I track back in time, decisions that I made, beliefs that I hold, and values that I cherish, I wonder if I would have come to different conclusions without her voice in my head. I sit here today incredibly grateful that on that early morning in November 1962, somebody intervened and gave me the ultimate gift of my grandmother. I received the gift of time, time with her for the past fifty years.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG13

More details about the book

Connect with Lori Stevic-Rust  on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.doctorlori.net/

Living Backwards by Tracy Sweeney (Excerpt)

CHAPTER 5 - Jillian

My head was still spinning as I walked back through the front doors of the school. I had tried unsuccessfully to calm my nerves and regroup before heading to see Danielle. The arrival of an obviously premenstrual Luke Chambers did nothing to ease the tension I was feeling. Luke was nothing at all like I had expected and I’d admit that I was more than a little disappointed. Just seeing him leaning against the brick wall with that ridiculous mess of hair, the worn motorcycle jacket and requisite bad boy cigarette caused my mouth to start watering. His attitude, however, left a lot to be desired. But despite his obvious annoyance, in the end he offered up an invitation to crash his hiding place again if I felt like it. Technically, I didn’t need his invitation, but the sentiment was there. He was trying not to act like a jerk. I just didn’t have the time or the energy to deal with him, so I decided I’d definitely stay away from his spot behind the gym from now on. I needed to focus on the task at hand. And my task was in Room 312 for World Lit.

Danielle could never get over the fact that we sat just a few seats away from each other in World Lit but never spoke. I didn’t find it as hard to believe since I didn’t speak to anyone in any of my classes. She was also bitter because she felt she would have done a lot better in the class with my help. I remembered Danielle being pretty chatty in class and getting detention fairly often so I wasn’t sure my study guides would have really helped. Fortunately for me, all of Danielle’s complaining made it easy for me to retain some memory of this class—that along with my love for the works that we covered. Finding my seat two desks in front of Danielle wouldn’t be a problem. The problem was that my run-in with Luke didn’t leave me much time to think up a good excuse to plan a study date with her.

It wasn’t until I walked into the room and looked at the blackboard that everything fell into place. If things with Luke had gone smoother, I might have been fully convinced this was heaven. On the board was a quote: ‘O, I am fortune’s fool!’

We were reviewing Romeo and Juliet for the final exam. And we were obviously focusing on the scene after Tybalt’s death where Romeo sees himself as a victim of fate instead of taking responsibility for his role in the deaths of both Mercutio and Tybalt. I knew the exchange from Act III very well having studied it in depth for a class on Shakespearian Literature in college. But even if I hadn’t had the scenes from the play burned into my brain from the grueling papers I needed to write, I would know this scene by heart because of Danielle. I had watched Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes in Romeo + Juliet probably two-hundred times. Danielle had a really, really unhealthy obsession with Leo. I didn’t complain. It was common ground for us. I loved Shakespeare even if it was butchered. She loved Leo reciting…well, anything. She made such a spectacle of herself watching his movies. With Romeo + Juliet, she’d whisper Juliet’s lines along with Claire Danes while gazing longingly at the television. The first time I saw her doing it, I couldn’t help but make fun of her. I mean, she was swooning and sighing like a schoolgirl. But after she threatened to steal Joan and hide her from me, I decided that I would just need to get used to hearing both Claire and Danielle recite the lines together. Now I was finally beginning to see the payoff for all of the times that she yelled “Jillian, thou art a villain!” at me for not playing along.

Time seemed to move very slowly as I waited to speak to Danielle. At the end of class, Mr. Gilbert passed out a sheet of possible essay questions for the final. I hung back, pretending to study the sheet as I watched Danielle pack up her tote. As she passed my desk, I stood up quickly, bumping into her and causing her books to spill all over the floor.

“Oh my goodness!” I cried. “I’m so sorry!” I added, bending over to help clean up the mess. “I was just so distracted by how hard those essays look.”

“Oh, no worries,” Danielle replied in her usual airy tone. “And if you’re worried about the final, I might as well call it quits!”

“Don’t be silly,” I said shaking my head. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. I definitely need a refresher so I’m renting Romeo + Juliet tonight.” I watched her eyes grow wide. “If you’re going to study, you might as well have a little DiCaprio eye candy to keep you sane.”

“Leo?” Danielle groaned. “Best movie ever, Jillian. If Leo starred in all of the Shakespeare adaptations, I swear I’d get an A in this class.”

“Well,” I began trying to sound unsure of myself, “You’re welcome to drop by. I know it’s a Friday night, but I figured I’d curl up with some popcorn and watch the movie.” And now for the pièce de résistance. “Maybe make some Pad Thai.”

“Pad Thai? You know how to make Pad Thai?” Thanks to my Food Network buddy, Alton Brown, yes I do. “I love Pad Thai,” she added dazed and wide-eyed.

“Then it’s settled,” I replied. “Leo and Pad Thai at my place tonight.”

“Oh no,” she whined. “I have plans with Megan tonight, and I try very hard not to cancel on Megan. You do not want to see what she’s like when you cancel on her.”

I’d been there many times and completely agreed. Like the time I tried to cancel plans to go to the Giants game because Mark Jensen asked me to a study group he was hosting at his apartment. I assumed she’d understand. I mean, Mark Jensen…in his apartment…discussing The Philosophy of the Marquis de Sade. I thought it was a no-brainer. Megan disagreed, spending an entire evening schooling me on the fact that we choose “bros before hoes”. Needless to say, I didn’t attend the study session and went to the Giants game with my bro instead. However, this was an easy problem to fix.

“You could invite her along. Does she like Pad Thai?” I knew the answer already. She liked when I added in the peanuts.

“Are you sure?” she asked hesitantly. “I hate to impose, but I’ll be honest, if you make Pad Thai and Megan finds out I didn’t invite her, she’ll never forgive me. You have to go to Tacoma to get even a subpar dish.”

“It’s really not a problem,” I replied. “I need to run and pick up a few things after school. So why don’t we say five?”

“Perfect! I love Girl’s Night!” She responded bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I can bring the movie. I own it.” With a small wave she turned and left, practically skipping out of class.

I was close to skipping myself. I had another hurdle to clear first, though. I knew Danielle and I would fall into an easy banter. That’s how we were. Megan was going to be tougher. It had taken her some time to open up when we were at NYU. I didn’t know what to expect since Danielle always said that Megan was a little grumpy in high school. I guess that’s what happens when the guy you like decides he’d rather date a football.

I managed my way through last period gym by feigning an injury so that I didn’t need to relive the horror of volleyball. I didn’t feel the slightest ounce of guilt. Volleyball should be outlawed under the Geneva Convention. In what other sport do poor unsuspecting players get torturously and repeatedly beaned off the head with large balls? Gym was God’s way of sticking it to the uncoordinated.

I made my way back to my car pleased that the day went so well. As I climbed into my car and started the ignition, I heard a large sputtering sound and looked across the parking lot to see Luke Chambers riding an old vintage motorcycle around the rear of the building near the auto shop. My mouth began watering again. Luke Chambers on a motorcycle. God, I wished he had never spoken. His attitude was such a major buzzkill, but he was still damn pretty to watch. I forced myself to stop ogling and headed to the supermarket. I knew my parents wouldn’t have tofu, shrimp or some of the other ingredients I needed for Pad Thai. I had a lot of ground to cover and not a lot of time to do it in.

Pulling into the parking lot, I planned to run in quickly, grab a few ingredients and get home as soon as possible. I wanted to pilfer some beverages from the liquor cabinet, and I didn’t want to get busted if my mom and dad were due home. Timing was everything.

Sprinting through the aisles, I was easily able to find the shrimp and the noodles that I needed. It was when I went to grab a package of tofu that I realized my problem. Normally, I marinated the tofu a day in advance, but since I had no time, I needed to tweak the recipe. But it had been so long since I had cooked it without the marinated tofu that I forgot which type I was supposed to get instead. Maybe it was finally the shock of everything around me, but I found myself frozen in the organic foods aisle staring at the packages in front of me in a full panic. I took a step back trying to search for a name brand that rang a bell when I stumbled over something—or actually, someone.

“Oh sorry,” the tall man I nearly plowed over said. As I looked up, I noticed his sharp and distinguished features. He was wearing a tweed blazer with elbow patches. I wondered if they even manufactured blazers like that anymore.

“Oh no, I should apologize. I’m just having a minor meltdown,” I replied with a half smile.

“Well, tofu can do that to you,” he laughed.

“I’m not as insane as I look. I’m just planning on making Pad Thai for dinner and because I need to switch up the recipe, I can’t remember if I need the dry tofu or the tofu in water and….” I stopped and realized I was babbling to a complete stranger. “Maybe I am as insane as I look.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, my wife is an amazing cook and she uses the dry tofu,” he added smiling.

“You’re a life saver,” I replied breathing a sigh of relief.

“Not a problem at all. My wife’s writing a cookbook. I eat, sleep and breathe recipe ingredients. Tonight is osso bucco night.” He seemed very excited and I was a little jealous. My mom wasn’t the best cook around. She tried, but her flavoring was always pretty bland.

“Well, enjoy your osso bucco and thank you again,” I replied with a small wave.

“Good luck with the Pad Thai.”

I brought all of the items to the checkout and headed home. I needed to remember that although my situation was ridiculous, I need to refrain from assaulting people in the grocery story.

Back at Casa Cross, there were no cars in the driveway. I had yet to see my mom since she was already at the hospital when I got up this morning. I assumed she’d be home but no one was around. It was the perfect opportunity to raid the liquor cabinet that in my adolescence I never even imagined opening. In the den, I opened the bottom door to my mother’s hutch and inhaled the intoxicating scent of commingled alcohols. Come to mama. But as I perused the selection, it became apparent that the bottles inhabiting the liquor cabinet must have been gifts from people who clearly did not like my parents: Seagram’s VO, Midori, a couple random bottles of wine and my nemesis, Captain Morgan. I was desperate. Captain, I’m willing to call a truce if you are. I grabbed the brown bottle and headed to the kitchen as the phone rang.

“Hey, honey,” my dad greeted.

“Dad, why aren’t you home? And where’s mom?” I asked, clutching the bottle to my chest.

“That’s why I’m calling,” he began. “She got stuck at the hospital because one of those yahoos called out sick. I’m gonna pick her up after my shift and head over to Capanelli’s for dinner. You want to come along?”

I did a little dance in place. Capanelli’s was in Tacoma. They’d be gone for hours.

“Oh Dad, I wish I could,” I replied, sounding as disappointed as I could. “But I asked Danielle Powers and Megan Dunn to come by and study for our World Lit final.”

“Don, who?” He snapped into the phone.

“Relax, Dad. Megan Dunn. Megan’s a girl.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, we’ll miss you, but we’ll try not to be late.”

“No worries, Dad. You’ll just be coming home to a bunch of giggling, obnoxious teenage girls. Take your time.”

“In that case, we should probably go to a movie too!” he laughed.

It didn’t surprise me that he wasn’t concerned leaving me alone. I had never given him any reason to believe that I wasn’t one-hundred-percent trustworthy. I felt a twinge of remorse as I realized this would be the first time I broke any of their rules. But it was only a twinge.

“Have fun, Dad. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Have a nice night, honey.”

Hanging up, I looked at the clock to see that it was almost five. I grabbed a large pan from the kitchen cabinet because I knew they wouldn’t have a wok and began my preparations. Fortunately, part of my prep was to sample the rum to make sure it was suitable for my guests. I was a thorough hostess.

At five, the doorbell rang.

“Jillian!” Danielle beamed, embracing me in the doorway. “You know Megan.” Meg walked through the door and gave me a half smile, her eyes narrow. I knew that look well. It was the look she gave Val every time we’d run into her. My best friend just gave me the Val Smile. This was not good.

“Hi Megan,” I said, pretending I didn’t know she was obviously unhappy to be there. “Come on in. I was just having a beverage.” I raised the bottle of rum, and I thought I saw something spark in her eye, but it was probably her body’s automatic response to its proximity to alcohol. She was partially to blame for my corruption in college, after all.

Handing them each a rum and coke, I began cooking.

“So Megan, you like Pad Thai?” I asked goading her into a discussion.

“It’s all right,” she shrugged. “There’s a good place in Tacoma we go to.”

“Please, Meg,” Danielle interrupted rolling her eyes. “Spice and Rice is the worst. There’s almost no taste to it! Jillian, I can’t wait to see how you make it!” she added enthusiastically.

It didn’t take long to pull all the ingredients together and serve up the noodles. Unfortunately, Megan’s foul attitude was making me feel very uncomfortable. I needed to break the ice, but my idea was risky. Megan and I had bonded over a common enjoyable pastime: making fun of Danielle. It sounded mean, but Meg and I were a little dark and cynical. Danielle, on the other hand, was like an adult version of Pollyanna. How can you not make fun of a real live Disney character? But I needed to tread lightly.

“My parents are in Tacoma for the evening,” I explained. “I think my dad wanted to avoid a house full of giggling teenage girls. But I’ll level with you. I’m not braiding anyone’s hair or playing Truth or Dare. In fact, I think we need to keep giggling to a minimum.”

“I had no intention of braiding your hair,” Danielle replied defensively. “But I brought my make-up case. You should totally be wearing darker colors. You’re a winter.”

“Sorry,” I added. “Let me restate the ground rules. No giggling, braiding, truth or daring and no makeovers. Other than that, let’s enjoy our girl’s night!” I looked over to Meg and noticed that her scowl had morphed into a small, tight-lipped smile. I was making progress.

After finishing our dinner and wowing the girls with my culinary prowess, I suggested we bring our drinks upstairs and watch the movie in my room just in case my parents decided to come home early. It was mostly for my benefit. Since I had now reconciled with Captain Morgan, I felt that we should spend some quality time together. Danielle pounced on my bed, flopping against the pillows like a ragdoll.

“So, I booked a limo for the prom last night,” she began with a dreamy look in her eyes. “I just can’t wait. It’s going to be the best night of our lives.” It was amazing how we truly believed those things in high school. “And you, Megan, need to decide who you’re going with,” she added, shooting Megan a pointed look.

“It’s just the prom, Danielle,” Megan replied unimpressed.

“It’s not just the prom, Danielle,” she imitated. “It’s The Prom, with capital letters. Right, Jillian?”

“Well, prom really isn’t my thing,” I replied cautiously. No use pretending. I was well aware that no one was going to ask me, and I was psyched that I’d get to relive that humiliation again. Really I was.

Danielle gave me a strange look. “You’re the second person to say that. Wait!” she shouted.

“What?” I replied nervously.

“Do you see what I see, Meg?”

“See what?”

“Jillian.” She motioned to me like I was the prize in some game show.

“Yes, I see Jillian. Are you already drunk?”

“Of course not. This is perfect!” She wasn’t making any sense, even for a possibly drunk person.

“I agree. I’m pretty awesome,” I replied confused. “But perfect? No.”

“I meant for Luke Chambers!”

“Luke?” I replied incredulously.

“Yes, he said those exact words to me yesterday.”

“He told you he was awesome?”

“No, silly. He doesn’t think prom is his thing either. You should go together and be all anti-disestablishment together.”

“That’s not a real word, Danielle,” Megan added.

“Yes, it is,” she countered.

“Irregardless,” I interrupted rolling my eyes. “I think we’d kill each other if we were forced to go to the prom together.”

“Speaking of killing each other,” Megan interrupted with a look that screamed she had a good story to tell. I was just grateful for the diversion. “Major girl fight in the cafeteria today. Did you hear that Mike Wakefield asked both Karen Larson and that freshman Jen to the prom? Instead of kicking his ass like they should have, they started scratching and pulling at each other’s hair. Karen’s extensions came out. It was amazing!”

I snorted. “I don’t understand the lure of Wakefield. He’s a mouth breather.”

“A what?” Danielle asked.

“You know…someone who doesn’t breathe through their nose so they always sound like an obscene phone caller when you talk to them.” I was startled by the belly laugh that escaped from Megan.

“She’s right! He sounds like he’s run a marathon every time he talks to me,” she mused. “And sometimes he gets this gross spittle in the corner of his mouth.”

“I know!” I squealed. “I was paired up with him for a project once and I spent the whole time trying not to look at him because the spittle on his lips made me gag.” While it didn’t last long, I got a small smile out of her, and it wasn’t the one that looked like she smelled something bad. Fess up, Meg. You like me. I rock.

“Getting back to Jillian,” Danielle began. “I think you and Luke would look so good together. He’s a winter, too.” I needed a new diversion.

“Danielle, what did you mean when you said that Meg needed to decide who she was going with? Is there a waiting list?”

“She’s had five different offers,” Danielle explained. “Three of which are pretty decent, but she has yet to answer any of them.”

I was fairly certain that I knew why Megan hadn’t accepted any of the offers. I just needed her to confirm it. I couldn’t let the opportunity to ask about Nate pass by.

“Is it because you’re waiting on someone else?”

“No, no,” Danielle answered for her. “She’s just stubborn and likes to torture me. So, you need to pick one, Meg. I say you should go with Grant. He’s always been very sweet and he’ll look great in a tux.”

Meg was either extremely uncomfortable or found the laces on her Reeboks fascinating. I think my buddy Captain was working his magic on her, as well. Tell the truth.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” I added. “Who is it?” Danielle’s head shot up and she furrowed her brows.

“Megan Dunn, are you seriously holding out on me?” Danielle chimed in.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, picking at the soles of her sneakers.

“It’s not nothing, Megan, if that’s the reason you clam up every time I mention the freaking prom.”

Megan took a deep breath before looking up, clearly not wanting to discuss this with us.

“Who?” Danielle asked softly. “Why can’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s embarrassing, all right? He doesn’t even acknowledge my existence! I’ve tried everything and he doesn’t even glance my way. I feel so stupid.”

“Maybe you’re just going about it wrong,” I offered letting the alcohol do the talking.

“Jillian, I don’t need any advice on how to land a date,” she snapped. I had to remind myself to tread lightly.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Chick Lit

Rating – PG13

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Tracy Sweeney on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.tracysweeney.net/