Book Trailer - Forever Faithful by Linda LaRoque

WHEN ALL IS EQUAL AND BALANCED

WHEN ALL IS EQUAL AND BALANCED

By

Angelica Hart and Zi

In a writing partnership, one must maintain a sense of balance. Some might think of the gymnast’s struggles with that four inch wide beam and others may envision the scales of Libra or Justice. Whereas, we’ve discovered when we team to create that balance it is more a dynamic equilibrium, not always equal but balanced.

Everything is shared, but sometimes it is difficult to draw a line evenly down the center. Do we try? Angelica does. Zi’s a whatever-is-is guy. Do we care? Angelica does. Zi learned as a child there are no real even–stevens. Some days you bite the bear and some days the bear bites you. Other days you just stand alone in the corner bare saying, why me… why all the time me. (That’s another blog) Does partnering work? Yes, in a clumsy and difficult way.

Case in point. Arguing with my sibling about pie, my Grammie came into the room, discerned the problem and handed me the knife to cut the pie. I studied and maneuvered the knife to leave one piece with ample raisins and crust, eyeing it for my taking. Once I finished cutting it, my grandmother turned to my sister and said, "You pick first." She taught even-steven was never even.

An idea might start with one of us, and then the other will infuse various thoughts. That is called The Infuse with Various Thoughts process. Angelica named it. Either could work the first draft of a story and, yet, there have been times we managed to work it together. Ok… the verb work could be exchanged with feud or fuss or argue or will it against the other. Ultimately, the creative accomplishments can be the gems that become fun and play between us. Because law requires that we point out the fun and have met the court ordered directive we are prepared to share more truth. There are those mundane tasks, and sometimes we are simply forced to take turns. Angelica believes in forcing. Zi opts for creative diversion.

Below is a short story whose theme is all about the equality of taking turns.

Story...

"You know you have to do it." He shared that look he learned from his mother.

"I can't." She wanted to channel the Paris Hilton spoiled debutante persona.

"But we've agreed on taking turns."

Jillian hunched her shoulders, the tension gathering in her chest radiating to her back, wishing she never proposed such a consistent equal balance in all things. It was originally her idea to make certain they each did their share of chores and responsibilities. "I'll take the next two turns." She tried to negotiate.

"We promised to never do that." Brice handed her the bottle of poison. "I took care of Mandy, now you have to take care of Charlie." He canted his head in that way to say a deal’s a deal.

Sunlight announced itself, streaming into the already bright and cheery kitchen, all contrasting against the stark horror of her words. "It’s murder."

"You're exaggerating.”

“No, it is murder.”

“It's self-defense." He eyed her bandaged hand. "He did that to you, you can't escape that fact. Take your apt revenge."

She stared at the floor, not quite resigned. "Please... I just can't."

He touched her hair, floated his mouth over hers in the most gentle of kisses. They had been together for so long, yet there was always this wonder and awe when they touched. "I'd give in this one time, darling, I would, but I don't have the time, I have a flight to catch.”

As if a staged play, a knock sounded at the door.

Brice glanced over his shoulder. "The shuttle's here." He pulled her against him, squeezed, and gave her a bye-got-to-go kiss. "Be brave."

"You'll never look at me again in the same way."

"Do you think less of me for getting rid of Mandy?"

She shook her head, not speaking and understanding.

"We do what has to be done. Besides, in all truth, it is..."

"I know," she interrupted, "My turn."

Another kiss and he was gone, leaving Jillian alone with the gruesome task. She stared at the bottle of poison, found the skull and crossbones overkill, and nearly laughed aloud at her thought. Taking a deep breath, she ignored any sentimental thought attached to the task ahead. She tried not to remember the fun times with Mandy and Charlie, those times before they betrayed Brice and her, the times when it was all fun and all play. She probably should have never talked Brice into allowing this peculiar couple into their home. In the end, it was her own fault, and now she had to do the right thing, that is right in a very loose connotation of the word. After gathering up the items she needed, she added the poison last, squeezing her eyes shut against a sudden prick of tears.

About to call for Charlie, he surprised her by entering the room.

"Would you like something to eat?" she asked feigning a smile.

He stared and she could see the manic look which had taken hold of him of late.

Knowing she had no choice, Jillian placed the trap on the kitchen floor and waited for the second of their once pet rats, who had escaped and turned feral, to take the poisoned bait.

The end

Balance may be that left out shoe that trips us or the ruler of which we judge. We will leave you with a quote. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote on the point of balance, “Evermore in the world is this marvelous balance of beauty and disgust, magnificence and rats.” Rats?

Angelica Hart and Zi

Killer Dolls ~ September 2009

Snake Dance ~ February 2010

Champagne Books

First Chapter - Killer Dolls by Angelica Hart and Zi

One

Earlier

Atrocity

Under the blanket of a cloudy night an older rusty white Dodge van bounced along the dirt boreens adjacent to the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal. Proceeding slowly, lights off, the driver was dressed in black, black hair jutting from a ski cap. The vehicle converged into a wooded area, it known for frequent fornication by lovers who had only a car and no money for a room. This evening, most likely because it was after 3 AM, it was vacant.
The driver exited the vehicle, surveyed the area, adjusted his genitalia, opened the rear door and helped another similarly garbed man drag a third man from the van floor. The third man was tied, blindfolded and bound with duct tape. He writhed in an effort to free himself, yet only managed to frustrate the two abductors, one enough that he struck the restrained figure in the groin. An inarticulate muffled groan followed and the struggles for freedom ceased.
Because of the blindfold it would be easy to surmise that the victim did not know these kidnappers, or maybe he knew them all too well. As might a recluse not wishing to be detected unexpectedly, they moved beyond the road. Facing away, they tied the man to a tree and began a more than devious process. While wearing protective masks—ones used in lab research—they took a plastic bag, inserted a vial into it, and placed that bag with the vial over the man’s head, duct-taping it airtight at his neck. The vial was broken open and its contents released.
Sensing discord, the captive fought, rapid and struggled breathing followed, resulting in the movement of the bag as well as the inhalation of whatever gas or dust that was in the vial.
The motion of the bag was affirmation enough that their intentions were satisfied; they spun, walked, leaving the man to suffocate. Suddenly one of them returned, tore an opening into the plastic allowing fresh air to enter, and then he rejoined his partner.
“Why did you do that?”
“So he might suffer.” The disparaging point was cruelly intended.
The two laughed.
~ * ~
In extremis

After two-hours the restrained man began to feel the effects of the released contents from that vial, for it had disseminated through the limited amount of air. The first symptom was respiratory distress. His lungs ached, felt clogged as if suffering from a heinous flu. Each breath was raspy, ultimately resulting in a gripping tightness of his chest. The man’s disdain for his enemy was, at first, ambiguously replaced by concern, and finally fully preoccupied by it.
He struggled to extricate himself from his bindings…failed.
The tightness in his chest was soon followed by the onset of a fever and uncontrollable coughing made more difficult by the legacy of the gag over his mouth, thus forcing mucus through his nose causing further breathing difficulties.
He struggled to extricate himself from his bindings…tasting failure.
Heavy sweating rolled across skin, superfluous, announcing itself through fabric and puddling within the plastic bag. He began to shiver.
He struggled to extricate himself from his bindings…tasting more failure.
The once strong deep breaths found brevity. Slowly, as the difficulty in breathing became more pronounced producing chest pains, marked by the hue of his skin turning blue. Tears filled his eyes in reaction to the symptoms.
The sun rose as night’s anarchist, angry and
rebellious.
He struggled to extricate himself from his bindings…continued to fail.
The despot of nausea gripped, its hand harsh and
tyrannical. He swallowed convulsively but was unable to avoid vomiting at which he almost suffocated, but he managed to swallow it back down. A second swallow brought shallow air, it benevolent but meagerly so. He imagined the taste of blood within that mixture of post-digested dinner, bile, and beer.
He struggled to extricate himself from his bindings…failed.
While on the verge of pulmonary edema, fluid developing in his lungs, his breathing worsened. The incontrovertible taste of fear had no clemency. His stomach clenched, deep down, a searing cramping that distracted from his near inability to breathe. He clamped his teeth and pressed his back against the tree, moaning. He felt as if his legs would give way. Unconsciousness threatened. He fought it, sensing that giving in meant he might not wake.
The late afternoon sun blazed through three branches. It should have warmed him, should have comforted, but nothing could distill the chill anymore. He understood the solemnity of this pain still attacking his lower bowels, him praying for relief.
He struggled to extricate himself from his bindings, bloodying flesh…and still failing.
His excrement freed itself in an uncontrollable flush of diarrhea. It convulsively spurted from him; however in its cruel irony, it did not ease his cramping. That seemed to intensify. He inhaled the stench through the small tear in the plastic and that instigated a simultaneous ejection of what little bile was left in his stomach, but he choked it down. Eventually, he was forced to urinate in his pants. It felt hot along his thighs, dispersed past socks and shoes.
He could not kindle any cogent thoughts, had no real concept of time, only the endless struggle to breathe, to overcome the dry heaves and ignore his bowel’s expulsions.
He struggled to extricate himself from his bindings, believing in freedom…yet knowing failure.
He felt the apathy of evening rather than saw it.
Coolness dried the sweat beading his flesh, but inappropriate levity showed its improperness as fresh, chilling sweat soon rose again all in streams, laughing.
Muscle aches invaded his limbs, their heresy nothing more than tenderness that nearly seemed insignificant against the other, more intense pains. Yet it was there, along with an acute weakness, rapid heartbeat, and the cold hot wash of an increasing body temperature. The blue tinge to his complexion, called cyanosis, would have contrasted against his reddened eyes if he had not been blindfolded.
He must have passed out during the evening, for morning came, a morning he didn’t expect to experience, an indictment of his weakening will. His symptoms grew worse.
He struggled to extricate himself from his bindings… more lethargic though committed.
Thirty-six hours had passed since he first inhaled the contents of the vial. Through persistence, yet unexpectedly, he managed to free himself. He fell from the tree onto his hands and knees. The fumes of his expelled bodily fluids and excrements made him retch, and he attempted to crawl away from it before even freeing himself from his gag or blindfold.
Survival inherent, his hand skittered out from under him, his upper body dropped to the ground, face landing in his own excrement, he rolled away, jerking off his blindfold and tearing at his gag, then once again fighting to get away. He drew in clean air, gagged upon it. The bright light blinded him nearly as much as the blindfold had, but he could partially make out the road and unsteadily got to his feet. He stumbled a few steps, and then felt the world spin as he once again landed on his back and passed out.
Eventually recovering consciousness, he called for help, but it was a bare thread of sound, more a croak than any words, it a cryptic pall of tone.
After a couple of hours he woke, exerted possibly his last effort, made his way toward the road, and heard a car door. A burly built man raced toward him. He felt the magnanimous kiss of salvation.
“Oh my God!” he heard, as if from off in a distance.
He was unable to respond. Because of low blood pressure accompanied by respiratory failure, with a final
ragged breath he died.

Angelica Hart and Zi
Killer Dolls ~ September 2009

Snake Dance ~ February 2010

Champagne Books

Excerpt - Lucky in Love by Stacey Coverstone

The golden horse with a snow white mane and tail opened her eyes and slowly turned her head. She neighed softly then nudged at something furry near her legs.

Jordan blinked. The back of the trailer was dim. It was difficult to see clearly. Puzzled, she squinted again, in order to get a better look. “There’s something standing behind the horse. It’s short, black and hairy. What on earth?” She threw a questioning glance at Wyatt.

He responded with a sheepish grin.

“Maaaaa.” A fat pigmy goat with horns made its appearance, stepping out from behind the mare.

“What is that?” Jordan pointed.

Wyatt hopped into the trailer and scratched Buttercup on the head as he hooked the lead rope to her halter. He led the Palomino out of the trailer with the beady-eyed creature waddling behind. “Jordan, this here is Houdini.” To the goat, he said, “Houdini, meet your new mommy.”

The goat leaped off the back of the trailer with the grace of a flying pig and stared up at her. Her jaw dropped.

“Come on, Buttercup.” When Wyatt began leading the mare toward the pasture, the goat sidled up to Jordan and rubbed the side of his head against her outer thigh.

“What’s he doing?” She squealed and jumped away as if she’d been burned, but the goat was insistent. He rubbed again, still ogling her.

“Give him a pet. Or shove him away if you don’t want him bothering you,” Wyatt called over his shoulder.

“Oh. Okay.” With a tentative hand, she patted his side. When the goat went “Maaaaa,” she smiled and hollered, “I think Houdini likes me, Brannigan. He’s pretty cute, but his head must itch because he keeps rubbing against me.” Just as she reached out to scratch between his horns, Wyatt turned and yelled.

“Don’t touch his horns!”

“Wha-?” The goat reared up and slammed his horns into the tender flesh of her bare leg. She howled and the goat butted her again. “Get him off me!” she screamed.

Wyatt dropped Buttercup’s lead rope and ran back and roughly shoved the goat away. “Git!” He knelt and examined Jordan’s leg with gentle hands. “Are you all right?”

“I think so. I’m not bleeding, am I?” Her eyes were misting over.

“No blood. He didn’t open the skin.” Wyatt stood. “I’m so sorry. I remembered too late about him not liking his horns touched. I should have said something before I let him out of the trailer, but it slipped my mind.”

Jordan glared at the animal. He planted his hooves, lowered his head and glowered back, like a bull ready to charge. “Where did you find that psychotic demon?” she asked, trembling from the scare.

“Houdini’s been with Buttercup since the day Lydia brought her to the ranch. Houdini was a rescue himself.”

“Gee, I wonder why.” She cast another glance at her thigh, which was bruising.

“That goat took to Buttercup like a bee takes to honey and hasn’t left her side since. I guess he’s in love.”

“Lucky for her.” Jordan’s tone dripped with sarcasm.

“Maaaaa,” the goat replied.

“Maaaaa yourself,” Jordan mocked. “Houdini, huh? I don’t have to guess how you arrived at your name.”

Wyatt wiped a tear from her cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. I guess I have to expect the unexpected if I’m to make it as a rancher.”

He grinned. “You got that right. Don’t touch his horns,” he reminded as he grasped Buttercup’s lead rope off the ground.

“Right. No horn touching.”

“Let’s take them to the pasture.” Wyatt whistled and Houdini trotted to the mare and toddled behind as she was walked to the field. After they were shooed in and the gate was closed, the two animals huddled together, watching the other horses running across the grass. In a short time, Houdini turned his attention to the pipe fence. He attached his bucked teeth to the bottom rail and began gnawing. Wyatt shook his head.

Another big truck came rambling up the drive. “Now, who’s coming?” Jordan asked, checking her watch for the time as they made their way back to the truck.

“That’ll be the hay man,” Wyatt said, slamming the trailer door shut. “He’s making your delivery, so I better move my rig out of the way.”

He moved his pickup and trailer to the other side of the driveway. Along with Jordan’s Jeep, Cole’s truck, and his workers’ vehicle, the driveway was looking like a used car lot. The hay man maneuvered his truck as close to the barn entrance as possible. The bed was stacked six layers high with hay. Wyatt and Jordan walked over and shook hands with the older man when he slid out of his cab. Wyatt made the introductions. “Jordan Mackenzie, this is Ronnie Porter. He’s got the best hay in the county. I told him you’d need supplied in the fall and the spring from now on.”

“Thank you. I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Porter.”

“Same here.” No nonsense, he touched the brim of his cap, flipped open the tailgate and began to unload bales.

Noting his bulging arm muscles, and guessing him to be in his sixties, Jordan figured he was in better shape than most of the younger men she knew because of years of lifting and throwing hay bales around. As he tossed the bales onto the ground, Wyatt carried them into the barn and stacked them against the wall. Jordan watched, feeling useless, but she couldn’t begin to help because of her aching back. Knowing it would be rude if she left town while they were working for her benefit, she just stood and watched them sweat.

Porter was pulling a bale out of the back when a streak of black came charging around the corner of the barn. Looking neither left nor right, Houdini made a beeline for the man and rammed him in the rear. Obviously stunned, Porter fell to the ground moaning and clutching his punctured backside. Jordan ran to him screaming for Wyatt. She tried to help him up as she chastised the goat that danced in circles nearby, panting with his tongue hanging out.

“Houdini! Bad goat! How did you get out of the pasture?” She shoved him with her foot as he moved in for another jab. “Brannigan!” she screamed again.

Porter’s eyes were rolling back. “What the hell was that? My ass is on fire. Excuse the language, ma’am.” He wiped a tear from his eye as Jordan lifted him by the elbow and helped him to his feet.

“No need to apologize, Mr. Porter. Are you all right?”

Wyatt came running from the barn. He didn’t have to ask what had happened; the scene said it all. He grabbed Houdini by the horns without thinking and began dragging the creature back to the field.

“Maaaaa! Maaaaa!”

Jordan watched the goat squirm beneath Wyatt’s large, capable hands. “That, I’m afraid, Mr. Porter was the devil.”

“Well, he skewered me good,” the old man cried, clutching his buttocks.


--
Stacey Coverstone
Western Romance Author
Delaney's Crossing, Available Now
High Lonesome, Available Now
Outlaw Trail, December 1
Lucky in Love, June 2010
http://www.staceycoverstone.com

Interview with Carol Costa by Jim Woods

Jim: Hi, Carol Costa, and welcome to the Champagne Books blog site and author interview forum. Tell us all about Carol Costa, author, playwright, literary agent, mother, grandmother, accountant and gambler in twenty-five words or less. Sorry . . . Times up!

Carol: I demand a continuance to make my case.

Jim: Okay, but is sounds like you may be planning to testify about cops and perps and characters that get between them. Did you ever write any crime mysteries? What are you doing for Champagne Books?

Carol: I’ve written in several different genres and have published both fiction and nonfiction, but my books with Champagne have allowed me to combine the two fiction elements that I am most interested in writing about: mystery and the paranormal.

My first published book with Champagne is Invisible Force featuring a ghost who comes back to the house where she was murdered to find her killer. Champagne also has accepted another novel, Ask Aunt Emma, for release in March 2010. The main character in that book is investigating a murder, aided by the spirit of her dead husband.

Jim: Both those sound like something we may all want to read. But give us some detail about some of your other published works.

Carol: Since I have a background in accounting and taxes, I have written four financial titles for Penguin USA. They are Teach Yourself Accounting in 24 Hours; Teach Yourself Bookkeeping in 24 Hours; The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Surviving Bankruptcy; and the latest book due out in December, The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Starting and Running a Thrift Store.

I also have the Dana Sloan mystery series and two romance novels published by Avalon Books as well as a romantic suspense novel. Last but not least is a great short story collection I did with Jim Woods, titled, Olla Podrida.

Jim: That’s a lifetime of writing. Do you find any time for reading? What sort of writing from someone else can pull you away from writing your own books?

Carol: I enjoy all kinds of books, but mainly read what I like to write, and that’s mysteries

Jim: There must be distractions, or I should say, equally important interests and activities that compete with your writing time. What takes up your time beyond writing and maybe reading? I suspect that like all the rest of us, family is foremost among those priorities.

Carol: I am the mother of four, the grandmother of six. My husband and I baby-sit for our two youngest grandchildren everyday and they are a joy. I’m also the treasurer of two nonprofit organizations: The Society of Southwestern Authors and the St. Vincent De Paul Conference at my church.

Jim: I know that you write and produce plays. What’s that all about?

Carol: I actually started my writing career as a playwright and a journalist. My plays have been produced in New York Off-Off Broadway and in a number of regional theaters. One of my plays, The Last Decent Crooks, has just been published. Live theater is my first love and I run a Readers Theater from time to time.

Jim: Have your works that were published originally as books or short stories gone the stage play route? Or perhaps the other way? Has a play gone later to print, or are the two disciplines mutually exclusive?

Carol: I have converted some of my one-act plays into short stories that have been published, and into audio scripts that have been produced, but I keep the full-length plays I have written as stage material only.

Jim: Okay, you’re the gambling guru according to the Video Poker title that’s displayed on your website next to your books on accounting and bookkeeping. How do you reconcile the disciplines of accounting and gambling in your collective works? Are you cooking the books?

Carol: Despite the fact that everyone knows I love to gamble, my nonprofit groups still trust me with their funds. My financial background causes me to analyze anything that has to do with money, so I’m a conservative player, always looking for ways to beat the odds. My years of research led to writing the book on gambling, Video Poker: Play Longer With Less Risk.

Jim: Other than the upcoming release from Champagne, Ask Aunt Emma, what do you have in work that we may read in the future?

Carol: My agent is marketing a historical novel based on the true story of the House of David, a religious colony in Benton Harbor, Michigan where my family owned a summer home. I’m also collaborating with an infamous New Orleans madam on a book called, From the Cat House to the Dog House. And of course I have other Dana Sloan mysteries in the works.

Jim: Where have you lived and where would you like to, and how do your travel experiences, places and people, impact your writing?

Carol: I was born and raised in Chicago. We moved to Tucson, Arizona, in 1973 because our oldest daughter had health problems that benefited from the dry climate. I have traveled all over Europe and my favorite places were London and Rome. I guess I still like big cities but am content to live in Tucson. It’s the people I met while traveling that have influenced my writing the most. I use a lot of my experiences with them in my books.

Jim: Case dismissed. Thank you Carol, for letting the Champagne authors and readers gain a glimpse into your busy life and career. If they wish to contact you personally, or professionally, how can they get in touch?

Carol: They can visit my website: www.carolcostaauthor.com and send me e-mails at ccstarlit@aol.com. I’m happy to hear from readers and answer any questions they might have about my books.

~ * ~

Interview contributed by Jim Woods, author of Champagne Books Assassination Safari, Parting Shot and Gunshot Echoes.

Website: www.ultrasw.com/jwoods Email: jwoods@ultrasw.com

September Tattle & Wrye

FROM THE DESK OF

DONA PENZA TATTLE, ESQ.

AND

ASSOCIATE WRYE BALDERDASH

Tattle takes in Wrye’s Henschel Deerstalker herringbone hat and Mahogany Calabash pipe. “Bubble I presume?”

“Prop, m'Dear Tattleson," suggesting today's character, "I’m emulating a singularly famous detective,” speaking with his pipe held between clenched teeth. His hair was immaculate, bow tie impeccable and his brown Canali wool suit's pockets bulged.

“Sherlock Holmes, I presume? And does that make me Doctor John H. Watson?” She grabs an oversized magnifying glass, yo-yoing it to and fro from one eye. "Are our plans to leap to the late eighteen hundreds? Do I have a degree from the University of London? And have we ever met Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?"

"A PI are we?"

"Pi... Ah, mathematicians say Pi are square... those counters be wrong, lemon pies are round and lemon cakes are square. That's my lemon entry."

"Lemon entry, m'Dear Tattleson," replied Wrye. He hands her a bowler hat that also serves to hold a stethoscope, “If the hat fits, Tattle...” His look turns inquisitive, one eye squints. “Penza, the game’s afoot. Let us pursue a Love of Literature Leap.”

Placing the hat on tightly curled hair, she adds the adornment of a puce feather. "Be afraid, Professor Moriarty, be very afraid."


“Oooh, I like this landing.” Tattle plops onto a soft mattress, bounces, ecru colored petticoats become visible. “And the perfect place to introduce STRANGER IN HIS BED, a historical romance by NANCY HENDERSON.

From the floor Wrye helps himself up with a silver-tipped cane. “Yes, perfect setting for no-no passion to become a yes-yes flicker and ultimately a climax bbblaaazze between the Cat 'on-a-hot-tin-roof' Sterling, a British spy, and Angus 'I'm-not-a-cow' French, a tavern owner.”

“Ex-tavern owner,” Tattle supplied, using two hands to hold the book up for him to see. “Let me grow the tree of explanation for you. British sympathizers torched his tavern. B word... B word... B word!”

“Naughty amidst the tree, are we? And, I understand, the opposition left her on Angus’ land for dead. B word implied. She wakes in his bed and without her arsenal of weapons. Unarmed and maybe the N word?”

“There is a dilemma in all this. Yippee, Yippee Yo! Much of the tree now you know.”

“Yes, of course. It is a plot element tree, m'Dear Tattleson. If he turns her in for the bounty, he could pay for the tavern’s damage. Only, he is besotted, as is she. Cat sees security and kindness in him. Something she has lacked all her life. Woo hoo... I see potential for the Nnnnnn word!”

"A tavern and you used the word sot?" Taps her chin thoughtfully. "Interrrressssting. Still, she has her secrets.” Tattle asks, “What will they do?”

“You know my methods, Tattle,” Wrye winks. “Never tell, quoth the Raven, nevermore. Next book beckons. Let us embark!”

"Mixed author reference?" Uses the magnifying glass to securitize his blue eye, ignoring the brown one. "That was Poe? We got to go. Our next Love of Literature Leap y'know."

"New author? Seuss, are we? A doggie-dog and a French-frog havin' a grog. Leap frog, leap. Mind you, never play Love of Literature Leap frog with a unicorn."

"No shat Sherlock... my advice, look before you leap." They took hands and ran from the pages.


Wrye brushes dust off his capped coat. “Why, Tattle, m’Watson-in-tow, I believe we are in New Mexico, land of the Tex-Mex taco.”

"Doctor Seuss-ian, I presume." She giggles, noticing flying debris. "Dirty, are we? Tee hee, tee hee."

"It's sedimentary, m'Dear Tattleson." Wrye's voice bespoke gravel. Dusting ended.

“That it is, Bloke of Deduction, and we are in the world of CANDACE MOREHOUSE’S GOLDEN ENCHANTMENT, a western historical romance.”

"Yee ha!" Wrye dons a masculine but identifiable Holmes pose, aptly complimented by an armadillo belt buckle. “Who is that fetching young lady?” He strokes what would have been a mustache if he had remembered to wear it.

“Andrea Alexander, who had been living with her aunt and uncle in New York has just returned due to her father’s death. So sad.” Tattle takes Wrye’s walking stick and uses it as a pointer. “And there is Jake Houston, look, now a man, but as a young boy she shadowed him. The seedlings of puppy love. Andrea and Jake sitting in a tree... sing with me... K-I-S-S... you can finish this ditty.”

“Another tree, I see. 'Tis an alphabet tree." He pulls a notepad from his pocket and makes an entry. "Ah, but presently he is engaged, albeit through coercion by his father, who is now wheelchair-bound and feels this marriage will be the only way to save their ranch, the Diamond C. Another letter added to our tree.”

“But... there is another way,” Tattle says, “Andrea’s father had a treasure map for gold dating back to the times of the Conquistadores. Addddvennnnture! Jake and Andrea try to find the buried gold while, he-he-he, also trying to avoid the sizzle between them. Good luck... Sizzle possibly evident to Lupita, his fiancée, who Andrea suspects stole her father’s map. B word. Your thoughts on the alphabet tree?”

"Why it's an LMN tree, m'Dear Tattleson." He bows out of respect. “Is it possible or impossible that Lupita is treacherous? As Holmes would say, ‘...when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ You connect the dots.”

“Touché,” she says, using his cane as a saber. “Andrea might lose both her ranch and her life all before she and Jake have any nuvo-nookie. Ouch to the square of frusssstrating!”

“It seems impossible for love to will out,” Wrye says, biting the edge of his pipe. "Though Eve could find Adam in heaven with her eyes shut."

"Ah, that's romantic. How?"

"Elementary... school science... no navel."

“Love is held captive by circumstance and circumstance hates love,” she says, tsk-tsking when he tries to flip a few chapters ahead. “To paraphrase our dear Watson, it is as clear as mud, read the book later. Leap frog, leap!”

"Look out for the guest Rhino."


The duet du gossip appears in the small town of Tanglewood Falls with its magnificent view. “Mystery, suspense, romance, it must be BLIND CONSENT BY MICHAEL W. DAVIS, CHAMPAGNE BOOKS AUTHOR OF THE YEAR 2009,” offers Wrye. "But where there's heavenly beauty, one might discover 'ell. Doc Tat, grow us our next plot tree."

“Sapling planted. After the loss of his wife, Ryan returns to search for truth in this poor, forgotten community where trust and blind consent had been unwittingly exploited. Fertilizer applied.”

“I deduce…” Wrye pauses and admits, “from reading it that Ryan has been haunted by dreams and puzzling images for twenty years. Enter ghostly sounds stage left. Exit reality stage right. He is desperately trying to untangle the reality of what happened to him and to his town. Weed Whacker Alert!”

“All true… everything is hidden… so many secrets… even the folklore of the simple people, who believe their Annie is blessed.” She re-laces her high top high heel and checks wobble.

“Annie… the woman he meets during his quest is a lovely lass with her own secrets, her own passion for Ryan and the belief that he is her destiny.” Spinning his double-billed cap, now appearing much like a hang glider on his head, he says, "Remember the adventure of The Red-headed League? Like that, this is providing much boggle for the man. But... it's all 'ell men tree, m'Dear Tattleson, love... love... love!"

"In this outwardly beautiful, peaceful town, where sinister forces anchor its foundation, Ryan and Annie become lost to each other, lost to the mystery, and maybe lost to love. He needs to find himself, but in the end…”

“Shhh,” he says, "Give away no more. Off to 221B Baker Street.”

“Are the real Sherlock and Watson expecting us?”

“Sorry, got caught up in the fiction.”

"Leap!"

"Look!"


Another wonderful adventure completed. We hope you enjoyed it as much as we did. Next month we visit DAVID BOULTBEE’S THE GENDER DIVIDE, LOVE COMES BLINDLY BY PHYLLIS CAMPBELL and our dear, dear friends, the extremely talented and awesomely attractive ANGELICA HART AND ZI’S KILLER DOLLS. Join us!

Excerpt - Love Thy Neighbor by Patricia Bates

Excerpt from Love Thy Neighbor: “The wayward son has returned to the backwater, undignified town. Something I can do for you, Duncan?” The low, angry tone echoed in the sickeningly familiar cocking of a firearm. He glanced at the porch of the house to see a slim, boyish looking woman holding a carbine aimed at his chest.

Tom studied the perpetual burr under his saddle - Rylee Parys, short cropped black locks curled around her sunburned face in the humid air. A line of dust ran along the tip of her small nose, and her chapped and cracked lips were pressed together in a tight line. Despite her boyish looks, there was something about her that, even without a gun to his chest, made his pulse pound. The familiarity of that sensation unsettled him, and he shifted in the saddle. This wasn’t a game, and they weren’t children.

“You wanna put that down before you hurt yourself?” Tom asked as he eased his hand up his thigh, to the Colt he wore tied down. The last thing he wanted was gun play, but he wasn’t about to let the fool woman shoot him. In his jacket pocket the letter the other ranchers and farmers had written crinkled and rustled with the sway of his body in the saddle. The words cramped together were filled with disgust and hatred for the foolishness of the young woman who refused to listen to their counsel.

“What do you want? Ain’t anything here to stare at?”

“Came to talk about those mongrels of yours out in the field. They managed to knock down half a mile of fencing last night and two of my best mares are gone.” Tom waved a hand at the pasture. “Taken by that stallion you’re protecting. Ain’t nothing but a walking disease upon the land.” He noted the flash of fire in her eyes and sighed. Getting her riled up was not his intent, and with her armed, it would prove hazardous to his health. Heaving a tired, put upon sigh, he pushed thoughts of his horses aside and turned to the matter he’d come for. “Now there was a town meeting the other night and the neighbors are getting mighty tired of this situation, and have asked me to come by and talk to you. I figure you’re a reasonable woman. We should be able to, uh, fix the problems.”

“Well, Mr. Duncan,” the girl spat venomously, “I suggest you trot yourself right out after those mares. I ain’t about to round up those nags you call horses. My stud has more sense than to go looking for mares in your stable. Ain’t one tough enough to cross a creek much less survive a season with the herd. And as for what your drinkin’ buddies think of the stock, you tell ‘em that if I see any of them on my land I’m gonna shoot first and ask questions later. Do you understand, Mr. Duncan? Now then, you’re trespassing on my land.” She stepped closer to the edge of the porch. Her eyes narrowed into furious slits of cobalt blue. “You come back and I’ll put enough holes in you to drive a wagon through.”

“Now, Rylee Parys, you wait a minute,” Tom snapped. Anger prickled hot and sharp along his nerves and he shifted in the saddle. His gaze steady, he eyed the unyielding woman before him. “I mean to get my mares back, missy, and there ain’t a thing you can do. Either you return ‘em or I’ll fetch Marshal Jackson up here and have him deal with it. The choice is yours.”

“Ain’t nothing to say. As long as those animals are on my property they’re protected. They’re all good solid stock, and they’re tougher than anything in your fine stables. I’m don’t aim to let anyone shoot ‘em just because they don’t fit into your breeding program. Now I don’t reckon you’re accusing me of stealing your horses, so I think you’d best ride on.”

He clenched his fists around the saddle horn to stop the itch he had to reach out and brush a stray lock off her forehead. “You payin’ for the damage? Those mares are worth a lot of money and I ain’t standing by and let that mangy stallion have ‘em. Not to mention the fence, the time it’s gonna take my hands to fix it and the loss of grass from them grazing on my land. The price of repairs will bankrupt you before the fall harvest. You can’t afford to have nothing this winter.”

“You deaf or something?” She hissed and stepped down off the porch. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Duncan. I ain’t about to let anyone take anything off my land, that herd included. They belong to me, were born and bred on this land, and wear my brand and by God--”

“Miss Parys, I assure you, I am not interested in discussing this with you. I want both of my mares back, my fence fixed, and that herd gone. You either do it or I will. We haven’t even got around to discussing the water yet.”