A summary of my novel: My Devastatingly Brilliant Campaign to Save the Chigg
Eighth grade was to be the greatest year ever for Ginny Edgars, creative genius, food connoisseur and future award winning zombie screenwriter.
But after one too many adventures lands Ginny and her friends in the principles office, again, she is abandoned by her friends and left to her own devices by her career-obsessed parents.
Alone, and still grieving the death of her beloved Gramps, Ginny determines to befriend eighth grade freakazoid #1, Carrie 'Chigger' Larson.
Only Chigger, the biggest sourpuss in the entire world, resists Ginny's friendship every stinking step of the way until an ancient Indian soothsayer sends Chigger on a quest to learn the truth about the Larson Curse.
Chigger fears the family curse killed her father and caused her mother to stop loving her. Even though Ginny knows curses are a bunch of bulloney, she agrees to help Chigger put an end to the evil that has plagued the Larsons for generations.
But the discovery of an old family diary destroys the girls' friendship, and sets Chigger on a devastating course of self-destruction that leaves her fighting for her very life.
Relying on her foxy cleverness and a few zombie combatant moves, Ginny resolves to solve the mystery of the curse and save Chigger, all while writing the greatest zombie movie ever, Space Zombies in Love.
*****
Click here to access additional Cursed! posts.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Excerpt: On Going Deep (had one of them chew-wawa dogs...)
From my story collection, HEADSHOTS:
On Going Deep
On Dogs
That’s a damn shame. Dog like that with all his ribs poking out. If that was my dog… But it ain’t. I ain’t had a dog in years, its hard enough taking getting my own self fed. But shoot, if he was mine, I wouldn’t let his damn ribs poke out. I’d find him something to eat.
His name is Barrel so I say, “Barrel, how ‘bout you and me head up to Chicago and shack up at Brenda’s place. How you think she like that? Shit. She’d kicked my ass that’s what.” This makes me laugh but then the chocolate lab is all scrunched up against the brick wall like he’s afraid I’ll kick him. Like he’s afraid to be touched. Shit. That damn dog ought to know.
I tug on Barrel’s chain until he turns those miserable, brown eyes on me. I say, “When things settle down at home I’ll take you back with me. And if Brenda don’t like it she can go to hell. What’s she gonna do? Call the police on my ass again? Shit. If I had you I’d say run on Brenda, run on down to that lesbian Trina. That’s right. Do what you’re gonna do ‘cause I got a dog and don’t need your drunk-ass, drill-sergeant shit.”
Brenda is my old lady and the reason I’m down in Memphis. She gave me the boot last week out the clear blue. And there wasn’t no damn reason for it, only she’s got issues. Shit, we all got issues. So I just took my ass down to my sister’s house in Tennessee. Hell, let Brenda have her space. Let her run on down to Trina if she wants. I tell her, “Go on now, have at it,” like it don’t bother me none. And maybe it don’t.
I look out over Teresa’s backyard at the flowers all red, pink, purple and blue. The grass is greener than any I’ve ever seen and the swimming pool water looks as clean and blue as window cleaner. Teresa done good, she done real good. I see all this and know Barrel ain’t ever going anywhere with me. Not even when he ain’t being cared for proper. I could do better for him and that’s a damn shame. Shouldn’t be that way is all.
Crouching down in my ragged jeans I hold my hand out to Barrel. “Come on now, it’s just Ray.” But he won’t come to me. Damn Mark anyway. Why’s he want this dog for if he’s just gonna neglect it? I asked Teresa what we’re gonna do ‘bout this dog, but she says we’re gonna do nothing. Now how’s that? Mark don’t deserve this dog and she knows it. But Teresa ain’t got it in her to say no to that prince of a son.
Still I know it just ain’t right for a dog not to have anyone to love him or care for him. I’d care for him. I’d hide him inside my coat on the bus. I seen someone do that once. He had one of them chew-wawa dogs just tucked up in a coat with his face popping out. Right there on the bus. Ain’t that something? I’d like to do that.
Barrel is looking at me, wanting me to rescue him. He needs someone to help him. I see it, but what can I do? Shit. I shrug with a heavy sigh and hang my head. “I know boy. I know, I know, I know.” When I stand up I’m all lightheaded. Ain’t no-one around, just me and him. I clasp my hands together and wonder, “What we gonna do?”
*****
Click here for complete On Goind Deep short story.
Click here for more HEADSHOTS posts.
On Going Deep
On Dogs
That’s a damn shame. Dog like that with all his ribs poking out. If that was my dog… But it ain’t. I ain’t had a dog in years, its hard enough taking getting my own self fed. But shoot, if he was mine, I wouldn’t let his damn ribs poke out. I’d find him something to eat.
His name is Barrel so I say, “Barrel, how ‘bout you and me head up to Chicago and shack up at Brenda’s place. How you think she like that? Shit. She’d kicked my ass that’s what.” This makes me laugh but then the chocolate lab is all scrunched up against the brick wall like he’s afraid I’ll kick him. Like he’s afraid to be touched. Shit. That damn dog ought to know.
I tug on Barrel’s chain until he turns those miserable, brown eyes on me. I say, “When things settle down at home I’ll take you back with me. And if Brenda don’t like it she can go to hell. What’s she gonna do? Call the police on my ass again? Shit. If I had you I’d say run on Brenda, run on down to that lesbian Trina. That’s right. Do what you’re gonna do ‘cause I got a dog and don’t need your drunk-ass, drill-sergeant shit.”
Brenda is my old lady and the reason I’m down in Memphis. She gave me the boot last week out the clear blue. And there wasn’t no damn reason for it, only she’s got issues. Shit, we all got issues. So I just took my ass down to my sister’s house in Tennessee. Hell, let Brenda have her space. Let her run on down to Trina if she wants. I tell her, “Go on now, have at it,” like it don’t bother me none. And maybe it don’t.
I look out over Teresa’s backyard at the flowers all red, pink, purple and blue. The grass is greener than any I’ve ever seen and the swimming pool water looks as clean and blue as window cleaner. Teresa done good, she done real good. I see all this and know Barrel ain’t ever going anywhere with me. Not even when he ain’t being cared for proper. I could do better for him and that’s a damn shame. Shouldn’t be that way is all.
Crouching down in my ragged jeans I hold my hand out to Barrel. “Come on now, it’s just Ray.” But he won’t come to me. Damn Mark anyway. Why’s he want this dog for if he’s just gonna neglect it? I asked Teresa what we’re gonna do ‘bout this dog, but she says we’re gonna do nothing. Now how’s that? Mark don’t deserve this dog and she knows it. But Teresa ain’t got it in her to say no to that prince of a son.
Still I know it just ain’t right for a dog not to have anyone to love him or care for him. I’d care for him. I’d hide him inside my coat on the bus. I seen someone do that once. He had one of them chew-wawa dogs just tucked up in a coat with his face popping out. Right there on the bus. Ain’t that something? I’d like to do that.
Barrel is looking at me, wanting me to rescue him. He needs someone to help him. I see it, but what can I do? Shit. I shrug with a heavy sigh and hang my head. “I know boy. I know, I know, I know.” When I stand up I’m all lightheaded. Ain’t no-one around, just me and him. I clasp my hands together and wonder, “What we gonna do?”
*****
Click here for complete On Goind Deep short story.
Click here for more HEADSHOTS posts.
Introducing Slade Mortimer: The Roaming Mortician
From my novel, ROOTED:
Washed up and drugged out, punk's poster-boy, Slade Mortimer, is on his last leg. After years of running, Slade descends on Moonsock in a desperate attempt to claim an inheritance and escapte his dead girlfriend's revenge-seeking father.
Excerpt:
While the women looked to each other for a volunteer, the door opened of its own accord. They were instantly assaulted by antagonistic screeching, harsh chords, and crashing drums; still they did not recognize the sound as music. The smell that poured from the car had the familiar trappings of rot and decay.
The women instinctively took a step back, and another. Then, slowly, one unlaced black combat boot was lowered to the ground.
“Bet it’s some deranged military man,” Althea determined loudly over the volatile noise. “One of them disgruntled Vietnam veterans.”
“Hush, Althea,” Eleanor warned as the other boot lowered to the ground. At this point the driver’s body slumped forward into view. He rested his bloody, searing blue spiked head on his hands, placed his elbows uneasily upon his knees, opened his mouth and succumbed to several harsh, dry heaves. He emitted a small amount of watery vomit, which dribbled onto his boots.
The women shuddered with revulsion, and then leaned forward for a better view. “My sweet Jesus,” Miss Josie cried. “Look at that mop.”
The driver managed to pull himself to his feet and stood wobbling for a moment before doubling over and succumbing to a gut-wrenching heave. “Auwaughhhhhh…”
Still bent over, they heard him faintly curse, “Shit…shit…shit…shit.” After a moment or two, he recovered enough to stand upright again. He looked around with dazed eyes and then promptly fell to the ground unconscious; his bloody face inches from Lucy’s bloody cow face.
Eleanor stepped forward and whispered, “Oh my! He’s hurt.”
“He’s hurt all right, but that still doesn’t explain the hair.” Miss Josie pointed at the bloody blue spikes. “Or the earrings.”
“Or all those tattoos,” Sarah Jane whispered, studying the driver’s naked torso, the word SWEET tattooed above his right nipple and SOUR above the left. A scaly red dragon breathing hellfire snaked up the side of his abdomen from his hip to right beneath his armpit.
“Or the way he looks all starved to death,” Althea pointed out.
“Or the way he just looks like death,” Miss Josie added. And that was what they all solemnly agreed; he looked like death. He did not even look like death warmed over, no, he just looked like death. His gaunt, alabaster body was emaciated.
“He’s fishbait all right,” Althea hissed loudly.
Eleanor disagreed. “He looks like a bruised and battered kitten.”
Miss Josie was more skeptical. “A kitten wearing black leather pants and eyeliner? I wouldn’t give my daughter any kitten like that.” She shook her head at the driver’s total inappropriateness. “And what,” she demanded, pointing, “for the love of God, is that?”
They looked away from the nose ring, ashamed for the man.
*****
Click for full excerpt from Rooted.
Click for additional ROOTED blog posts.
Washed up and drugged out, punk's poster-boy, Slade Mortimer, is on his last leg. After years of running, Slade descends on Moonsock in a desperate attempt to claim an inheritance and escapte his dead girlfriend's revenge-seeking father.
Excerpt:
While the women looked to each other for a volunteer, the door opened of its own accord. They were instantly assaulted by antagonistic screeching, harsh chords, and crashing drums; still they did not recognize the sound as music. The smell that poured from the car had the familiar trappings of rot and decay.
The women instinctively took a step back, and another. Then, slowly, one unlaced black combat boot was lowered to the ground.
“Bet it’s some deranged military man,” Althea determined loudly over the volatile noise. “One of them disgruntled Vietnam veterans.”
“Hush, Althea,” Eleanor warned as the other boot lowered to the ground. At this point the driver’s body slumped forward into view. He rested his bloody, searing blue spiked head on his hands, placed his elbows uneasily upon his knees, opened his mouth and succumbed to several harsh, dry heaves. He emitted a small amount of watery vomit, which dribbled onto his boots.
The women shuddered with revulsion, and then leaned forward for a better view. “My sweet Jesus,” Miss Josie cried. “Look at that mop.”
The driver managed to pull himself to his feet and stood wobbling for a moment before doubling over and succumbing to a gut-wrenching heave. “Auwaughhhhhh…”
Still bent over, they heard him faintly curse, “Shit…shit…shit…shit.” After a moment or two, he recovered enough to stand upright again. He looked around with dazed eyes and then promptly fell to the ground unconscious; his bloody face inches from Lucy’s bloody cow face.
Eleanor stepped forward and whispered, “Oh my! He’s hurt.”
“He’s hurt all right, but that still doesn’t explain the hair.” Miss Josie pointed at the bloody blue spikes. “Or the earrings.”
“Or all those tattoos,” Sarah Jane whispered, studying the driver’s naked torso, the word SWEET tattooed above his right nipple and SOUR above the left. A scaly red dragon breathing hellfire snaked up the side of his abdomen from his hip to right beneath his armpit.
“Or the way he looks all starved to death,” Althea pointed out.
“Or the way he just looks like death,” Miss Josie added. And that was what they all solemnly agreed; he looked like death. He did not even look like death warmed over, no, he just looked like death. His gaunt, alabaster body was emaciated.
“He’s fishbait all right,” Althea hissed loudly.
Eleanor disagreed. “He looks like a bruised and battered kitten.”
Miss Josie was more skeptical. “A kitten wearing black leather pants and eyeliner? I wouldn’t give my daughter any kitten like that.” She shook her head at the driver’s total inappropriateness. “And what,” she demanded, pointing, “for the love of God, is that?”
They looked away from the nose ring, ashamed for the man.
*****
Click for full excerpt from Rooted.
Click for additional ROOTED blog posts.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Uncertain, Rethinking, Questioning
A decision to be made: considerations and implications. What will it mean? What will happen? Who will it affect?
People wait anxiously for my word, my decision; pressing on me, bending my back with their hungry, expectant eyes. Hurrying me when I need more time.
Only I'm not ready. But there's nothing for it but to choose. Decide and move on to the next thing, the next question, the next choice. Because there is always something else to determine or choose or settle. Always something else to commit to or solve.
It is never ending.
I long to choose something new and challenging. A risk, anything to get the blood rushing, to strain the muscles: anything to propel me up and beyond the routines of daily existence that increasingly comfort yet restrain me with each passing year.
Anything to make me feel alive and vibrant on long and bitter winter days instead of insulated and isolated.
For now, harried and hurried I settle for the safe and known despite the fact that it is the tried and true that I most want to rebel against, to rise above. It is the tried and true that seems to be thickening my blood and my waistline.
Decision made: I step to the counter and order Sesame Chicken even though it may not be what I really want.
But what do I really want for dinner tonight, or the next night or the next?
More importantly, what do I really want for myself, my life and my future? The same books and music and food? The same people and places? The tried and true.
Or do I want unknown horizons and expanded views? Music fresh to my ears, words and sentences and thoughts both strange and wondrous to me. Untasted food, exotic to my tongue, foreign to my knowing body.
I don't know. I can't decide.
People wait anxiously for my word, my decision; pressing on me, bending my back with their hungry, expectant eyes. Hurrying me when I need more time.
Only I'm not ready. But there's nothing for it but to choose. Decide and move on to the next thing, the next question, the next choice. Because there is always something else to determine or choose or settle. Always something else to commit to or solve.
It is never ending.
I long to choose something new and challenging. A risk, anything to get the blood rushing, to strain the muscles: anything to propel me up and beyond the routines of daily existence that increasingly comfort yet restrain me with each passing year.
Anything to make me feel alive and vibrant on long and bitter winter days instead of insulated and isolated.
For now, harried and hurried I settle for the safe and known despite the fact that it is the tried and true that I most want to rebel against, to rise above. It is the tried and true that seems to be thickening my blood and my waistline.
Decision made: I step to the counter and order Sesame Chicken even though it may not be what I really want.
But what do I really want for dinner tonight, or the next night or the next?
More importantly, what do I really want for myself, my life and my future? The same books and music and food? The same people and places? The tried and true.
Or do I want unknown horizons and expanded views? Music fresh to my ears, words and sentences and thoughts both strange and wondrous to me. Untasted food, exotic to my tongue, foreign to my knowing body.
I don't know. I can't decide.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Introducing Sarah Jane McQuiston: Accused Vagitarian
From my manuscript ROOTED:
Stubborn and rebellious, Sarah Jane McQuiston is an untamable recluse hiding from a traumatic past and a scandal that has the entire town talking. All Sarah Jane wants is to remain at Moonsock: unseen, unwanted and untouchable.
Excerpt:
The sheriff said, “First, Mr. McQuiston, let me say how everyone knows Sarah Jane is, well, she’s just different is all.
Like how when someone talks to her, she just stands there with her eyes on the ground, like she doesn’t see or hear no one. Almost like she’s holding her breath until they go away. Shoot, I’ve hardly ever seen her talk to anyone other than that mechanic over at Patterson’s garage. And it ain’t natural, her not dating or having a boyfriend, not at her age.
She don’t work a job or go to school. And she just looks a mess anytime she comes to town, always looking like she just rolled out of bed, or ain’t even been to bed in days. She’s a pretty girl, but ain’t none of us ever seen her in a dress, not even to church. Just wears those cut-off shorts and all.
And how she runs round all night at the river, like she don't have no upbringing."
“I know all about Sarah Jane, Watkins. I don’t need you telling me about my blood.” Grover might have said granddaughter, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. And he hated using the word “blood” to describe Sarah Jane, when it had never been proven to him that even a drop of McQuiston blood flowed in her veins.
*****
Click for additional ROOTED blog posts.
Stubborn and rebellious, Sarah Jane McQuiston is an untamable recluse hiding from a traumatic past and a scandal that has the entire town talking. All Sarah Jane wants is to remain at Moonsock: unseen, unwanted and untouchable.
Excerpt:
The sheriff said, “First, Mr. McQuiston, let me say how everyone knows Sarah Jane is, well, she’s just different is all.
Like how when someone talks to her, she just stands there with her eyes on the ground, like she doesn’t see or hear no one. Almost like she’s holding her breath until they go away. Shoot, I’ve hardly ever seen her talk to anyone other than that mechanic over at Patterson’s garage. And it ain’t natural, her not dating or having a boyfriend, not at her age.
She don’t work a job or go to school. And she just looks a mess anytime she comes to town, always looking like she just rolled out of bed, or ain’t even been to bed in days. She’s a pretty girl, but ain’t none of us ever seen her in a dress, not even to church. Just wears those cut-off shorts and all.
And how she runs round all night at the river, like she don't have no upbringing."
“I know all about Sarah Jane, Watkins. I don’t need you telling me about my blood.” Grover might have said granddaughter, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. And he hated using the word “blood” to describe Sarah Jane, when it had never been proven to him that even a drop of McQuiston blood flowed in her veins.
*****
Click for additional ROOTED blog posts.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Just Call Me Francis The Talking Mule
Highlights of my lowbrow vacation in the wilds of Missouri on our forty acre property.
Continued to clean up the devastation from a 110 mph straight line wind storm from a year and half ago. This involved much mule-like activity centering around chopping/hauling/burning acres of downed trees and limbs. Great fun.
Took a break to visit an alcoholic ex-felon who drank crown royal, blessed me often and talked of all the big, violent women he knew. His mind kept returning to a pool-game murder witnessed in prison.
Gifted a quart of moonshine in a mason jar.
Saw an outhouse with double toilets minus any walls in someone's front yard. Classy.
Crushed a mouse with my massive body. Don't ask.
Busted a chain on my dirtbike just as a terrible storm broke. Waited for help in a torrential downpour with lightning crashing all about.
Spent New Years discussing Charles Bukowski, the beat writers and government conspiracy with a banjo picker. The quart of moonshine was drained (not by me).
Made it home on gas fumes.
All in all, most enjoyable.
Continued to clean up the devastation from a 110 mph straight line wind storm from a year and half ago. This involved much mule-like activity centering around chopping/hauling/burning acres of downed trees and limbs. Great fun.
Took a break to visit an alcoholic ex-felon who drank crown royal, blessed me often and talked of all the big, violent women he knew. His mind kept returning to a pool-game murder witnessed in prison.
Gifted a quart of moonshine in a mason jar.
Saw an outhouse with double toilets minus any walls in someone's front yard. Classy.
Crushed a mouse with my massive body. Don't ask.
Busted a chain on my dirtbike just as a terrible storm broke. Waited for help in a torrential downpour with lightning crashing all about.
Spent New Years discussing Charles Bukowski, the beat writers and government conspiracy with a banjo picker. The quart of moonshine was drained (not by me).
Made it home on gas fumes.
All in all, most enjoyable.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
23 Years of Disallusion: An Anniversary
On January 2nd, 1988 I:
- Left my car at the bottom of the driveway with a note to my parents.
- Drove to a church. And yes, it was a Pentacostal church - recommended by a head trauma patient.
- Eloped in my prom dress.
- Honeymooned in a Motel 6 in Texarkana enroute to Dallas.
- Dined on a steak finger basket at Dairy Queen.
- Woke up in the middle of the night and swore my ring was missing. When my newly-minted husband assured me it was on my finger, I exclaimed "I'm so disallusioned," and fell back to sleep. Awoke five minutes later not remembering this incident.
- Have no intention of driving anywhere today. Its negative 40,000 degrees in Iowa.
- Plan to watch Weeds all day in my house coat.
- Will dine on whatever my old, worn-out husband cooks and will like it immensely.
- Slept soundly, dreaming I found arrowheads in dirt that I wanted to give my husband.
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