Excerpt: The Chat Pack by Dr. Kris Condi

Excerpt:

“Give it to me!” A man’s voice shouted.

Corin screamed. She grabbed hold of the ledge so not to fall out the window. As he moved forward, the floor creaked and a chunk of boards fell to the second floor. He was too heavy to come to her, and she could never jump three flights to safety out a window. He got on his hands and knees and crawled to the radiator handle. He grunted then twisted with much strength until the hiss of pumping water and forced heat echoed. She edged into a corner on the ledge to avoid being burned. His face grew fierce as she tucked the safe inside her backpack.

“You can’t stay there forever,” he stated. She said nothing.

He grabbed a pool stick and poked at her face. She grabbed it, but he was stronger and yanked her to the floorboards. She quickly grabbed hold of the leather cushions and hoisted herself back on the ledge. The more he prodded, the more the floor cracked and separated. Seemingly searching for an object, he picked up a chunk of wood and threw it at her. She dodged the wood, but it hit her knapsack. Corin’s backpack sprawled on the floor, and the cookies fell to pieces. Pigeons flew past him; the sudden flight of the blackbird made him lose his balance. Or was he crippled like her aunt? He swore and called her a little bitch who was going to get hers, whatever that meant.

Tattle & Wrye - December 2009

FROM THE DESK OF

DONA PENZA TATTLE, ESQ.

AND

ASSOCIATE WRYE BALDERDASH

 

Greetings,

"T'was the night before the Christmas break, when on top of a ladder, Wrye could be found stirring, wobbling, and tottering, making Tattle sadder.  The extra large stockings were not to be hung off the desk, she declared, but by the chimney, where ole Saint Nick would find them securely there.  Wrye having visions of characters all snug in a wonderful book, conceded and pointed to the sugar plum stories perched in a nearby nook.  With Tattle in her candy cane striped 'kerchief, and Wrye in his fur lined cap, they had just settled their brains for a Love of Literature Leap with a zap."

As Tattle recites her version of a famous poem, hands primly cupped within each other, a halo upon her head and angel wings fluttering from behind, Wrye looks at her over the rim of half glasses that resemble those worn by Santa.  "You're right, let's leap.  You're an angel?"

"A kind angel with an angelic heart."  She not to Wrye but to the world in general.  "The wings are better to leap with m'Claus."

"Aye, call me Pseudo-Clause.  The Christmas Critiquer," he said, doing the moon-walk he leaps backwards, calling, "Oh... Oh...  Oh!"

Tattle lands on a pair of knitting needles, pointed upward and yelps, Wrye winces and says, "That’s gotta hurt.  Christmas tree!"  Wrye notices her confusion and clarifies, "Christmas trees are like bad knitters, they both drop their needles."

"What a pain in the.... oops!  Jolly ole Saint Obvious," she returns, first removing the knitting  appliance, and then taking in the milieu of the Kingsley Nursing Home, within the pages of JULIE EBERHART PAINTER'S MORTAL COIL, a romantic comedy.  "Poor dears," she says, checking out the worried expressions on the aged.  "There's been two murders and Detective Bill Watts has been called in to investigate what has been dubbed the Ponytail Perp."  She rose, flitted her wings, lifted one leg creating a figure four, and spins as if on a music box. 

"I hear,” said Nipper to the Gramophone, obscure RCA reference intended, he finds himself also investigating and intrrrigueeeed by Ellen Lange, most would, the lovely lady who runs the home.  One thing led to the next, which led to the next, which, welll, ends up with him falling in love, yup, tries to date her, commmplllicaations, happy to even have her ten-year-old daughter, Patti, along."

Tattle accompanies Wrye's long oratory with background music provided by her Ozark Jaw Harp.  Why?  Angels need a harp.

The sound reminds him of On Top of Ole Smokey and in Pseudo-Clause persona, he reacts, "Ho... Ho... Ho... down?" 

Ignoring the query, she continues, "Ah, but Ellen becomes overprotective and decides there is no place in her wee family for the once divorced Bill.  Was that fair?  Meanwhile, Patti goes missing, ouch, which forces Ellen to turn to Bill.  Was it fate?  Was it destiny?  Was it Memorex?" 

Wrye fingers his faux beard, loosening part of it and the mustache droops as if a faulty fake eyelash, flopping as he speaks.  "Look there, read... Ah ha!  The lost child incident turns out to be nada, alright!"  The two high five, she misses and smacks the top of his head.  Undaunted he adds, "But our boy Bill has the hero glow, as do I most days, and precious Patti ends up liking him, sweeeetnesss, starts seeing him as a father-figure.  I feel tears on the horizon..."

Tattle checks out her cherry tart red lipstick in a shiny Christmas ball.  "And Ellen's wintery attitude melts, she starts to like Bill, too.  Only..."

"I knnnoooow.  The murderer is still out there.  Eeeeh!"

"And Ellen is abducted."  Tattle using her mouth harp tries to da da da daaaaa to make it sound dangerous. 

"More... more... more..."

"Nope... leap time, m' PC Père Noel."

"Watch out for the..."  Tattle observes Wrye as he skids directly into a Scotch Pine tree blazing with Christmas lights.  "Oh, I see you found it." 

"It's male."

"Don't go there."

"Balls!"  He dusts pine needles off his red and white fur trimmed jacket, twitches his nose as if magic is about to happen and declares, "It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas, and here we are right in the middle of  ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS by CINDY K. GREEN, a romantic contemporary Christmas story."

"Yes, yes, and there is Kathryn Graham, a writer at Redburn Weekly who has been assigned, along with the exuberant and jovial Nick Pringle, to work a story about the toy drive for the local orphanage.  Do you see that Mister Woof Woof?" 

"Dog?"  His face slapped with righteous indignation.

"Yes, Santa Paws."

"And Shaggy Dog humor lives in you." He bows and wows.  "I remember now, Nick's enthusiasm for Christmas annoys Kathryn, ho ho ho ho, while Kathryn's hatred for the beloved holiday baffles Nick."

"I see connnflicccct,' she says as she begins to juggle three Christmas balls.

"You emasculated my tree."

She giggles, "And where do snowmen go to dance?"  She waits, then answers, "Snow Balls."

"Speaking of which, I see snow!" Wrye announces and scoops up enough of the white fluff to form a snowball. Throws it to her and now she is juggling four.  "And Nick begins a campaign to win Kathryn over.  Will he? Should he?  Ho ho ho.  I'm not talking just about her attitude toward the noel event.  And in the Christmas alphabet there is no L."

Tattle's brow lifts in that you-wouldn't-dare gesture as Wrye begins to wind up like a major league pitcher with a second snowball.  "Nick has been falling in love with the woman since they first met.  Is this knotty or nice?  Nick decides to become Kathryn's Secret Santa, how sweet, having gifts delivered daily, and lo and behold, Kathryn's attitude begins to slowly change.  Success?"  She puts her juggling to rest.  "Onnnly, she seems to be falling for the Secret Santa, Cyrano de Bergerac moment, and distancing herself from Nick, irony slaps, leaving Nick jealous of himself...  Connnfuuusing."

"Ut oh, said the gardener, trouble is a Hoe-Hoe-Hoe-ing about." 

Tattles evades the pun.  "Even a shared kiss between her and Nick, lovey dovey, doesn't seem to turn her away from the ever so perfect Secret Santa.  Dag!  I'm rootin' for Nick.  Now, he believes he'll never be anything more than a friend, incoming... duck... sadness invasion, and even at that, a distant friend.  Tissue alert!  Meanwhile, da da da daaaaa, Nina not Pina or Santa Maria Phillips seems ever so interested in Nick.  Cat fight?  And Nick considers that it might be time to accept reality.  Heartbreak!  Yet can he?  Will Kathryn's heart ever open to Christmas?  And will she find out the truth about her own feelings toward Nick too late?"

Smacks Wrye's hand as he attempts to read ahead.  "Tsk... tsk... we'll read later, m'Saint Nick."

The duo land softly in the midst of NOELLA'S GIFT by DONICA COVEY and the mystical wonder of a romantic contemporary Christmas story.   "It is so cozy here," announces Tattle as she takes in the homey warmth of Holly Harper's home." 

Wrye musing, as if burning his candle at both ends, elucidates, "Which burns longer, a red candle or a green?"

"Neither!  Candles always burn shorter."  Tattle does the finale tap dance that one might see in a Vaudeville act.  "But where are Holly Harper's Christmas decorations?"

"Hates Christmas," informs Wrye yet ever the optimist rummages about for sugar cookies.  "However, once she finds a raggedly dressed Noella on her doorstep, a little lost six-year-old girl, her feelings slowly begin to change.  Readers will be on a collision course for planet Warm Your Cockles."

"Oh, who is that yummy man?"  Tattle does that hip waddle that suggests more naughty than nice, tilting her now tarnished halo.

"A police detective, Jaxon Cole.  Look out, Tattle, mood grenade.  He found out that Noella's parents had died, but neither he nor Holly seem to get anything more out of the child, only a growing sense of sadness.  Yes, I'm crying, and yes, I am PC."

"Holly decides to keep the girl at least through the holidays, good for her, while they try to figure things out.  In the meantime, a freak snowstorm traps the three of them in Holly's home, of course it does, why not?  And that's when, ironically, the thawing begins.  He he ho ho ha ha.  The bitter detective and the woeful Holly see things through the child's eyes, yet as Jaxon grows close to Holly, she suddenly turns as frosty as the weather."

"An old snowman is... what?  Waaattter.  Will this hot hunk and frigid female co-exist without getting wet?  Will they ever find the Christmas spirit?  Hope so.  I like them!  Will they ever know the love Noella seems so determined to spark within each of them for the other?  YIT (Yenta in training).  And will Noella ever receive the gift of her heart?"  Tattle dabbles at her eyes.  This is sooo... sooo..."

Wrye pats her shoulder.  "There... there... Hot chocolate time, I feel your angelica heart."

Back in their office, the two merrily exchange their Christmas gifts.  Can you guess what?  Well, Champagne Books, of course.  

Hope you enjoyed!  Next month we'll be warming up to the characters from T. M. HUNTER'S HEROES DIE YOUNG, JANE TOOMB'S NIGHTINGALE MAN and LOVE THY NEIGHBOR by PATRICIA BATES.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good holiday,

Dona Penza Rutabaga Tattle, Esq.

and Associate Wrye Balderdash

of Blather City, Wannachat

Created and written by

Angelica Hart and Zi

KILLER DOLLS ~ September 2009

SNAKE DANCE ~ February 2010

CHASING GRAVITAS (working title) ~ July 2010

Champagne Books

angelicahartandzi.com

Book Trailer - Delaney's Crossing by Stacey Coverstone

Book Trailer - Flaherty's Crossing by Kaylin McFarren

The Essence of a Hero by Angelica Hart & Zi

THE ESSENCE OF A HERO

The hero of a story must reach into the reader's heart and soul, making he/her believe in that character's reality, must make them want to cheer them on, must ache when they hurt, cringe when they are embarrassed, fear when they are threatened, and cry if they die. But what makes a hero? How do we as writer's reach that conclusion? How do we perceive the essence that will bring about the desired results and have a man say, oh yeah, I'd following him and face the hordes of hell, or a woman yearn to be safe in his arms. We obsess over finding just the right blend of traits and we believe we have touched on one in particular. Russell Crowe… Best Actor. Works for me. Gladiator… Best Film… a study in heroes. Their hero-dom arose from their leadership qualities.

I’d like to exam Russell Crowe in Gladiator and specifically only the first five minutes of the movie. In my view it was these five minutes that set this movie and this character out to be something special. He breathed humanity into the armor clad Maximus. A time when his struggle through life was far from what we’d think humane yet he was strong as well as compassionate.

I saw a portrait of passion coupled with honor. Maximus was magnanimous. Your first vision of him shows an unkempt bearded clear-eyed man. Set poised in the snow flurries of a winter day focused on the moment. Unaffected by the climate. His proud walk amidst his troops reflected an honest connection. His version of high fives, fist to fist, depicted a sharing of strength and a man willing to touch his charges. A man not at arms length but approachable. It was obvious he stood shoulder to shoulder with them during battles. It was the image of a man’s man. A man who’d take the back of his brother-in-arms. Additionally, qualities of one whom was a leader. Not an order giver… but a man in the trenches and showing the way.

He described his army as “…lean and hungry.” Simplistic yet speaks volumes. Their physical shape. Fat free… Un-contented. Focused on a goal. Everything an athlete wishes to be prior to any contest. Everything any businessperson wishes to be prior to any deal. These three words connected to the deep-seated competitor found in most.

When Maximus’ second in command reacted to the Horde’s refusal to surrender with, “They don’t know when they are conquered,” Maximus stoically replied, “Would you… would I?” He honored his foe… his second in command… and himself with respecting the never quit… never give in… never say die attitude. Tenacity toward attaining a goal is a powerful belief, which is held high in the view of most.

His personal preparation for the moment of truth, the battle, was that he stooped, took dirt into his hands and rubs them with it. This unpretentious moment of focus showed a simple man. The dirt absorbing the sweat of his hands, hands that would be his tools in the fight. An act of readiness, a point of demarcation, the line between General and Warrior was seen in this private moment.

His look at his dog, a powerful dog, which showed a man who was complex enough to have such a loyal cur. Historically, an image of a dog as a man’s friend helps show a character deep, confident and human.

Maximus’ salutation to his second in command was “Strength and honor.” Pure genius. Strength…force… power… might… energy… intensity… vigor… brawn… virility. Honor…integrity… honesty… morality… regard… dignity… rectitude. A balance between power and integrity.

Maximus’ final order was “At my signal… unleash Hell!” If you never fought you might not understand. If we fight we must fight to win. I believe this. If we choose to do something, do it as well as we can. Half-fast is half-assed. I respect the pureness of this attitude because it respects the mission of the moment.

A leader emerged before my eyes. Maximus joined his cavalry, the force with which he would be riding into battle. It was at this point in time he showed himself to be a man of vision. Explore the quote, “Imagine where you will be and it will be so…” Visionaries can make great leaders. Their visions capture their followers. But a visionary without substance, i.e., an idea man, does not a leader make. A vision coupled with a willingness to do what’s imagined is the purest form of leadership.

The five minutes ends with this statement by Maximus, “What we do in life echoes in eternity.” The essence of the dream/desire that we want to make a difference on time. We matter. Not just our time but all time. We want to be remembered. We want a legacy. We understand we’re fragile creatures whose fate in life is that we die. So between birth and death what we do must matter. If we can’t buy into to that then we question our purpose to exist at all. We sense our soul will have a life-after thought that is intangible but that tangible life-after is reflected in the monuments we build to ourselves, and these are usually in the forms of accomplishments, people that we have truly affected and our children.

Maximus rises out of these five minutes as a man’s man leader, an unpretentious visionary with a grasp of the magnitude of the moment, a man with an eye on the goal and a passion to do what is essential to achieve it. Powerful stuff.

This is a great man’s flick. However, this was not a chick flick but Maximus is also the personification of a woman's hero.

I share this because it helps define the rare qualities of a real man with character and strength and when we word picture heroes we have to start with an essence. I wrote this many years ago and maybe out-dated but the concept of hero is never.

So why share the aforementioned point of view? As caretakers of the genesis of the characters in our stories, we hold a responsibility to every reader to grabble with imagery and respect the iconic ideals, such as heroism.

In closing, we try to take these and similar traits into the embodiment of our heroes. Though they may be uniquely different in personality, they have that similar underlying core of values, strength, and determination. The sort of man that will cut himself fairly badly but will finish what he is doing before tending to that wound. The sort of man who a woman will feel safe with even when she feels quite capable of protecting herself. The sort of man who will climb into your world, and will stay a part of it, forever.

At least that is what we hope to bring to our heroes. If you read our stories, you'll have to let us know if you agree.

_____

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS ~ September 2009
SNAKE DANCE ~ February 2010
CHASING GRAVITAS ~ July 2010
angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com
angelicahartandzi.com

KILLER DOLLS can be purchased at
Champagne Books
http://www.champagnebooks.com/

Book Trailer - Noella's Gift by Donica Covey

The hard ones - by Michael Davis

 I’ve read on many of the author forums of people seeking advice on how to overcome the inevitable condition know as writers block. I’m very fortunate in that, after six novels and three short stories, I have yet to encounter that roadblock. The stories seem to just float around in my head like fluttering butterflies.

Still, until I get the first three or four chapters under my belt, I’m becoming more and more resistant to lock myself away in the back room and bury my brain in the fictional world. That’s to be expected given how isolated authors become once they’re in the zone. There’s one area where the pressure required to force my big butt to stay glued to that chair is more than just simply twisting my own ear; its an all out war.

This battle between me wanting to get the story in my head down on paper and yet pushing away from the keyboard on selected scenes has happened on each novel I’ve written, but it was only after my third story that I realized why I was pushing back. You see, as a rule, I’m a gentle teddy bear, hard on the outside but mushy on the inside. Sure, I get anger and fight back verbally when some politically blind cranial vacuum tries to shove their lies and rhetoric down my throat, but in most of the difficult situations we encounter each day, for my size, I am very laid back. That characteristic of my personality goes along with the fact that I have great difficulty dealing with the suffering of others. Whether it be abuse, conditions of poverty, or physical pain; it truly screws up my mind to deal with such human suffering.

What’s my point? I’m sure that many people experience such difficulty. Problem is, as a writer of suspense, intrigue, and romance; human suffering is part of the draw that envelops the reader. We become entwined in what the character is going through and remain locked on every word till we can see how the world is made bright and sunny again. I confess, I’m a sucker for such stories. Yet as a writer, I hate dealing with the hard scenes where I have to “make” someone experience pain or emotional torment. Each time I come to those scenes, it is a confrontation with my own inner voices to force myself to sit down and do the scene.

After writing six novels, I recognize this weakness, and I accept it without frustration at myself for being such a wussy. Case in point, I can usually rough out a chapter every couple days. On a novel I just finished but have not yet submitted, I had to work piece meal on the story across three other novels I was writing. I just couldn’t bear to deal with the emotional suffering going on in the story. Then why not just change the scene? Doesn’t work that way, at least not for me. The story has a life of its own as the muse whispers in my ear. Take out a scene, and the whole story changes.

I’m currently at that stage in another story I’m working with my co author budette Candace Morehouse and I’m still struggling with chapter three. Why? You guessed it. Something really really bad happens in Chapter one and three and I just got over the stress of the first chapter. Now I have to go through it again. Geez. But I will get it done, I just have to take a deep breath, tie myself to the chair and DO it.

Till next time.

Michael Davis (Davisstories.com)

Author of the year, 2008