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Welcome, everyone! Here's where I blather about writing, life with my partner BA, and my two basset hounds! I love to hear from readers, so comment here or email me!

Saturday, August 25, 2007

okay, so I'll quit whining!

grins

have an excerpt instead. From Jack and the Big Old Beanstalk, my story from Torquere's Torqued Tales:

They lay in a sweaty tangle of arms and legs, both of them panting and smiling for the first time in what seemed like weeks. Jack took a lazy, sloppy kiss, his body feeling like it had been run over by the plow.

“You sure tore me up, Dane,” he said, watching his hand as it slid up Dane’s ribs.

“You brought me candy,” Dane said, kissing him right back. “I’m sorry I made you sleep in the lean-to.”

“I ain’t, if it gets me this.” He sighed, though, knowing it was time to get up. “We should see where that stalk goes.”

“What?” Dane pulled back to stare at him, just like the night before. “Why?”

“Well, that tinker feller said there was riches involved. Now, you know I ain’t inclined to flights of fancy, but it did grow to the sky without no water.”

“Huh. Well, get yer clothes on, then, and let’s go ‘fore it gets too hot.”

They got dressed without any more argument, and started climbing, both of them huffing and puffing long before they reached the top. They had to be crazy. They ought to be out plowing. But they climbed on, both of them resting a bit on one big bean shell.

When they finally popped up at the top of one big ‘ole bean that had split out of the shell, they gaped in amazement.

“Dane. Do you see?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you believe?”

“No.”

There was a whole ranch up there. Hell, the cows was as big as their little house, no lie. Giant cows. Giant everything. And a ranch house sat back along the line of the bean, looking like a fortress to a pair of rag dolls.

“Should we?”

“Hell, yes.” Dane took off like a shot, dodging cow flops bigger than their whole bodies.

“Well, shit. Now who’s a believer?”

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

working hard

have so many deadlines I can't think...

and so many mediocre reviews that I'm thinking of hanging up my hat and just doing non-fiction...

sigh

I hate being hormonal

Thursday, August 02, 2007

an exceprt from Come and Take It: England

available from Torquere Press

London, 1845

Leland August figured London was a pretty strange place for a man who grew up in Texas. It just seemed so damned civilized. All those streets paved with cobbles, with more folks on them than he'd ever seen in one place save the battlefield.

The Texas Legation was on St. James' Street, which made it even more intimidating to a bumpkin from Waterloo. Oh, it might be called Austin now, but Leland had been born there when it was just four families and a settlement before, the new government had decided to call it after Mr. Austin. Wasn't much to it, really, but a map and a plan.

Not like London, that had been there for hundreds of years and soared up so a man could hardly see the clouds.

He'd been there for nearly a month so far, working at the Legation office, which mainly seemed to involve having a drink with the gents at the exclusive clubs on Pall Mall and riding about in the park, showing off horseflesh.

The streets always seemed to have people on them in London, even late in the evening while Leland made his way back to the Legation office. His own accommodations were nearby, and he itched to get out of his starched and yet drooping clothing, but he needed to stop in and leave the packet of papers he'd retrieved from the shipyards.

Sighing, he turned the corner from Pall Mall to St. James, quickening his steps as the wine merchant the Legation hovered over came into view.

Which was, naturally, when he slammed into another body, sending his leather bound packet flying and his own body stumbling back almost into the street.

"Damnation, man! Watch where you put your enormous feet, will you?"

"My feet?" Leland saw red, his hands clenching into fists. "I, sir, was watching where I was going. You came from thin air, I assure you.

Lord, he hated fellows with that snooty tone.

"Indeed? Well, then, certainly the fault is all mine. My abject apologies, you insolent backwoods oaf."

"Oaf!" Growling, Leland straightened his clothing, making sure nothing was awry. "I might be forced to take offense, Sir."

"We are in the right place, then."


***

get it at www.torquerepress.com