Dreamspell Horor Volume 1 is now available in ebook formats! Along with several other great stories by other authors, my short story "Wishes Are Forever" is in this book. The story is about two young girls who find a strange device in the woods that grants wishes. But its intoxicating power brings out the worst in them, and they end up wishing they'd never found the thing.
Available at Amazon (for Kindle) and AllRomanceBooks.com (PDF, Mobipocket and EPUB). Coming soon to Fictionwise too. Follow the link for more information on the book and where to buy it. Get your copy today!
http://www.lldreamspell.com/DreamspellHorrorVol1.htm
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Friday, November 12, 2010
Dreamspell Nightmares now available!
Dreamspell Nightmares is now available in both print and ebook formats! My short story "Security System" is in this book (see a sample in one of my earlier posts), along with many other great stories by other authors. Available at Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Omnilit, and Fictionwise. Follow the link for more information on the book and where to buy it. Get your copy today!
http://www.lldreamspell.com/DreamspellNightmares.htm
http://www.lldreamspell.com/DreamspellNightmares.htm
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Excerpt from short story: "Is Fear Itself"
Note: This story is being published in the L&L Dreamspell "Dreamspell Nightmares 2" anthology, coming out soon! (http://www.lldreamspell.com/DreamspellNightmares2.htm)
A deep space salvage crew boards a derelict ship. Their mission: to prep the wreck for towing. But something onboard may wreck their mission instead.
As Scavenger 17 closed the distance to the derelict ship, a vibration ran through it. A metal panel buzzed. The ship shuddered, shaking the crew in their seats, then rocked as though struck by something.
“Chrissake!” Talbert shouted.
“Cheng?”
“Heavy solar flare, Captain,” Iris Cheng reported. “There'll most likely be more. Star in this system is a hyperactive gee-one.” Brushing some of her long black hair over an ear, she gave Talbert a deliberate gaze. “Hot sector.”
“Aw, you rock my world, Cheng.” Talbert shook his head, a goofy grin on his scruffy mug.
“One thousand meters,” Devereux said. “I have the full ident: N'Sabi, D-S-one-seven-zero-one.”
“Okay, focus people,” McInchak said. There was already one snafu because of the solar flares and he wanted his crew sharp. “Kennicot, start crawling. Cheng, run a hull integ on it, and try a biologic scan while you’re at it. Dev, open me a channel.”
The cramped cockpit cabin of Scavenger 17 became a hive of activity, with the crew rustling about in their consoles, busy with their specific duties.
McInchak rubbed his square chin. N’Sabi. He vaguely recalled some media buzz on her about six or seven years back, something about it being the first zoological transport to make a hyperspace jump with “live cargo.” Big news at the time, especially since she’d been commissioned only three years prior, and up to that point it was a feat no one else had been able to accomplish, the usual result being what was termed critter fondue.
“You’re on,” Dev said, as the com unit crackled to life.
McInchak cleared his throat. “D-S-one-seven-zero-one, this is Captain Ewan McInchak of the salvage ship Scavenger Seventeen. Do you read?”
Only static emitted from the com unit speakers.
“Com could be knocked out, Cap,” Dev offered, brushing his dark moustache with forefinger and thumb. “By the looks of her, she’s been through hell.”
McInchak grunted. He could almost feel the worry lines around his eyes burrowing deeper.
A deep space salvage crew boards a derelict ship. Their mission: to prep the wreck for towing. But something onboard may wreck their mission instead.
Is Fear Itself
As Scavenger 17 closed the distance to the derelict ship, a vibration ran through it. A metal panel buzzed. The ship shuddered, shaking the crew in their seats, then rocked as though struck by something.
“Chrissake!” Talbert shouted.
“Cheng?”
“Heavy solar flare, Captain,” Iris Cheng reported. “There'll most likely be more. Star in this system is a hyperactive gee-one.” Brushing some of her long black hair over an ear, she gave Talbert a deliberate gaze. “Hot sector.”
“Aw, you rock my world, Cheng.” Talbert shook his head, a goofy grin on his scruffy mug.
“One thousand meters,” Devereux said. “I have the full ident: N'Sabi, D-S-one-seven-zero-one.”
“Okay, focus people,” McInchak said. There was already one snafu because of the solar flares and he wanted his crew sharp. “Kennicot, start crawling. Cheng, run a hull integ on it, and try a biologic scan while you’re at it. Dev, open me a channel.”
The cramped cockpit cabin of Scavenger 17 became a hive of activity, with the crew rustling about in their consoles, busy with their specific duties.
McInchak rubbed his square chin. N’Sabi. He vaguely recalled some media buzz on her about six or seven years back, something about it being the first zoological transport to make a hyperspace jump with “live cargo.” Big news at the time, especially since she’d been commissioned only three years prior, and up to that point it was a feat no one else had been able to accomplish, the usual result being what was termed critter fondue.
“You’re on,” Dev said, as the com unit crackled to life.
McInchak cleared his throat. “D-S-one-seven-zero-one, this is Captain Ewan McInchak of the salvage ship Scavenger Seventeen. Do you read?”
Only static emitted from the com unit speakers.
“Com could be knocked out, Cap,” Dev offered, brushing his dark moustache with forefinger and thumb. “By the looks of her, she’s been through hell.”
McInchak grunted. He could almost feel the worry lines around his eyes burrowing deeper.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Excerpt from short story: "Security System"
Note: This story is being published in the L&L Dreamspell "Dreamspell Nightmares" anthology, coming out this summer. (http://www.lldreamspell.com/DreamspellNightmares.htm)
Cole Renier peered down at the foreboding building from his crouched position on the wet, sloping ground that ran down from the railroad tracks. A shiver went through his lean frame as he studied the huge, lifeless structure spread out below him, some fifty yards away. Until recently, it had been the site of the thriving A.B.T. Research facility; but now the place looked desolate and seemed to shun even the meager light offered by the stars. Wind rustling through some shadowy trees whispered a caution in Cole’s ear.
“What’re we waitin’ for?” Angelo said, his voice a little too loud for Cole’s liking. “Let’s get down there already. We wanna be first ones in, don’t we?”
Annoyed, Cole glanced at his stocky, dark-haired friend, who was squatted next to him in the underbrush. Angelo Cirelli was somewhat of a loose cannon—fearless, with too much adrenalin at times—but he was a good friend, and definitely made their urban explorations more interesting.
Cole knew that Angelo was fired up about this place. With its recent unfortunate history, the site held great promise. The urban legends surrounding it had created quite a buzz within the urbex community. Word was the building still had a heartbeat. But to Cole’s knowledge, none of the other urbexers had breeched its imposing, windowless walls, though it was rumored that a group called The Interlopers had plans to infiltrate the place. “First ones in” gave you bragging rights online.
Security System
Cole Renier peered down at the foreboding building from his crouched position on the wet, sloping ground that ran down from the railroad tracks. A shiver went through his lean frame as he studied the huge, lifeless structure spread out below him, some fifty yards away. Until recently, it had been the site of the thriving A.B.T. Research facility; but now the place looked desolate and seemed to shun even the meager light offered by the stars. Wind rustling through some shadowy trees whispered a caution in Cole’s ear.
“What’re we waitin’ for?” Angelo said, his voice a little too loud for Cole’s liking. “Let’s get down there already. We wanna be first ones in, don’t we?”
Annoyed, Cole glanced at his stocky, dark-haired friend, who was squatted next to him in the underbrush. Angelo Cirelli was somewhat of a loose cannon—fearless, with too much adrenalin at times—but he was a good friend, and definitely made their urban explorations more interesting.
Cole knew that Angelo was fired up about this place. With its recent unfortunate history, the site held great promise. The urban legends surrounding it had created quite a buzz within the urbex community. Word was the building still had a heartbeat. But to Cole’s knowledge, none of the other urbexers had breeched its imposing, windowless walls, though it was rumored that a group called The Interlopers had plans to infiltrate the place. “First ones in” gave you bragging rights online.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Writing a Book Is Like...
Having spent a year researching, planning, writing, revising, rewriting and editing my first novel, expending no small amount of time, energy, blood, sweat and tears, one would think that the hard part was over. Au contraire, mon frère.
The actual writing of a novel is the fun part, the "easy" part; what comes after is the "not-so-easy" part: finding an agent. If you're of the squeamish ilk, then you'd better grow a thick skin--fast. Nothing can be so discouraging as the consistent chime of your "new email" alert nonchalantly apprising you of the form rejections dropping callously into your Inbox:
"Please be assured that we have given your project careful consideration. Unfortunately we don't feel the manuscript is right for us at this time."
Etcetera.
Then it's back to more agent research (GLA, online agent sites, the Jeff Herman Guide), putting together and shipping out Query packages, and waiting for more (most likely) rejections.
Etcetera.
But then one day it happens: an agent offers to sign you. Glory be! Now you're on easy street, right? Not by a long shot. Now comes more revisions and editing, until both you and your agent are satisfied. Only after that does the agent begin trying to sell your manuscript to an editor at a publishing house (hopefully one of the big six). And IF (notice that's a big "if") an editor offers to buy? Then comes even more revision and editing, more back and forth...
Etcetera.
Do you get the impression there exists a great deal of these "etceteras"? Uh huh. But hey, whoever said getting a novel published was easy? Probably the same folks who tell you that you can get rich quick in Multi-Level Marketing schemes.
No matter. If your passion is to write, then write is what you'll continue to do, whether you get paid for it or not. Of course, we all dream of having our words reach multitudes of readers with the hope that maybe--just maybe--we can touch those readers with the magic of our stories. Until then, we dangle an enticing carrot in front of ourselves and stretch for all we're worth.
And of course, we diligently put our butts in our chairs every day, and we write. And write. And...
Etcetera.
The actual writing of a novel is the fun part, the "easy" part; what comes after is the "not-so-easy" part: finding an agent. If you're of the squeamish ilk, then you'd better grow a thick skin--fast. Nothing can be so discouraging as the consistent chime of your "new email" alert nonchalantly apprising you of the form rejections dropping callously into your Inbox:
"Please be assured that we have given your project careful consideration. Unfortunately we don't feel the manuscript is right for us at this time."
Etcetera.
Then it's back to more agent research (GLA, online agent sites, the Jeff Herman Guide), putting together and shipping out Query packages, and waiting for more (most likely) rejections.
Etcetera.
But then one day it happens: an agent offers to sign you. Glory be! Now you're on easy street, right? Not by a long shot. Now comes more revisions and editing, until both you and your agent are satisfied. Only after that does the agent begin trying to sell your manuscript to an editor at a publishing house (hopefully one of the big six). And IF (notice that's a big "if") an editor offers to buy? Then comes even more revision and editing, more back and forth...
Etcetera.
Do you get the impression there exists a great deal of these "etceteras"? Uh huh. But hey, whoever said getting a novel published was easy? Probably the same folks who tell you that you can get rich quick in Multi-Level Marketing schemes.
No matter. If your passion is to write, then write is what you'll continue to do, whether you get paid for it or not. Of course, we all dream of having our words reach multitudes of readers with the hope that maybe--just maybe--we can touch those readers with the magic of our stories. Until then, we dangle an enticing carrot in front of ourselves and stretch for all we're worth.
And of course, we diligently put our butts in our chairs every day, and we write. And write. And...
Etcetera.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Long Walk Home
I was 13 years old when Sean and his family moved away. That was in 1975, more than thirty years ago now. They were moving to a place far away, a place I’d never heard of at the time. It’s funny; I have a memory of the incident being unremarkable, though I feel now that it must have been at least a little traumatic for me. I mean, how can you watch one of your best friends—one you’ve spent the past six years with—so nonchalantly disappear out of your life forever and not be affected by that?
I stood there for a while and watched as they drove away. After they turned onto Joy Road, heading west, I just stared, realizing that I would never see them again. Six years of close friendship now gone in an instant, never to return. I looked at the house they used to live in—a home where childlike exuberance rang through the halls, a home that had become a second home to me—and felt the pangs of abandonment. Six years of climbing trees, drawing comics, watching monster movies, acting goofy and making each other laugh—all gone. A sigh that was nearly a moan escaped me. I wasn’t sure what to feel, so I just felt empty.
It’s sad like that sometimes, how friends disappear during the span of a lifetime. One minute you’re hopping fences and sharing mischievous adventures together, and the next there’s this big hole in your life where your friends used to be. Looking back, I can’t help but puzzle over how these people so inconspicuously snuck out of my life. Where did our roads diverge? How did we become so separated from each other? I often think about friends I had growing up; I’ve never had friends like that in my life since. And I wonder why it has to be that way.
Normally it only took me five minutes to walk home from Sean’s house, since I lived right around the block. I’d been to Sean’s house hundreds of times—it was my home away from home—and the walk was always the same. The day Sean’s family moved away, everything changed. I was only 13, and Sean had been my best friend for six years—a long time when you’re a kid. Now he was leaving forever. I was there when they packed their last few boxes and cases and bags into their car and drove off. The final goodbyes still ring in my ears to this day. I had to live with the realization then that I would never see Sean again, and that this would be the last time I ever walked back home from Sean’s house.
It was a long walk home.
I stood there for a while and watched as they drove away. After they turned onto Joy Road, heading west, I just stared, realizing that I would never see them again. Six years of close friendship now gone in an instant, never to return. I looked at the house they used to live in—a home where childlike exuberance rang through the halls, a home that had become a second home to me—and felt the pangs of abandonment. Six years of climbing trees, drawing comics, watching monster movies, acting goofy and making each other laugh—all gone. A sigh that was nearly a moan escaped me. I wasn’t sure what to feel, so I just felt empty.
It’s sad like that sometimes, how friends disappear during the span of a lifetime. One minute you’re hopping fences and sharing mischievous adventures together, and the next there’s this big hole in your life where your friends used to be. Looking back, I can’t help but puzzle over how these people so inconspicuously snuck out of my life. Where did our roads diverge? How did we become so separated from each other? I often think about friends I had growing up; I’ve never had friends like that in my life since. And I wonder why it has to be that way.
Normally it only took me five minutes to walk home from Sean’s house, since I lived right around the block. I’d been to Sean’s house hundreds of times—it was my home away from home—and the walk was always the same. The day Sean’s family moved away, everything changed. I was only 13, and Sean had been my best friend for six years—a long time when you’re a kid. Now he was leaving forever. I was there when they packed their last few boxes and cases and bags into their car and drove off. The final goodbyes still ring in my ears to this day. I had to live with the realization then that I would never see Sean again, and that this would be the last time I ever walked back home from Sean’s house.
It was a long walk home.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Memories of a Friend
June 11th, 2008.
No matter how I tried to disbelieve them, the words seared into my mind: “… died Jan 29th, 2008, after a courageous 12-year battle with cancer.”
I stared at the words, numb, incredulous, and felt as though I were inside a lightless, soundless room, the air pressure squeezing my head. My brain couldn’t make sense of it, didn’t want to make sense of it. Memories of the times we had shared together all those years ago flooded in. It couldn’t be her, I desperately told myself, it just couldn’t be. I had always believed that some day we would meet again, when we were both ready. But now I was staring at words that told me I would never see her again. Time stopped.
***
No matter how I tried to disbelieve them, the words seared into my mind: “… died Jan 29th, 2008, after a courageous 12-year battle with cancer.”
I stared at the words, numb, incredulous, and felt as though I were inside a lightless, soundless room, the air pressure squeezing my head. My brain couldn’t make sense of it, didn’t want to make sense of it. Memories of the times we had shared together all those years ago flooded in. It couldn’t be her, I desperately told myself, it just couldn’t be. I had always believed that some day we would meet again, when we were both ready. But now I was staring at words that told me I would never see her again. Time stopped.
***
I was 26 in 1988, the year I first met Barb. There was something about her that drew me to her—a certain spunkiness … and a certain melancholy. She was 34—more than seven years older than I—but that didn’t matter at all; she had the heart and spirit of someone ten years her junior. We really hit it off and for the next seven years we had a close—albeit somewhat tumultuous, on-again-off-again—relationship. But through it all, our friendship endured.
By 1995, though, the relationship had become strained. I was feeling smothered and was pulling away from her, and she was desperately trying to hold on. I wasn’t very nice to her in those days, something I truly regret now. All she ever wanted was to be loved, to feel that she was special to someone. But at that time in my life, I just couldn’t give her the commitment she needed. And so, in August of that year she finally made the decision to let go of me. I still remember that phone call. It was to be the last time I ever spoke to her.
It would be the following year the lump in her breast was discovered, and even though she’d had a successful lumpectomy, she would never be rid of the cancer.
By 1995, though, the relationship had become strained. I was feeling smothered and was pulling away from her, and she was desperately trying to hold on. I wasn’t very nice to her in those days, something I truly regret now. All she ever wanted was to be loved, to feel that she was special to someone. But at that time in my life, I just couldn’t give her the commitment she needed. And so, in August of that year she finally made the decision to let go of me. I still remember that phone call. It was to be the last time I ever spoke to her.
It would be the following year the lump in her breast was discovered, and even though she’d had a successful lumpectomy, she would never be rid of the cancer.
***
Throughout the years I’d think about her now and then, wondering how she was doing, hoping that life was treating her well. I really wanted for her to have found someone special. There were many occasions where I was tempted to try and find her again, to see how she was doing. But we hadn’t parted on the most amicable of terms and I felt that she might not appreciate me calling on her. I believed she needed to be free of me, so she could move on. Still, I always hoped that somehow our paths would cross again.
For 12 years she battled her cancer, until January 29th, 2008, when her body just couldn’t take any more, and she succumbed to the disease.
The last time we’d spoken—all those years ago on the phone on that warm summer day in 1995—she told me that I’d never find another person like her, that I would miss her. At the time I wasn’t sure I believed that; I suppose I may have been too arrogant. It wasn’t until a warm summer day in 2008—the day I saw her obituary—that I realized her words were true. Barb was one of a kind. And I do miss her.
And it’s the little things I remember: jogging together in the park by the flat I used to live in; breakfasts at her house on Sunday mornings; songs she liked for me to sing to her; a walk to the Dairy Queen; a day at Four Bears Water Park; how she loved Puffalumps. Those are the things that gave her life then … and keep her alive in my memories now. I’m a better person for having known her.
Twenty years have passed since the day I first met her. Although I hadn’t seen her in more than twelve years, I know I’ll miss her forever.
For 12 years she battled her cancer, until January 29th, 2008, when her body just couldn’t take any more, and she succumbed to the disease.
The last time we’d spoken—all those years ago on the phone on that warm summer day in 1995—she told me that I’d never find another person like her, that I would miss her. At the time I wasn’t sure I believed that; I suppose I may have been too arrogant. It wasn’t until a warm summer day in 2008—the day I saw her obituary—that I realized her words were true. Barb was one of a kind. And I do miss her.
And it’s the little things I remember: jogging together in the park by the flat I used to live in; breakfasts at her house on Sunday mornings; songs she liked for me to sing to her; a walk to the Dairy Queen; a day at Four Bears Water Park; how she loved Puffalumps. Those are the things that gave her life then … and keep her alive in my memories now. I’m a better person for having known her.
Twenty years have passed since the day I first met her. Although I hadn’t seen her in more than twelve years, I know I’ll miss her forever.
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