Autumn.

Just writing that word brings me countless joys. Brittle leaves crumbling under foot. A nip in the night air that makes you want to zip your jacket up. Barren trees with their extended, arthritic branches that seem to reach out for you with malevolent intent.

The first fire in a fire place to warm your feet and nourish your soul.

The days shrink, as the night takes control.

And the creatures of dark and blighted imagination take center stage. Thoughts turn to that one day of the year when we embrace our inner monsters. That one twenty four hour slice of madness and mayhem where we face every devil and demon; every ghost and ghoul; every vampire, werewolf, zombie and undead who make their presence known, demanding their due. We do the Monster Mash as Bobby Pickett instructed, we bob for apples in a tin tub of water, we roam candle lit neighborhoods dressed in our soul cleansing costumes in hopes of confusing the real monsters.

If you grew up in my neighborhood (Islip Terrace, NY) you avoided the high school kids who loved egging the younger kids. For those not familiar with this ritual of childhood, it involved older kids throwing raw eggs at the younger kids. Sometimes they took your pillow case full of candy, sometimes not. I suppose it depended on if there were any adults with you or not. Without exception, I remember trick or treating with friends and my sister, well, at least until she got too old to do so anymore. Yes, that’s right, when I made the rounds it was with friends. My Mom or Dad would drive us to the beginning of a block, and wait in the car until we went down one side of the street and up the other until we got back to the car (a ’74 blue Gremlin, but that’s another story). There was no fear of being lured into a stranger’s house never to be seen again, now did we worry about razors in the apples, poison in the candy, or any other deed most foul. Everyone knew everyone in the neighborhood and it was also a more innocent time, I think. In fact, the worst thing that could happen would be missing “It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown” on our floor model Zenith with aluminum foil wrapped around the antenna. Aside from that and rain, the worst thing that could happen was being egged.

One of the last times I remember going out in my frayed, ill fitting pirate skeleton costume provided the biggest scare of my young life. I was with my friend Steve on his side of town (which was merely across the main drag), and it was only the two of us. I could be wrong about that, but it’s how I remember it. I know we were close to the railroad tracks, and Main Street High School, which was maybe a mile or so from my own home. It was pitch black, windy and cold. Some houses had their lights off-you know, the ones who pretended not to be home, even though you could see a tv set flickering inside. Others had plastic pumpkins with a flashlight tucked inside set out at the start of the driveway. A couple had some toilet paper strung like a spider web from trees (not surprisingly the same homes with no lights on), and many had no decorations at all-apparently oblivious to the holiday.

There was one house though, which defied all others. It stood as a testament to the owners love of all things black and orange. There were cotton cobwebs cocooning the dried tree limbs. Two dozen or so real pumpkins lined each side of their driveway, all with a candle planted firmly in the center. Each had a different and equally scary face carved in a crude, demented style. A skeleton hung from one tree, his eyes lighting up as we passed it on the way to the porch. On the porch was one of the biggest pumpkins I’d ever seen, bright orange, and all malevolent glare. There was no candle in this beast. Instead it was overflowing with candy. Not the cheap little boxes of dots, or plastic wrapped sour balls, no sir, here was the granddaddy of all mother lodes. Mini Snickers, 3 Musketeers, and Milky Ways fell from the opening. Steve and I looked at one another, jaws down to the ground.

“We could take the whole thing!” one of us said, with the greedy delight only a sugar deprived preteen could muster.

That’s when we noticed the scarecrow. It sat obscured in a dark corner of the porch, where candlelight couldn’t reach. I already had my hand in the treasure, Steve was getting ready to dig in, when it started to move. Slowly.

At first I thought it was simply a trick of my the eye, combined with the wavering shadows thrown from candle flames, but it continued to stand. Ripped jeans with hay protruding like broken bones, a flannel shirt with the yellow straw poking out. Leather gloves, grimy with dirt and god knows what else-it all came together as the scarecrow began to move in our directions. It’s arms were held out as if it were Karloff’s infamous monster, reaching, stretching, ready to claw at the kid flesh which had defiled it’s trove of chocolate.

“Take one, and only one,” it said in all too human female voice, though to me it sounded like it came from the pits of hell. “I’ll haunt you and chase you forever if you don’t!”

That was all we needed to hear, as we ran screaming down the driveway, flinging our pudgy little bodies to our respective homes as fast as we could. For weeks afterwards, I dreamt of that damn scarecrow, chasing me in my dreams, and trick or treating lost its appeal. I don’t think I ever went again.

That was over 30 years ago, and yet that one moment in time is still etched in my memory as if it happened last night.

I write about it now, to exorcise that childhood demon, and also because when I woke up this morning I found a piece of straw on my pillow.

And what the hell, lets make this even longer, heere’s my not so great story, but one I had fun writing.

Killer Weed

by

Scott Colbert

When you kill your best friend, then he ought to stay dead.

If he had, I might have a better than snowball’s chance in hell of surviving. I didn’t pay much attention to him at first; after all he was never right in the head. I can say that, because, we’ve known each other since…well hell I don’t remember not ever knowing him. When I call him my best friend I don’t say it lightly. We’d both been through life’s grinder one too many times, and the shit storms we survived, brought us together. We were survivors, so it was a goddamn shame what I did but there was no choice. The bastard tore off my nut and ate it like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. I’m getting ahead of myself though, let me start at the beginning while I have time.

Like most summer days in Phoenix it was hot as fuck. Even my cat wasn’t demanding to be let out. Any other day, you would have found me at work around that time but I’d gotten suspended for excessive lateness. See, that still doesn’t make sense to me; not that it matters since there’s no job to go to anymore.

I was lying on my couch, half asleep and half listening to Montel kiss Sylvia Browne’s fraudulent ass. “It won’t be like anything else…” I heard her declare in that raspy smoker’s voice.

Looking back, I can say that’s the only thing she got right. Anyway, I’m in that twilight area of awake and sleep when the coffee table begins vibrating. I reach over, knocking the overflowing ashtray over as well as some empty packs of smokes and God knows what else onto a carpet that’d seen better days.

A blinking light. A text message. I mutter some random obscenity, flip open the phone and read the only two words on the screen.

U awake

One contemptuous sigh later I text back

NO.

I’d barely snapped the phone shut when an a familiar knocking came from the front door. Detta, my cat, hightailed it to the bedroom to cower in the corner. I yelled for him to come in while I sat up and pushed my erection back into my boxers.

The door opened slowly. Johnny boy peered in. “You awake?” he asked, stepping inside.

“I’m smoking’ ain’t I?” I said, lighting a Camel to prove my point. This earned me his patented eye roll. Shrugging off his backpack, Johnny boy coiled his too thin frame into the rickety rocking chair he’d built. Sweat trickled down his long face creating a glossy sheen.

“Didn’t wanna wake you up.”

When I caught him looking at my crotch, he glanced away.

“So what’s up?” I asked. Then just to be a prick I added “Besides me.”

Johnny boy smirked. He reached over the right side of the rocker and lifted his back pack as if it had nothing in it. I knew better and would have bet dollars to donuts there’d be some clothes, a day timer, books and whatever secrets he didn’t want anyone to find, including me.

Before he could play show and tell, I smelled the cloying earthy scent of pot. This wasn’t just any weed though; this was some primo shit.

All I could manage was a whispered “Holy fuck.” What he pulled out was not one but two Ziploc freezer bags filled with the greenest pot I’d ever seen. My first thought was luminescent emeralds.

“Stick your nose in that shit.” he said with a grin, tossing a bag over. Fact is, I didn’t need to stick my nose anywhere, the odor was so potent. “My brother Donald got these at work.” Already his fingers were poking and prodding in his bag, searching for the perfect bud.

“Lot of good this’ll do me,” I said, setting the bag aside, which caused Johnny boy to give me a weird look. “I have to go for a piss test tomorrow before I can go back to work…” The annoyance and frustration were getting stronger.

“What the hell? They suspended you for being late all the time, not for smoking a one hitter. Dude, that’s fucked up.”

All I could do was shrug. “I know-HR is full of douche bags, what can I say?” I picked the bag up again and kept turning it over and over. “Keep that one,” he said rolling and then licking the joint closed. “Donald said the shit’s growing like weeds.” He laughed. “Weed growing like weeds, that’s funny.” This was said more to himself than to me, so I didn’t bother correcting him. “You mind?” he asked lighting the joint anyway…

“Guess not.” I stood and stretched enough to pop my back. My hard on had subsided a bit, but still made a tent in my boxers. As I walked past Johnny boy I brushed it against his shoulder, just to watch him tense up. Despite all the years that had gone by, he never could forget the night we got drunk and he begged me to fuck him in the ass. We were barely 18 then and approaching 30 now; yet it still bothered him. Anytime I tried to bring it up he’d either change the subject or just walk away from me.

None of that means a handful of monkey shit now.

I went to the kitchen to make some coffee as Johnny boy created a cloud in my living room. “Want anything to drink?” I called out.

“No man, I’m cooo….” he trailed off before finishing.

“You baked already?”

“No man I ain’t no lightwei…” he trailed again. Detta came charging into the kitchen as soon as she heard me open a cabinet, meowing, and winding herself around my legs. While the Mr. Coffee came to the end of its brewing cycle, I poured some hazelnut creamer and a sweet n low in my favorite mug.

As I reached for the carafe, daggers of ice sliced their way down my back.

“My brother got these from work.” Johnny boy had said. I picked up the glass pot with a trembling hand and managed to pour a full cup despite the palsy shake.

Something wasn’t right. I made my way back to the couch where the zip loc stared up at me. I jerked back, splashing myself, not noticing the heat. Johnny boy’s eyes were a blazing red, barely more than slits. A small strand of drool hung from his upper lip. “Hey Johnny boy,” I said mostly to see if he could hear me.

“Yeah,” he said eyes opening up a bit.

I took a sip. My hands still shook and I couldn’t get them to stop. “Doesn’t your brother work at the graveyard?” I put the mug down as I began to put things together.

The quivering had strengthened.

On TV, Judge Judy replaced Montel..

Johnny boy perked up considerably. He liked nothing better than talking about the cemetery. “Hell yeah,” he said with a bit too much enthusiasm for my taste. He leaned forward, taking a hit then stubbed out the joint on a days emptied beer can. “Been there since he got out of prison.”

“That was like five years ago, he just now found it?” I asked. Sometimes talking with Johnny boy was like doing a puzzle made by a nitwit. When he got in this mode, it was better to listen, and then put things together and hope there were no missing pieces.

“No one ever goes there anymore, it’s closed, you know that,” he reminded me, though I honestly didn’t know it was closed. Being it was on the far west side of town, I very rarely went there outside of the keggers in college. “It’s gotten way overgrown so Donald got told to clean it up. “This,” he nodded in the direction of the baggie, “was growing wild all the way in the back where the crypts are.”

I lit another cigarette with the blue bic Johnny boy had. “There’re crypts back there?” I asked, intrigued.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s the fuckin’ desert, Eddie. Back in the day before bulldozers and shit, they couldn’t dig graves. Ground was too fucking hard. “Johnny boy relit the joint, took a long hit, and let it settle in his lungs, before blowing twin plumes from flared nostrils.

I looked at the bag again. Where I saw emerald green earlier there was now mold ripped from corpses long forgotten about.

“Dude, ” I said, not even trying to hide my disgust, “this was growing around dead people!”

“Donald says they make the best fertilizer.” Johnny boy sucked down the last of the joint, then leaned back with his eyes closed. A stoned grin plastered his face. With a quick kick I knocked the plastic bag off the couch, where it made its new home under the coffee table, with some other garbage and stains. It could stay there until Johnny boy picked it up and took it home for all I cared. I shuddered one time and lay down on the couch. The second hand smoke made me a bit drowsy. Even thoughts of rotted gardeners with sharp pruning shears, dripping blood couldn’t keep unconsciousness at bay.

It was only when Johnny boy began tearing my nut sack with his teeth that the real nightmare began.

The first sensation was of an ice cube being run down my inner thigh, which stirred me a bit. The sound of ripping cloth stirred me even further. The rough clutching at my balls woke me completely. My eyes opened in time to see Johnny boy with my nut sac in his mouth. Then he began whipping his head back and forth like a dog playing tug of war. I kicked him in the face, and as his head jerked back, my scrotum went with it.

I realized I’d probably made a mistake. I saw the skin stretch, heard it rip, saw the blood. I screamed as I clutched and clawed between my legs. Blood flowed down my thighs, over my hands and drenched the couch. Johnny boy held my nut between his teeth as if he’d caught a bullet. With dismay and anguish I watched his teeth sink slowly into the white, pulpy flesh, prolonging my agony as long as possible.

“That’s for fucking me in the ass.” He smiled then, showing red gristle covered teeth. We held eye contact for only a split second; enough for me to see that Johnny boy was history. Sure his eyes were red, but not from the pot; this was a viscous crimson that seeped from ducts and pores. Blue veins pulsed beneath peeling translucent skin.

The stench of decayed flowers and fresh dug graves hit me. I had no time to gag as Johnny boy lunged at me, his fingers digging into my shoulder; deep enough and strong enough to begin shredding my flesh. At least it drew attention away from the pain in my crotch. He slammed me down on the coffee table hard enough to send pieces of it flying. Something in my back popped and I added a new pain to the growing list. The god-awful stench from his mouth filled my nostrils, as he leaned in for another bite. I was able to punch him in throat with my right hand; flesh came away on my knuckles as some of the fluid from his eyes flew onto my forehead. I used my left hand to find something to hit him with. Anything, just to get the stinking grease bag off me. Something rough and sharp, jabbed my palm. I grabbed whatever it was and aimed the sharpness at the base of his neck. The broken table leg sunk in with a sickly wet sound, as blood oozed from around the wood. Johnny let out a sound, not really a scream but enough to make me shit myself just the same. I could only get to my knees as the pain in my groin and shoulder was proving too much. Snot flew from my nose while trying to catch my breath.

Johnny boy lay still, with blood pooling around his neck.

In time I was able to get to my feet and leaned heavily on the TV for balance. “You stupid motherfucker.” I spit at him, still gasping for breath. “Assholes! You and your brother, just stupid fucking assholes!”

Anger can be the angel or devil on your shoulder. This time it was an angel. In spite of the aches, pains and punctures, the anger seemed to sedate my injuries. I took a few tentative steps forward not sure where I was going, only knowing I had to keep moving. The living room made me nauseous as I surveyed the damage. Blood soaked my sofa, carpet and walls.

The baggies.

I stepped over Johnny boys’ body, grabbed the one on the rocker, and strained to reach the one trapped in the aftermath of the table. A nail had torn a hole in the plastic and a couple of small buds escaped. I left them where they were for the moment, and limped my way to the bathroom. As I hit the light switch by the vanity, Detta nearly knocked me over by racing through my feet, yowling all the way. More muttered curses. I grabbed the scissors I used to cut my hair off of the counter and stabbed one of the bags over the toilet. I could have opened the Ziploc, but slashing like that made me feel better. Bud after bud plopped into the bowl like grassy turds. After a few flushes both bags were empty, but my body was full of new and motivating pains. I dropped the bags in the tub, turned on my heel and saw Johnny boy standing in the doorway.

He was pulling out the table leg and I let out a scream out of surprise more than fear. I brandished the scissors and swung it in an overhand arc planting it in his left eye. It didn’t so much pop as deflate, releasing even more vile liquid that had the same smell as the dope. I pushed the blade in further. Not once did he try to stop me. I let go of the handles that were slick with god knew what and Johnny boy crumpled to the floor. What could have been an exhale, sounded more to me like he tried to say “love you…”

I stepped over him, said a silent prayer to an invisible god I had no belief in and stumbled into the vanity sink, with the mirror just daring me to look at my reflection.

I couldn’t. All I had to do was glance down at the blood drying on my legs, chest and stomach. My boxers were nothing more than an elastic band with a bit of fabric hiding the ruin. Everything hurt. I reached for the bottle of vicodin I had left over from an abscessed tooth, and dry swallowed the remaining four bitter pills. I slumped to the floor, in a haze of pain and exhaustion, with no idea how long I’d been leaning against the cabinet beneath the sink when I heard something that returned me to consciousness.

Music.

Loud and jarring.

I ignored Johnny boy for a moment, stood up and slowly made my way into the living room. One of the local anchors with a look of urgency broke into whatever had replaced Judge Judy. I missed the beginning but heard enough to know things were fucked.

“…reports of cannibalism in the metro center area…” I dropped into the rocker and it gave a warning creak.

Cannibalism,

Metro Center area.

Where I lived. My stomach churned. This was my doing. I had flushed the shit. Donald sold some, gave some away, of that I had no doubt. But I flushed that shit.

My big toe nudged one of the buds that’d jumped ship. I bent over to pick it up and noticed several small bites were taken from it.

Over the loud clatter of the a/c and the blaring TV came the sound of sirens. Underlying all this was the low predatory growl of an unearthed animal.

I don’t care who gets to me first.

(This story is the sole property of Scott Colbert and may not be reproduced in any form without prior consent.)

For those who haven’t been over to my current blog (99.5% nitwit free!), I’ll recap quickly what I’ve been up to. This time last year a former friend and I started Bandersnatch Books. In April of last year I took over the company in a rather abrupt attempt to keep it from going down the toilet-which is the direction it was headed. Those not involved chose to think of it as a dick move, while others wanted to play at revisionist history. I simply went on with business and after some initial turmoil was able to get back on track. We’ve released T.M. Wright’s “The People on the Island” and will be releasing K.H. Koehler’s “The Dreadful Doctor Faust” in a couple of weeks. I’ve put together an anthology of weird western stories chock full of award winning writers which will be out early next year, as well as sold my novella “Barbed Wire Kisses” to Skullvines Press (due out in 2011).

So I’ve been busy. I’ve generally stayed away from the nitwits and tried to be more productive with my time knowing others were fighting the good fight. Even La Femme Nikita’s rants were nothing more than a distraction. Yet now I find myself having to set the little nitwit that never could straight (so to speak), about a few things. Because I suck at taking screen shots, I’ll simply cut and paste all relevant posts, which you can find here, before Matt the Boy wonder can swoop in with his +3 scissors of Nitwit enabling and cuts the thread: http://shocklinesforum.yuku.com/topic/16903?page=2.

Since Nikita began the thread backpedaling on his “pen name” Lloyd, after spending months trying to convince everyone he was a real person, and attacking everyone in sight doing so, I thought I would have some fun and post the cover for Karen’s upcoming release and adding that Nikita should meet the Dreadful Doctor Faust. Nikita responded thusly:

Colbert — I like the opposite sex and only the opposite sex. Would it kill you to find yourself a woman once in a while?

Well the fact is it doesn’t kill me at all Peaches. See, I can find woman who not only a) find me attractive but also b) enjoy my friendship. I don’t slander women, refer to them as “fucking cunts”, call them whores, and other misogynistic epithets. I respect and love women. I just don’t want to sleep with them.  I find it rather amusing he thinks I’m trying to set up a sexual encounter with a fictional character-though that’s something he’s certainly used to I imagine.

It’s nice to have Cynical, Solkirk and dogpoet say nice things about me (which i won’t cut and paste out of modesty ) and they’re far more trustworthy in their poinion than Nikita ever could.

Rich Ristow and I have put together our own micro/small press business after months of research and seeing what works and what doesn’t. During that time, we’ve managed to get some great names to submit work, and though we only have one announcement at the moment, as well as submission guidelines for 2-3 other anthologies, there are also chapbooks on the horizon that we’ll be pleased as hell to publish.

While others natter on about the Legion, and continue to throw salt in their own self inflicted wounds, I’ve been busy doing the work. I haven’t been afraid to get my hands dirty, make some sacrifices and determine my own destiny. Wallowing in the past, refusing to accept responsibility, and blaming others is not my cup of tea. It’s not professional and it certainly accomplishes nothing. However, watching others has taught me a few things.

1: True friends know what constructive criticism is, and accept it openly.

2: Just because someone says they can do layout, doesn’t mean they can.

3: If you’re the boss, whether you think you’re wrong or not, you accept blame and shut up about it. You don’t blame writers or editors. And you certainly don’t name them in blog postings.

4: Those who spout out that they know everything about everything, generally know nothing except how to puff up their own ego.

5: 95% of problems can be solved by communication, and not petty attacks.

6: Cutting your losses can be painful or blissful-sometimes both.

7: Don’t talk about the poor pay structure of other small presses when you do the same yourself.

8: It’s always easier to point a finger at others while ignoring the reflection in the mirror.

It’s with these hard learned lessons that Rich and I embark on a new project, a new chapter, now divested of the petty drama, self indulgence, ignorance, and inflamed ego that we’ve both experienced.

Which has happened to The Rusty Nail.  After spending years of watching and reporting their antics, Rusty has been developing some of the same symptoms: looking for anything little thing to latch onto, whether it makes sense or not, confusing discussion with attacks, lashing out at people for no reason at all.  It started a few months ago with a comment Daggy made on someone’s blog, the blog writer gave a non committal response, and he was branded a nitwit for no particular reason.

Next Nick Cato posted a generic positive review of Daggy’s short story collection, and snark went up about that, in spite of the fact Nick is well respected in the field, and the review was hardly a rave.

Most recently, Rusty posted about Phailbin and one of his numerous posts of 9/11 paranoia, taking him to task for bad math. then went into her own nitwitesque rant about Obama’s health care plan. Others disagreed with her, or pointed out the way Phailbin did his math, and got invective hurled at them. Myself included. Now this isn’t a grudge, as anyone who’s read my blog, know that Nikita has said some of the most horrible things anyone could say.

It is however a plea for Rusty to take a look at her behavior, and maybe take a step back and look at things objectively. I have nothing but respect and admiration for what she’d done at The Rusty Nail, but there’s a fine line between on reporting the news and becoming the news.

Hard to believe I’ve made it this far, really. I look in the mirror and see a middle aged man, losing hair and gaining weight. A few more wrinkles, a couple of extra aches and pains, but my mind still says I’m 19. Well, in all honesty my mind was never to be trusted at the best of times.

I look back over the past year, and have every reason to be depressed-at least on the surface. I was laid off and have been looking for work for eight months now; Mom’s health is getting weaker, I lost my cat, ad infinitum. However, I’m filled with an energy and excitement I haven’t had for a very long time.

I owe that to a pair of serial killers. As I write “Barbed Wire Kisses” I’ve never enjoyed my writing more.  The responses I’ve received to the first chapter have only built up my confidence, given me the hope that I can do this thing we call writing. It’s a wonderful feeling to know that people like what you do.

Here’s what I’ve been told:

Just read the chapter and the synopsis. I loved it.
Wicked as hell.
I think this work of your has great potential.
And the setting intrigues me even more.

I think this opening works well. Honestly, it’s engaging, cleanly written with minor errors, and as far as story goes, it instantly pulls the reader in. The scene is raw, brutal, impacting! I definitely grimaced a time or two. It doesn’t turn me off, and quite honestly I do want to know more. Why this girl? Why’d they start killing, and why in such an odd manner? Also, the brother aspect intrigues me. I’m not faced with a single serial killer at the opening, but rather you show the reader two killers, even though we can tell Micah is the leader. I think it’s a good start! :-

I finished the first chapter, mouth agape all the while; it’s cleanly written and certainly engaging: the brutality is, as you say, “Ketchum-like,” but that’s a good thing.  It kept me reading and, like your editor, I’m quite interested to see how you develop the story over 50 or 60 thousand words.  To be honest, this is not my usual cup of tea, but you’ve developed enough of a story, in those first few pages, to get me interested (again, mouth agape).  I think it’ll be a winner for you, Scott…

How could anyone not be excited to have that kind of positive feedback? Now my job is not to disappoint. The best birthday present is the one I’ve received of confidence. Friendships begun last year have only gotten stronger.

The future holds nothing but promise, something these cynical old bones never thought he would say without a healthy dose of snark.

I’m grateful to each and every one of you who have been there for me, and can honestly say, that the best is yet to come.

Does this mean I’m giving up raingods weblog? Not a chance. While my posts on the Legion have dropped as of late, they’ll always have a home here. Also my WoW posts, recipes, and cat shennanigans will remain here as well. As I get deeper into the writing of “Barbed Wire Kisses” I wanted to detail the process of that writing, and have a foundation for a more serious site once it gets published.

Please bookmark the new site, and I hope you enjoy what I have going on over there!

While the housing market is seeing a bit of an upturn, the job market here is still sadly depressed. It’s slow going finding a job, and while I have 3 months or so left on unemployment, before applying for extended benefits, it’s looking rather grim right now. At least it gives me time for my writing, a great segue into…

Barbed Wire Kisses is coming along slowly. I had a writing spurt yesterday of 2600 words for a scene I had problems writing. It was one of the more graphic and violent scenes I’ve written, and it was hard to get through, but at least it’s done.  As I’ve said elsewhere, I’m a fairly slow writer, most days I write 1000-1500 words; I take my time and sort of edit as I go, and while it may not work for others it works for me. As a consequence it takes me awhile to finish my work, though I’m far happier with the final result than if I whip through something. I’ve done a lot of research on AZ in the late 1800′s, including mining towns, the army forts, the apache wars, etc, in an effort to add as much detail and realism as I can. In the end I’ve still taken plenty of liberties with the geography, and have no problems with that as I’ll say so on an acknowledgments page, but still, it’s been a lot of work.

My Mom has now officially the 21st Century and gotten herself a facebook page. I  swear if she gets a twitter account, I’m giving up my net access!

Tomorrow I take my cat to the “pet resort” for boarding, and I’ll stay at my Mom’s, and then Sunday we head off to cooler climes. The last 7 of 8 days the temp here has been 112 or above, and I’m ready for a break. I’ll be back Wednesday and hope to have some pictures to post. I’ll be bringing my laptop with me, as well as my my Sprint wifi modem, but unsure if it will work there. If not I hope everyone has a great weekend, and if it does, I’ll do some blogging while I’m there.

The writing is coming along nicely, if not quickly. Death In Common should be coming out in the next few weeks; I’m waiting for notes on my other poem for the second DIC collection, and Barbed Wire Kisses is almost ready to be sent out for some critiques (well the first chapter anyway).

Summer is sort of my hibernation season. As the temperature goes up, my productivity seems to go down. Quite honestly, when the temp goes over 105, I’m pretty useless.  Still, I’m trying to get at least 1000 words a day done on the rewrite of BWK.

This will be a laid back weekend. Watching the musical 1776 with my family, gril some burgers and watch some fireworks. Oh, and laundry. Lots of laundry.