Who wants some book teasers? Well, shuh, who doesn't like a good tease?
Like a starving wendigo staggering into a Republican convention, the issue I currently struggle with is not whether to dive into a book project, but what to slurp and chomp and encompass into my very being first. It’ll all get eaten—I mean written—but I’m at a loss which looks tastiest.
I’d love to release my Wendigo Yule story, featuring Morty’s comic adventures as a not-quite-reindeer on Christmas Eve. However I really should wait until The Reluctant Wendigo Book 2 (working title Love Song of the Murder Deer) is finished and published, as the events in it need to happen before the Yule tale. Which means I need to finish writing this Northwoods horror adventure. Morty tries to resume normal life despite his carnivorous diet, Marie the mishibizhu is tasked by her father to bring the wendigo to him for a job interview, Darcy comes to grips with the fact her boyfriend is a monster, and Kim is beset by the creepy little people of the forest.
A sample (Love Song of the Murder Deer):
“What the hell’s your problem, freak?” The leader strode forward, getting in the stranger’s face.
Though the six-foot-plus fisherman towered over the skinny stranger, Ben’s fear ratcheted up. Suddenly he recalled campfire tales his grandfather had told him, stories about things that roamed the subarctic forests in winter. Things that sometimes looked like hungry people, but weren’t people any more. Ignoring the man who’d stomped him, Ben grabbed Danny’s jacket and lurched backward, hauling both of them upright as best he could.
The white leader looked the skinny man up and down. “What the hell’s wrong with you, anyways? You lost? You on drugs or something?”
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” countered the stranger. He gestured at the two boys, and Ben flinched. “Looks like you’ve beat the shit out of them over a damned fish.”
The leader barked, “Look, someone’s got to keep these goddamned Indians in line, keep ‘em off our lakes! All they do’s take all the fish and game and then bitch about tribal rights. Well what about our rights? We’re the ones being discriminated against here! Now if you got a problem with that, then you got a problem with us.”
The stranger grinned wider. His teeth looked too big, too sharp. “Funnily enough, I am actually part Menominee. But I’m not the one here with a problem.”
“Half-breed asshole!” The leader swung a fist, and his buddies yelled, all starting toward the stranger.
The thin man caught the fist in his own wide hand. His fingerbones burst through his flesh, stretching into white claws, piercing the wrist of the leader who howled in pain. The stranger laughed, his eyes wide and wild. Antlers shot up from his head.
Ben stared in horror as the man’s body stretched, limbs lengthening, skin tearing, his grin becoming a long bony muzzle full of fangs.
“Thank god, a bunch of racists,” the stranger growled, his voice rough and weirdly hollow, “I’m fucking starving.”
Book One, Wendigogo, is available in ebook from the usual vendors, paperback from amazon, and personalized, autographed paperback only from Graythorn Publishing. The perfect Yule gift for anyone who, like me, enjoys “Cabin in the Woods” as one of the best comedies ever filmed!
Or I could finish the Straw Man Yule story which I have about half-completed. Following on the heels of their paranormal romance, Jack and Cassie are having some unexpected hitches in their relationship around Yuletide. Jack is dealing with a discrimination suit that takes a nasty turn, and Cassie’s sister and family drop in unannounced to stay with them a few weeks. Given that Cassie’s green witchcraft has had unusual effects on Jack, and that they’re trying to keep their relationship a secret, the added complication of a nosy sister and curious kids doesn’t help matters. And Jack has always hated Christmas.
A sample (Straw Man Yule):
Jack grinned at Cassie as she turned around and embraced him, and forced strength into his shaky voice. “Oh yeah. Another satisfied customer of the Strohmann produce stand.”
She laughed. “I better be your only customer, turkey.”
Jack hugged her tight. She leaned into him, kissing his neck. He could feel her heart pounding in counterpoint to his, both calming slowly, still charged with the heat of their connection. “My only, always. Love you so much, Cassandra.”
She gazed up at him with low-lidded dark eyes. He’d never get tired of that soft, drowsy smile she had right after sex. “Love you, Jack.” They held each other a minute more, listening to each other’s breath, feeling warm and happy.
As Jack’s brain came back down to earth, he wondered if this might be exactly what he needed. She was right. He could afford to not think about anything else for a few days. He could stay right here, in her arms. Contentment suffused his whole being. He kissed her hair, breathing in the sweet, lush scent of her, blackberry and deep earth.
She chuckled. “Okay, you. Coffee’s still hot. Help yourself. I’m going to grab a shower and then we can decide how to spend the rest of the day.” She gently pulled away and tugged her pants up.
“Can I come join you?” Jack asked. When she glanced at him he gave her his patented filthy eyebrow waggle.
“I think there may be room in the tub,” she agreed.
Grinning, Jack pulled her back to him for another kiss.
Knocking sounded at the front door. Loud, insistent, and from more than one set of knuckles. Jack froze. “You expecting anyone?” he asked.
Cassie shook her head. Her confusion and dismay echoed his own. “Stay here. Get your coffee. Probably the Jehovah people again, trying to convert me.” She sighed. “I made the mistake once of inviting them in for tea and ever since, they come ’round at the winter and spring solstices trying to convince me I need their god.”
Jack pulled his sweatpants back up and retied his robe shut. “Let me handle ’em.”
“No, just in case,” Cassie warned, and he nodded.
He tamped down his unease as she left the room. She was more than capable of handling whomever it was by herself. He still hadn’t seen her cast a hex. He imagined green lightning shooting from her fingers at any dumbass who crossed her. Now that would be fun to watch. For now, though, discretion was the better part of romance. He plucked a stoneware mug from a cupboard and poured coffee into it black, hearing voices. Quite a few voices. Then shouting, though he couldn’t make out the words.
Alarmed, Jack immediately pushed through the swinging kitchen door to the rambling hallway, heading for the front door, forgetting to set down his mug first. Hot coffee splashed onto his long robe. He cursed but didn’t break stride, rushing around the corner to find Cassie standing awkwardly in the arms of a tall Black man. A short woman with a round face and tied-back black hair was grinning widely next to him. Two boys jostled past them, arguing loudly about rooms, falling silent and drawing up short as they saw Jack.
Jack looked at the kids, at the woman whose upturned nose and broad cheeks echoed Cassie’s, at the man who now released her and straightened his shoulders. Bulging suitcases and bags of wrapped gifts sat on the hall floor and the porch past the open door. A chill breeze swept through, flapping the hem of Jack’s robe and blowing his hair back. He looked at Cassie. Her expression was full of anxiety.
“Oh,” said the other woman, glancing between Jack and Cassie. “Well. My goodness.” She bit her lip, clearly trying not to burst out laughing.
The man stepped forward and stuck out his right hand. “Hi, sorry about that. I can see we’re interrupting. Barry. Barry Elmwood.”
Jack shook his hand. “Jack Strohmann.”
“Sis, you lied,” the woman said, nudging Cassie. Cassie gave her a sickly smile and threw a desperate, apologetic look at Jack. “You did have more news you neglected to share.”
“Jack,” Cassie said, brushing her hair back from her face, “This is my sister. Brandy. And her family. They just arrived this morning from overseas.”
Jack nodded, swallowed, and forced a smile to his lips.
If you need a story full of hope, magic, and love triumphing over intolerance, Straw Man ticks those boxes quite well. Also, it has pumpkins aplenty, steaming hot love scenes, magical botanical transformation, and small-town legal drama. Available everywhere in ebook. Did I mention the love scenes are hot enough to fog up your windows this time of year?
Cassie’s cocky friend Theo elbowed her way into Straw Man, drank all the tea, and sauntered off into her own book to collide with one of the citizens of Oz. Working title for this WIP is “Scarecrow.”
What if Oz was a real place? What if Glinda wasn’t so very good? It is a “fairy land,” after all, and we all know the fae were not cutesy little butterfly-winged, simpering cherubs, but cold and occasionally vicious creatures. What if Dorothy wasn’t a child when she visited, but a young woman whose energy and affection captivated her first real friend in that strange land, the Scarecrow? What if he missed her so much he dared to travel to our world to find her?
But what if he overshot Dorothy’s era by a century?
A sample (Scarecrow):
“The sun rises,” Glinda warned. “Step away, Tin Man, lest you want to journey with him.”
Nick retreated. Tears at the corners of his eyes shone in the dawn light spilling through the stained glass window. “Stop that, you’ll rust,” Scarecrow said, and Nick managed a grin at the old refrain. “Goodbye, Nick. Thank you.”
“Close your eyes, and focus your every thought on this: I am seeking my heart’s desire,” commanded Glinda.
Scarecrow took a deep breath, smelling the emerald dust and the faint flowery perfume of the Emerald City one last time. He shut his eyes and repeated the spell, tense, feeling the magic creeping into his straw as Glinda wove her enchantment on him. I am seeking my heart’s desire. I am seeking my heart’s desire.
A whirlwind kicked up around him, dust blowing in his face. Scarecrow clutched one hand to his hat. He kept his eyes tightly closed, trembling, feeling his feet leave the floor. Did she conjure a tornado? Was this what his love had felt like when she was blown so far away from her homeland?
A horrible wrenching sensation made him double over in surprising pain.
Oh, this was bad. This was worse than having his straw yanked out. That was merely uncomfortable and inconvenient. This must be what actual agony felt like. A gasp escaped his lips. The howl of the wind deafened his ears. The swirling wind compressed his body tighter and tighter until he couldn’t even scream.
The sudden release of everything dropped him to the ground. Scarecrow lay there, drawing air into his chest to expand the straw, wheezing. Pain prickled through his whole frame as he slowly uncurled. Blinking back tears, he tried to focus his vision. Everything was a blur, deafening, hot. Hard yellow bricks underneath him, bright red lights above, things zooming past. He turned his head and saw a number of people standing around, pointing and exclaiming at him. Pounding, cheery music assaulted his ears.
With effort, he braced his knees and stood. Dizziness threatened to send him tumbling to the floor again. No, wait, the floor itself tilted to one side. The air swirled with constant movement. He cringed from the thousands of candles above until he realized they weren’t burning, but lit with some sort of internal magic.
No sign of his love. He turned, and saw a parade of creatures gallivanting in tiers, those strange red fireflies illuminating their march. Their feet did not move. How were they sweeping past? Were any of them even alive? He saw unicorns, merpeople, odd centaurs. Many others he couldn’t name but which wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Emerald City.
Were these travelers who had come before, their magic lost, now frozen as statues for all time in this horrible, deafening parade?
Disoriented and ill, Scarecrow took a step too hastily, lost his balance and tumbled down the sloped brick floor toward a yawning doorway in the shape of a great beast’s mouth.
Gasps and cries went up around him. His limbs sprawled every which way, his gloves slipped across the smooth bricks. He struggled to right himself. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he flopped, ungraceful, aware he looked ridiculous. This was as bad as learning to walk, fresh off the cornfield pole.
Worse than his humiliation, everything hurt. If this was what humans called pain, he wanted no part of it. His straw body had never experienced anything like it before.
“Oh crap, don’t move, your leg looks broken,” said a sharp, feminine voice just behind him.
Was that her? Had she found him? It sounded like and somehow not like his love. “Dorothy?” he asked, hope wavering in his chest. He looked up into an unfamiliar face.
The young woman pushed her pumpkin-orange hair from her hazel-green eyes, frowning at him. One eyebrow quirked upward. Tiny silver beads there and over her left nostril gleamed pink in the reddish lights.
“Nobody calls me that,” she said. “Do I know you?”
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| The House on the Rock IS a gateway. |
So, dear readers, I assure you all of these stories will be finished. I’m just at an impasse as to which to work on. Scarecrow calls to me, but Morty is getting annoyed that I’ve abandoned him so long. Marie itches for a fight. Jack might rather avoid the holidays altogether, but Cassie yearns for family and sweet witchy traditions.
Which delight should I pluck first? What savory mouthful should I squeeze until it yields up its blood to me? Let’s hear from the peanut gallery!
And remember, if you’ve read either of my published books, please be sure to leave a review on your favorite site! Reviews help authors achieve verbal-conjugal consummation. Why, I once heard of an author whom no one reviewed. His writing hand withered away and he was unable to even satisfy himself with it. True story.
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