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Nanowrimo time is fast approaching, my peeps, if I may call you peeps.  This is good news and bad news.  Good news = Nanowrimo always motivates me to sit my ass down and write.  Bad news = My computer, the new laptop, not this old one I'm using now, is dead. (they say an old laptop should never have to bury it's youthful - faster processor, battery that holds a charge, power cord that doesn't spark when looked at strangely, wireless router that works - self.)

The thing about Nanowrimo is, if you don't know, that you write a novel in a month.  I've done this the past five years.

1 - Anniversary - A Zombie Tale

2 - Flotsam and Jetsam - A coming of age tale (just your regular old fiction)

3 - Wolves - Werewolves (not too original of a title but in all honesty I lost most of this novel when I upgraded         my computer to windows 7

4 - Bear Lake - A slasher murder mystery set at a lake house

5 - Golem - a vengeful mystical being on the lose killing a group of friends one by one.

Now I'm about to dive in and do it again.  As usual, a custom, tradition, if you will, I have no idea of what I'm wanting to write.  Not for lack of ideas, I've got the beginnings of about ten novels stuck in my head currently.  But the idea, notion, of Nanowrimo is to get your creative juices flowing, strike out into new, unknown, territory.  By writing something unplanned, unplotted, you fill that creative udder, hanging just under your frontal lobe, and begin milking it.

So, now maybe, you see the conundrum.  The weeks leading up to my writing a novel I'm not supposed to think about but, then, all I can do is think about it. (Did that make sense?  I didn't think so.)

So, again, what to do?

I might go back to the beginnings.

One of my first posts on this blog was about a book I had bought, "The Making of A Story", something to help me write.  I made it through a bit of it before it dropped off the radar.  Maybe it's time to break it out again.

Golem reborn

I think I've posted this before, however it wouldn't be this version as I've spent some time, perhaps too much, reworking the words and structure. It's hard for me as I'm a person that the more I work on something the worse I make it. I need a constant reminder that little is more with me. Anyway I've been working on this novel, a gay horror story, a niche I see is void when visiting amazon or chapters or b&n. Here is the first few pages, as I've left them, I'll post the others as their rewritten. On this particular novel I've written about 80% of the book, the last 20% is still to be birthed.

Fair warning to those of you who don't feel like reading about scenes of gay sex, the last part of this post is peppered with it.

Enjoy -

Golem -

The drive out to the lake had taken a bit longer than he had remembered it, probably because the group would always car-pool and so, he assumed, the company reduced the appearance of time. It had been the first he had ever been at the lake house by himself. It sat dark and eerily quiet, just the sound of wind, whistling through the tree tops, the trees moaning under their own weight, and the sound of the lake, washing up on the beach.

As though someone else were there to see him and, as though, he was about to do something devious, he crept past the house, looking over his shoulder and jumping at the smallest of noises. He knew, with certainty that nobody was near; even the other house sitting on the lake was devoid of life, the empty driveway and lack of light were a dead give-away. Still, though, its windows remained empty eyes that were watching him. It would be another couple weeks before anyone else would visit the place. Still, though, in his mind an image materialized of a stranger standing in one of the large bay windows, tracking him. Though it was only his imagination, the image, on a loop, ratcheted up his nerves and he found himself looking and looking again, at the plate glass windows, searching for the shadow of a person behind the reflection that the moon cast. It took great effort for him to put those thoughts and images away and ignore the persistent feeling that he was being watched. Pulling a mini mag-lite from his pocket he walked past the house and down the beach. Dimly, the light, illuminated the path before him, he had forget how dead the battery was. The trail dodged back and forth between trees and ferns and soon the foliage blocked what little of the moonlight there was. He began to feel his feet sinking, slightly, into the ground and he knew he was close. The sounds of a trickling stream guided him toward his intended spot.

Water lapped at the beach, catching his pant cuffs, in their wake. Kneeling, he plunged his hands, wrist deep, into the icy mud patch, where the small stream trickled into the cold waters of the mountain lake, he began moulding his creation. His lips were moving, as he recited the same set of words repeatedly, under his breath. It was important, he had read, to do this. Attempting his best at getting the incantation right, he found himself over pronouncing each word. It was a mystery to him, why he was so concerned about getting it wrong. The words were not his language and he was pretty sure that he was butchering each syllable. In hopes of finding some recordings of the words, he had gone online, so he could hear them spoken but, after a hard search, found nothing.

The shape below him was forming into a man, a large oversized muddy one. His freezing hands were infecting the rest of his body; the shivers crept up his arms and down his spine. It was summer but only for another few weeks and then fall would take the reins. In a week, when he and the guys would be up here, it would be a bit colder, still. There was a large coffee in the car, a travel mug with a plug in heater, to keep it warm. The idea of wrapping his hands around that mug, feeling the warmth filter back into his fingers, comforted and motivated him. Mosquitoes that had somehow lived past the days of a warm summer sun swarmed around his head. There were light trails of mud markings all over his face and neck as he, gingerly, attempted to swat them away, while trying to remain clean. By now, he thought, the mud had to be so thick the mosquitoes wouldn’t be able to get to his skin. The image he must be making, a man covered in mud moulding another man out of mud, struck him as funny. The flash light, illuminating the quiet night, bobbed with his silent laughter and began to dim, futher, as the batteries died. His time was almost up. It was almost done anyway, just one more thing, a piece of the person it was modeled on.

Arms out, keeping his hands away from his clothing, he stood up and walked into the water; then leaning over began to rinse his hands free of the mud and clay. Once clean, he pulled the object from his pocket and, moved back towards the mud figure, he forced it into the chest, where the heart should be, and then he smoothed mud over the hole. It was almost complete. Last but not least, using his thumb nail, he carved some letters into the things forehead. These had been easy for him to remember, without having to write them down, having gone through a Kabbalah stage, at one point, they were familiar to him.

His therapist had suggested he make art, “Take your anger and frustration out in a creative way, write, paint or draw. Get it out, quit harbouring it.” He wasn’t sure if his therapist would have approved this particular work of art, knowing she had meant for him to create a Rembrandt, make his own Picasso, or become the next Stephen King. Instead, with his inquisitive mind, he had gone home and typed ‘therapeutic art’. One link had led to another, as they usually did, and soon he was looking at Golems. It wouldn’t ever walk, it couldn’t talk, and nothing would ever come of it, he knew, but it was the action, the creation, that he was capitalizing on. Through his efforts the anger that resided in his heart would be transferred into the mud man, lying before him, and then, with the next rain it would wash away. Symbolism, that’s all it was. The same way divorced women used to throw their wedding rings into the Truckee river, running through Reno, Nevada, back when Reno was the divorce capital of the world, he would throw this memento, of his betrayed love, into the mud effigy and let nature cleanse him of the hurt.

Feeling strange, he stood up, the hairs on his body were raised and his goose pimples followed suit. It was as though electricity were coursing through his body. Looking up he scanned the skies, thinking a storm must be brewing. This high up in the mountains, he knew, storms could approach without warning and lightning was a dangerous thing. But all was clear, not a cloud to be seen, only the stars were looking back at him. It must be working, he thought, all that negative energy leaving his body, dispersed back into the world from whence it came. Already, he felt better. This might work; he could sense the success in the air. For once, therapy was paying off.

Cool, he thought.

Chapter One

As was his ritual before weekends at the lake house, it was to Goliath’s Aidan went.

The place was busy and there was a waiting list for a room. Music was blaring, as it always was, a little too loud. Opened doors revealed more ass than face, as he walked by, tops and bottoms, face up or down, looking for their missing halves. Debauchery surrounded him. People were getting blowjobs in the shower and a man, in a sling, was gliding back and forth, on a glistening cock, his grunts echoing their way down the corridors. A small crowd had gathered at the door and Aidan had to bump the shoulders of the men, some jerking off, as they watched, in order to get past.

Standing at over six feet tall and solid, like a linebacker, Aidan was a big guy. In the microcosm that was a bathhouse, you only needed to combine his size with his sexual proclivity, being a top, and you were left with a popular persona. If he wanted to fuck someone, there was hardly a wait. Eyes turned to him as he walked down the hallways and their bodies turned with them. Tonight, though, regardless of how worked up he was, frustration prevented him from relaxing. Walking down the halls, a large convoluted circle, Aidan noticed he had company, a man following close behind. He recognized the hurt in this man, could read it on his face, and knew the other man could do the same.

Sitting in the porn room, the level of quality, in both film and performance, told him the movie was, at least, ten to fifteen years old, he watched as men walked around, towels around their waist cruising one another. There were cubicles facing the screen, a few full with action. Despite how bad he thought the porn was he had found himself slightly excited. His follower, a slightly smaller man, had walked into the room. He was mildly attractive, Aidan thought, nice body. They kept the gaze going, in typical bathhouse code and then the man walked over.

It always came to this, Aidan had come to understand. The goal, as it had been the all the previous times, was to tempt himself. Aidan wanted to know he could turn down sex, prove that he was strong enough to withstand the temptations thrown at him. Outside, in the real world, he had failed. This, as he saw it, was his boot camp. Walking around, sitting, watching, he could witness all the things he could be doing, people he could be doing, everything he enjoyed doing, but say no, force himself to not engage that part of his mind, and body. Self-control is what he lacked and why his relationships always ended and so this was his work out, his attempt at gaining strength.

The man with the hurt eyes walked towards Aidan and, with the slightest shake of the head, Aidan said ‘No.’ A missed step, a sure thing blown, the man staggered a foot or so, unsure of what had happened, then, in true bath house style, pretending that, in fact, nothing had happened, he turned and walked from the room.

Aidan sat, listening to the pleasure, emanating from all around him, and let the desire wash over him.

Anathem

A first on this blog and a new feature. I'll attempt to write reviews of the books I'm reading, as a goal to keep myself reading, about a book a week, as well as get me writing of this blog.

First up Anathem, by Neal Stephenson.



I'm not going to be one of those book reviewers that inadvertently, or intentionally, tells you the plot of the book in their review. My goal here isn't to recap each chapter of said book and then call it my review. Instead I'll cut and paste the publishers description, because if they think it's okay for you to know this information then I guess I do to, and then I'll give you my two cents too.

Anathem, the latest invention by the New York Times bestselling author of Cryptonomicon and The Baroque Cycle, is a magnificent creation: a work of great scope, intelligence, and imagination that ushers readers into a recognizable—yet strangely inverted—world.

Fraa Erasmas is a young avout living in the Concent of Saunt Edhar, a sanctuary for mathematicians, scientists, and philosophers, protected from the corrupting influences of the outside “saecular” world by ancient stone, honored traditions, and complex rituals. Over the centuries, cities and governments have risen and fallen beyond the concent’s walls. Three times during history’s darkest epochs violence born of superstition and ignorance has invaded and devastated the cloistered mathic community. Yet the avout have always managed to adapt in the wake of catastrophe, becoming out of necessity even more austere and less dependent on technology and material things. And Erasmas has no fear of the outside—the Extramuros—for the last of the terrible times was long, long ago.

Now, in celebration of the week-long, once-in-a-decade rite of Apert, the fraas and suurs prepare to venture beyond the concent’s gates—at the same time opening them wide to welcome the curious “extras” in. During his first Apert as a fraa, Erasmas eagerly anticipates reconnecting with the landmarks and family he hasn’t seen since he was “collected.” But before the week is out, both the existence he abandoned and the one he embraced will stand poised on the brink of cataclysmic change.

Powerful unforeseen forces jeopardize the peaceful stability of mathic life and the established ennui of the Extramuros—a threat that only an unsteady alliance of saecular and avout can oppose—as, one by one, Erasmas and his colleagues, teachers, and friends are summoned forth from the safety of the concent in hopes of warding off global disaster. Suddenly burdened with a staggering responsibility, Erasmas finds himself a major player in a drama that will determine the future of his world—as he sets out on an extraordinary odyssey that will carry him to the most dangerous, inhospitable corners of the planet . . . and beyond.

Now, my two cents, as promised....

I not the smartest man, barely passed a lot of my math courses, to be honest, but, somehow, I still found this book pretty riveting. I would assume that a basic knowledge of higher math would be key to enjoying this book a bit more but Stephenson does a great job of explaining it to even us hicks.

For me the little bit of pretentiousness that comes from only catering to the smart kids in class is overshadowed by the world and characters that Stephenson has created here. At the end of the day, it's still an ID4, The Day The Earth Stood Still or, even, War Of The Worlds type story, with a bit of originality thrown in.

I did think that, at a few points, in the book, Stephenson lost control of the narrative, to use one of his own words, from the book, and the characters were lost in the idea of what he was trying to convey. For me, however, this is a small complaint, I would rather the author be passionate about what he's trying to write than contrived about it.

I also found the ending to be a bit of a let down. You read a thousand pages you expect a better pay off's all I'm saying.

All in all, though, the book was good and I look forward to rereading it, at some point. The world building was solid and realistic and the characters and groups that live within that world also felt spot on. Nothing seemed forced, as sometimes happens in a lot of fantasy/sci-fi books.

Writing

So, before I begin with the writing part of my writing blog, the Kobo is a little bit bad for me, as I like to read multiple books at the same time. Right now, on the Kobo, I'm pushing through both The Passage and The Angel's Game, two, wildly, different books. The latter of which, on a side note, if you go to the web-site, has a pretty nice soundtrack, written and composed by the author Carlos Zafon Ruiz, for free and downloadable.

Now, on with the writing. Much like my reading I'm stuck between two projects. One - a zombie novel, as I've mentioned in a previous post. Truthfully I'm not sure if it's a full fledged novel yet, as I've only the idea for it and am currently writing it and can see it turning into a novella or short story. Two - is "Davie St." A 'Tales of the City' type story about a group of friends just trying to find their piece of happiness in the world.

I recognize that it's an embarrassment of riches when you have multiple ideas to write about but, also, wish that a clear winner would approach the forefront and just take over for me.

(Tip) Unlike with Stephen King, alcohol hasn't made the decision for me, sadly.

So I'm going to put my rough draft's for each of those first novels on here and we'll see who wins the vote. I realize that I only have two readers, which makes this, sorta redundant, but those two readers have very good taste, so I, most likely, will listen to their opinion. Unless, that is, there are more of you out there that haven't posted comments yet. If so, I invite you to do so now.

Hell In A Hand-Basket


Hell in a Hand Basket

Hell in a hand basket wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Awoken by a loud crash in the alley behind their house, Carlos sat up quickly. His wife, Sarah, remained asleep, oblivious to the noise. For whatever reason, he found himself covered in sweat. Was it a dream, the noise, and that’s why his heart was racing, or was it real? Sitting quietly, he listened, over Sarah’s deep breathing, waiting for something else to go bump in the night.

Another crash and what sounded like a yelp.

The cats were back, he was sure. The previous summer he had been forced to store his trash in the garage, a small ten by something rectangle, just big enough to park a car in, with barely enough extra to open the doors and squeeze in. They had always laughed that the garage was their weight loss motivation. If either of them gained any weight, the car would be stuck there, they wouldn’t be able to get to it anymore, and they would end up having to ask one of their skinny friends to back it out for them.. During the hot days of summer the trash, sitting in that small space, was anything but funny. Smelly, yes, funny, no.

“I’m not doing that again.” He pushed the sheets off and walked toward the window. His head peaked above the sill and he could see out toward the fence but nothing past that.

Another crash.

“Bloody, hell.” He muttered under his breath, afraid to wake Sarah.

In the dark he fumbled around for his bath robe, a terry cloth looking thing that was on the verge of becoming rags. It had been Sarah’s second anniversary present to him, cotton being the theme, and he refused to give it up, until it refused hang on his shoulders anymore, he would keep it. Thinking of how many holes had popped up all over the thing; Carlos gave a brief thought to throwing on a pair of shorts, as well. After another crash, however, he settled for synching it tighter around the waist and hoped that the wind wouldn’t pick up and show him off to the neighbourhood.

Outside the spring air quickly embraced him, sneaking up the robe, and causing goose pimples to burst out all over. “Christ.” A flashlight in hand, he walked down the narrow path toward the back gate and, with a quick fumble, released the latch. Not being level, the gate swung wide, of its own accord, but stopped short of slamming into the fence.

There was a grunt from behind the wooden gate. Turning and pulling the gate back closed, at the same time, Carlos flicked the light on, with his free hand, and screamed.

There were cats, dead cats, a few of them, strewn around the garbage cans, but it was the man, hunched over, flesh falling from his face, that rattled Carlos.

“What the…” Was all he managed to get out before the man lurched towards him. The gate saved Carlos. In that instant, he was thankful for being such a lazy fuck and for his propensity for procrastination. Had he fixed the gate, levelled it, so it didn’t swing wide and slam into the fence, every time it was opened, it wouldn’t have hit the man, with such force, and it wouldn’t have become a barricade. The man wouldn’t have slammed his shoulder into it and been unable to grab Carlos. Had he fixed it he would have never seen the man and there would have been no obstacle between the two of them.

When the man lunged and when his shoulder crashed into the gate, the gate closed. Carlos was now alone in the alley, without a clear path back to his house. He had to flee, robe and all, down the alley. Turning, he ran and tried not to notice how the hard pavement assaulted his bare feet. He felt the noticeable tweak of sliced skin and remembered the small party of homeless people that had been breaking bottles in ‘said’ alley, the night before. It didn’t matter, cuts could heal, sore feet could be massaged, but life was delicate and fragile. A hot bath and some Kenny G couldn’t get you breathing again.

Behind him, he could hear the feet, with shoes, hitting the ground, crunching glass, but no breathing. Inside, he had been challenged to hear anything over the sound of his wife’s breath, but, out here, a man running behind him, he could hear nothing, nothing but the distant sounds of the carnival that should have been closed hours ago. Things were not right with the world, Carlos could tell you that, but he wasn’t able to place any of it. Now wasn’t the time for explanations or extrapolations, now was the time for running.

Thankfully the man was drunk, or high, so it didn’t take long to outpace him. At the end of the alley, Carlos came to a stop, turning to see how far ahead he was and whether or not the man had given up. There, half way between his closed gate and where he stood now, stood the man. Silhouetted by the moon and the dark of the alley, Carlos could see a man with a laboured posture. He half stood half hunched and he seemed to have poor motor skills. Limping down the alley at Carlos, the man could barely walk.

“Fuck you!” He yelled at the man. Considering himself, somewhat, liberal, his stance on the homeless had always been one of sympathy. After tonight, though, Carlos found that he might change his stance. The guy had been eating cats, in the alley behind his house. What if Sarah had gotten pregnant and they had a child and the child had seen that, he wondered? Could you spell T H E R A P Y?

Looking down at the sidewalk he could see the bloody imprint of his feet and suddenly all those cuts from all those pieces of glass hit him all at once. The pain was succinct and sustained. “Holy shit!” Now, the small walk, back around the block and to the front door, seemed like too far a place to go. “Holy shit.” He said, again, for no reason and to nobody but himself. A quick glace back down the alley told him the man had given up; someone else’s trash had become more tempting. “Fuck you!” The cussing seemed to make things better, if only slightly.

Limping down the sidewalk, passing quiet home after quiet home, Carlos became aware that his robe was open and he was showing off his birthday suit. Rearranging himself and synching the robe tighter, Carlos found he didn’t care much if his neighbours saw him naked. Making other men jealous was always a little bit rewarding, he thought. The humour of such bravado and the situation he had just found himself in and their juxtaposition made him smile.

A single siren preceded the flashing lights and Carlos stopped where he stood and watched a small procession of emergency vehicles come around the corner and drive down his block. They were off to the carnival; something must have happened there, he thought. Maybe a ride broke? Seeing how quickly the rides went together and the motley crew who did the assembling, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise, Carlos knew. A few of the vehicles, ambulances, passed him, without notice, but one of the next stopped, it was a military looking armoured van. The world around Carlos lit up as a flood light, attached to the passenger side window, cut through the night and caught him in its gaze.

“What the…”

“Place your hands behind your head and get on your knees.” A big, disembodied, voice echoed between the rows of houses.

“What’s going on?” Carlos followed the directions. In movies and books it never paid off to ignore disembodied voices, especially when they were attached to military vehicles.

Now, a smaller voice, from inside the van, spoke, but not to him, instead it was talking to the others in the van. “He’s safe, he can follow directions.” The side of the van opened, a big sliding door, and Carlos could see that it was already, almost, full of people, each in different outfits, some had been at clubs, some, presumably, walking their dogs, a leash in hand, with no dog in sight.

“In the car, sir.” It wasn’t so much a command as a strong recommendation. The kid, the smaller voice, had gotten out of the passenger side and was now standing to the side of Carlos. There was no other word but ‘kid’ to describe him, Carlos thought. He was a young, looking, eighteen year old, probably fresh out of boot camp and now, here on his block.

“What’s going on?”

“Terrorist attack. It’s happening all over the world. Please get in the vehicle.” This time the please sounded a bit desperate, as though the kid knew that if he had to ask a third time that things would get ugly, and that as much as he didn’t want them to get ugly he had no problem dealing with ugly, should it happen. “Our orders are to round up whoever we see, who are still normal, and bring them back.”

“My wife.” Carlos nodded with his head towards his house, just within his sight, a few houses down.

“We are not to enter the premises of any building. It’s too dangerous.” It was now that Carlos noticed, for the first time, that the kid was holding an AK-47 on his shoulder. “We can, however, contact her and inform her to stay inside and when we begin going into homes and remove her, at that time.” Now the kid broke ranks, somewhat. He leaned toward Carlos and a look of sympathy spread across his face. “It sucks, it’s not the answer you want, and I understand, but you need to know that I’ve…we’ve been instructed to shoot any runners. This thing is happening too fast and things are too strange for any chances to be taken, so it’s into the van or….” He let it hang.

“Or I’m shot?” Carlos was having a hard time understanding the situation, completely.

“Behind him!!!” The big voice yelled.

Carlos could see everyone in the van look up and past him and he could see the kid swing the gun off his shoulder and into his arms, like second nature. He turned around, to see what was causing such a situation and quickly noted that the man from the alley had crept between two homes and was now charging at them, if limping could be considered charging. Carlos was about to explain that the man was just drunk before he saw that the man could only be dead. Skin was flailing about, loose and unattached, and the limping was caused by a broken bone in the man’s leg, just below the kneecap the leg bent at a dramatic and sickening angle. More than anything, however, it was the man’s eyes that told Carlos he was dead. They were void of everything and slightly fogged over, as if drying out.

“Get in the van.” The kid’s voice had grown up, in that moment, and Carlos, again, did as he was told.

Quickly, Carlos scrambled into the van, finding a seat next to a girl, in a prom dress, and across from a father and daughter, the father was holding the girls head toward his chest while bending his neck, trying to look out the door, to see what everyone else was looking at.

The door swung shut and then there were a few loud pops, as the guns ripped through the man on the lawn.

A small dome light gave enough illumination for everyone to see one another. Carlos was about to ask a question when the girl, her face no longer buried in her father’s chest, spoke up. “I can see your dink.” She was pointing at Carlos’ crotch. He looked down and remembered, suddenly, that he was still in his holy robe.

“I’m sorry.” He pulled at the lapels and tried to close the gap down his front. Barely succeeding he tied it closed and began to cry. His wife, asleep in the bed, unaware of a changed world, awaiting her in the morning, was the only thought he could muster. He had to get back to her.

--------------------------------

And now.....

Davie St.

The sex was good, as it always was, a bit athletic, a little sweet and, seemingly, passionate. Now Brad was watching as Allen put his clothes back on. Stretched out on the bed, naked and a bit sticky, the sheets were strewn into a mess near the footboard, Brad observed as Allen, almost with a sense of embarrassment, slipped his underwear on. Allen had a retired baseball player physique, a bubble butt, a growing belly, but still, years after his last ‘real’ work out, retained the muscular mass of his youth. The big difference between the Allen of twenty years ago and the Allen of now, Brad knew, was the wedding ring on the finger and the two kids at home. Other than that, he still had a full head of thick red hair and tight, taught, skin over his body, gravity had yet to mark him with age, it seemed. A delight to look upon, Brad always thought.

“Same bat time?” Brad asked, hoping.

“Same bat channel.” Allen replied, as he slipped on his last shoe and, grabbing his jacket from off the bedroom floor, walked towards the door.

There was nothing else to say. This was a relationship without illusions. It was only about the sex, always about the sex and would remain about the sex. Still, to hear Allen say ‘Same bat channel’ was enough to send Brad’s heart aflutter. He asked every time, their code for same time next week, and, each week, he feared the letdown. Easy or soft, whenever it came, it would hurt the same. Instead, each week he was elated with the news that next Monday, like the previous eighteen Mondays, Allen would be back. First he would call, then he would come over, then they would spend the afternoon in each other’s arms and then he would leave again, their cyclical ritual repeated.

Once Allen had closed the door and once Brad heard his car start and then leave, Brad got out of bed. His body ached, he wasn’t the twenty year old he used to be, he thought. Holding those positions for extended periods of time used to be so much easier. Instead the twenty year old resided in a forty five year old body. All the desires and ideas were there, the body just wasn’t able to keep up anymore. It was a race to the bath room; having reached room temperature, the ejaculate began to slide down his chest and belly. Usually Allan stayed a bit longer, usually they showered together before he left but this time he was in a hurry. Something was going on, Brad knew, whether it was the beginning of the end or just a hiccup he didn’t know.

The phone rang.

He was one of the last people he knew to still have an actual land line phone in his house, as well as a cell phone. The old rotary phone, bought at a thrift shop, hung in the kitchen. A towel pressed against his front he went to answer it.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” He knew who it was. It was the only part of the Monday tradition that Allen wasn’t a part off, the weekly call from Jeff, his ex and friend and neighbour from across the street.

“I try not to. I’m just jealous though, so don’t mind me.” Due to the age and condition of the phone, his voice came across, metallic and with a slight echo, when, in reality, Jeff had a booming movie announcer tone.

“Nothing to be jealous of, in fact, I think I’m actually more depressed every time I go through with this.”

“Yeah I can see how having sex with a hot, married, straight guy can be depressing.”

“How straight can he be if he’s on top of me, once a week? Besides it’s the whole, I’m substituting something real for something temporary and something hollow. There’s all the pretence of some type of relationship, before we actually have sex, and then as soon as we’re done I get to watch him slink out of the room, as though he was just discovered jerking off by his grandparents. There’s nothing to be romanticised about that, believe me.”

“Well, in my head, it’s very romantic and fun and sexy. Besides, if you’re still hooking up, months after the first time, then I can assume the sex is fantastic?”

“I can honestly say it’s the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“Ouch, I’m offended.” Jeff gave a canned laugh, almost hiding his pain. First they had been lovers, for six months, then, later, friends. “Besides, since you guys finished a bit early this time, I thought you might want to go out for lunch with the guys today?”

It was the weekly ritual that Brad hadn’t kept since meeting Allen, the Monday brunch. Though, he could say, that missing it had become his knew ritual. The idea of going, after months away, was tempting but the idea of going, after months away, having an affair, was daunting too. Everyone would guess that they had broken up, as though there was anything to break up, and the questions, and assumptions, would come.

“Sure.” Brad looked down at his chest; the hairs were swirled together, pasted into clumps with bodily fluids. “I’ve got to shower first, though, so give me about twenty, and then come over.” He paused. “And you know I didn’t mean anything by it.” ‘It’ referred to the comment about the best sex and ‘it’ referenced the failed romantic relationship that existed between him and Jeff.

“I know.” The line went dead. Brad knew that Jeff still had feelings. Brad had, over the years, done his best to make sure those feelings always stayed at bay, never flaring up, but, now and then, like today, an uncomfortable moment occurred. One of the drawbacks, Brad had come to understand, to remaining friends with the men you had used to fuck.

From the bedroom his cellphone rang. “Jesus.” His eyes rolled and he began walking toward the sound. “From one end of the place to the other.” He maneuvered around furniture and corners, while holding the towel to his chest.

On the simple, white, beside table, sat two cell phones, each looking identical to the other. Brad and Allen had the same phone, down to the ring tone, a pre-packaged faux phone ring. The difference between the two was that Brad’s had a long scratch down the front display. His hand swung down to pick up the phone and, doing so, the towel began to fall and he quickly grabbed at it, not wanting to stain his carpet with lube and sperm. Then while holding the towel and accessing if there had been any dripping onto the beige, apartment style, carpet, he grabbed the phone and answered it.

As soon as he said “Hello?” he knew that he had fucked up.

“Hello?” A female voice spoke back. “Is Allen around?” Confused.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, was all Brad could think, he could feel the blood falling from his face. It was the first time he had ever heard the voice of Allen’s wife. Previously, in his mind, he had always given her a much more ‘hag’ like sound but here she was speaking with a cute, sultry, voice.

“I’m sorry…” He began, not, entirely, knowing where he was going with this. “I found this phone…at the bank.”

“He forgot his phone again? Wow. And at the bank…again.” She seemed unfazed and, almost, expectant of this type of thing. “He’s going to be out of town, for the week, flying out today, is there any way we could meet, I could pick it up from you, at a coffee shop or something?”

He was flying out of town? For the week? This was all Brad seemed to have heard. He was about to ask where Allen was going and wondering to himself why Allen hadn’t told him anything, before he came to his senses. “Ummm, sure, yeah, let’s meet at Leonardo’s on Davie? You know where that is?”

“I happen to be very familiar with Leo’s. Is three, alright?”

“Sure.”

“Good, I’ll be the one with a Celtics baseball cap on. My name’s Claire, by the way.”

“Sounds like a plan…” He stumbled, not wanting, unwilling, to use his name, he chose his middle name. “I’m Robert.”

“See ya then.” The line went dead.

“This can’t be happening.” He spoke to himself and was hoping that a voice, from whomever and wherever, would either respond with a resounding yes or no, as, suddenly, he felt things swing out into twilight zone territory. “And what is the Celtics?”


-----------------------------------

Alright, remember that these are the first drafts and 'very' unpolished. They are, literally, the rumblings of ideas put on digital paper.

I appreciate your opinions and hope you like them.

First Impressions

So, okay, I know this is s'posed to be a blog about writing but to be a good writer one must read.

Now, first impressions of the Kobo....

Love it.

It's a little slow and once they get the font size issue worked out, it's gonna be fantastic.

I finished my first book, last night, on the Kobo. "Bite Me" by Christopher Moore, if you should know. And I have to say that what they say is true. You forget your reading on an electronic device. Just like a real book the pages disappear and you're into the story.

Anywho, on to other stuff.

I've started a little thing that I'm calling "Hell In A Hand-basket", a zombie novel. I'm thinking of blogging it, to put it out there and try and keep myself 'on it', so to say. Posting two chapters and then combining them with the third chapter and selling it on Amazon and Kobobooks, in installments, for 99 cents, then posting the next two and combining them with a third, and so on and so on. I don't have to explain it any further than that, do I? Oh, I do? Okay, I'll try this.

Chapter 1 - free on blog
Chapter 2 - free on blog
Chapter 3 - Amazon or Kobo for the first three
Chapter 4 - free on blog
Chapter 5 - free on blog
Chapter 6 - Amazon or Kobo for the second three
and so on and so forth (such as)

But first I want to get a bit ahead, as I'm only about three chapters in. I'd like to do ten sets of three so that the book, as a whole, would still only cost about ten bucks.

Anywho, it's an idea and I'll, at least, try it for the first couple installments.

Kobo Cont....

So I finally ordered a Kobo, after trying Wal-Mart a hundred million times, okay twice, and I've been watching it's slow, slow, arrival via the wonders of the internet, aka Canada Post tracking.

It was supposed to arrive today so I set up camp in front of the door, not literally, though the chair I was sitting in is only a couple feet away, and I hear a vehicle pull up outside. My heart goes aflutter and I think...this is it, it's here. I get up, in time to hear the vehicle pulling away, and find a "Sorry we missed you" note on the door. Seriously, the guy/gal/postal worker didn't bother to even knock on the door or ring the door bell. Now I have to wait until tomorrow to pick it up.

Blah....

Hello Kobo....welcome to the party

HERE it is, folks...the kindle killer...ok, maybe not, but it's a very good alternative to those of us who remain unwilling to sign into amazons 'leasing' a book option.