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There is no window in my tactile world where words are brought together and painted across pages, and my world of dreams never quits growing. Whether bricks and mortar or webpages, genres are the place where titles, stories, and covers fit into certain slots. My own fantasies span the cosmos from the rings of Saturn and beyond our wee Solaris star (science fiction) to the bloody mayhem of gruesome body parts (mystery/suspense). I can define writer’s block but I have never experienced it; therefore, I can’t describe what it feels like. Should I live way beyond my allotted years, I will still never get all the tales told from all the characters I watch, study, scan, listen to, think about—they are never out of my thoughts. My mental writing space is the wonder of the elegant geometry of our tiny blue speck of a world. Flowers, trees, weather, creatures…and more…have the same patterns as what is found in the violent crash and crunch of unexpected creations among sucking, heaving systems out yonder someplace. How could it all be an accident? Outside my no-windows writing cocoon there is no conflict between the spiritual and the scientific. What a narrow view…or a selfish one…which has contributed to much destruction on this tiny blue marble whirling around our star in a very black ether. To paraphrase some talented script writers, “Magic is a convenient word to describe something we don’t understand. Otherwise, we call it science.” Ah yes, the semantic circus—catch phrases to hide our unawareness and lack of knowledge, or secure our meaningless possessions that we clutch at to make us appear more than we are. It doesn’t work. But twisting the plots and upsetting a character’s schemes does. Ain’t it fun!
Enjoy an Excerpt
“How many times you got to be told to stay away from this place?” Clenched fist, a threatening stomp through the ashes and rubble of Corpsewood toward Kenyon, was no bluff.
Kenyon said, “Ain’t got no other place ‘cept them leaky sheds behind the garage. Least before the fire, I had a place to sleep. Got kicked out of my other place.”
“I’ll just bet they let your sweet cheeks sleepover. You’re just the kind of meat they liked to sucker in.”
“Now I got no place, an’ nights are gettin’ colder.”
“Get a job. Quit blowing your money, and you’d have a place of your own. They the ones that hooked you on crystal?”
Kenyon whined, “I told you. I don’t do drugs.”
Steady raven-black gaze, “Cut the crap. Ever’body’s heard all your stories. Out’a your mouth never been nothing but pity-me mewling.” Between a snarl and a chuckle, “I suppose you never done meth, push crank up your nose—whatever’s on the streets to stoke in your arms.” Glanced at the needle tracks on both arms, “Or running out’a veins in your arms and using the ones in your ankles. Wash your stringy, greasy hair; take a bath, stop acting like some mangy animal.”
“I don’t snort crystal or Nazi dope,” Kenyon griped. “You’re like ever’body else, judging someone by the way we live.”
“I don’t care what you’re on, but anyone fool enough to supply you is askin’ for trouble if that goddamn homicide Lieutenant MacGerald starts nosing around, asking questions. And his friggin’ PI SEAL mate Ingram helpin’ him is worse.”
Kenyon wiped his nose across the grimy grunge sleeve of his jacket. “If you hadn’t torched the house, I’d still have me a place.”
Knotted a fist in Kenyon’s jacket, “Buttin’ into stuff that don’t concern you ain’t good for your health. I ain’t telling you again. I didn’t start no fire. I don’t know who did, but if I find out, they won’t be startin’ no more fires.”
Kenyon squinched his face, “Ever’body always puts the blame on me.” Didn’t want no cops finding out he’d done a couple of torch-for-insurance.
Yanked Kenyon eyeball to eyeball closer, “Don’t give me shit, and don’t make trouble. Get your ass off from around Corpsewood Manor, and don’t let me catch you around here again.” Shoved Kenyon backwards against charred support beams.
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