Joelene Coleman - writing as "Harley Brooks"

Reposting a favorite...THE MURDER OF LOVE

2014-02-13T20:52:00.002-07:00

Twas Valentine's Eve and I slumped in my chair,
No chocolates or roses, or man in my lair.
Cupid lay dead on the Persian rug in the hall
His bow to his side, an arrow stuck in my wall.

They'll think I did it, killed "Love" out of spite,
Single people everywhere will rally to fight.
The truth will stay hidden, I won't have my say,
They'll jump to conclusions and lock me away.
The pink cherub had it coming, arriving so late,
I waited all week for him to change my fate.
When he never showed, I surrendered my plight
All I wanted was a bath and to call it a night.

Surrounded in bubbles and candles aglow,
I resigned to my destiny at Cupid's no-show,
But when something downstairs made a thump and crash,
I jumped from the tub with nothing covering my ass.
I fumbled in darkness not wanting to be seen
For a gun, a bat, a weapon of means.

Soapy footprints marked my descent downstairs,
Without knowing I stood naked, in the crosshairs.
I screamed when the pain shot through my behind
And swung my bat fast, dazed out of my mind.
He squealed like a pig but my aim was too good,
His wings beat hard, but he still smacked the wood.
With arrow still dangling from one precious cheek,
I painfully scurried to save Love's little "geek."
No time for the lights when I saw my mistake,
But the comment he made determined his fate.

"Seriously, lady you should join a gym,
"I'm having a hard time finding just the right 'him'.
"They all want a model with boobs that don't hang,
"A washboard stomach and a long golden mane.
"You're funny and sweet, but slightly plump
"I had to use 'turbo' to penetrate your rump.

"Are you saying I'm fat, you insensitive pest?
"Which coming from you meets an ironic best.
"You're nothing but blubber, chubby and round,
"Those wings barely keep you off of the ground.

He raised his bow, a fiery red in his eye,
I'd pushed too far, hurt his pride.
But he flew in a circle, one wing badly bent,
I ducked out of the way when an arrow he sent.
It hit the light socket, shooting sparks in his hair,

Startled, the cherub flew into the stairs.
He bounced off the railing, hit the banister post,
Ending prone of the rug, smelling a lot like burnt toast.
With the arrow from my butt I gingerly poked,
But he didn't move, just laid there and smoked.
I called 911 to report the break-in and assault,
Quickly dressed and rehearsed why this wasn't my fault.

Red and blue clashed against my sage green walls,
And dozens of officers filled my entry hall.
One noticed the arrow now glowing red hot,
And the Fire Department arrived on the spot.
I recalled my terrifying brush with death,
Noting most of them snickered under their breath.

The "murder of Love" was declared self defense,
No charges were filed, because nothing made sense.
Cupid suddenly vanished leaving no trace,
No bow, no arrow, nothing left in his place.
We all swore an oath we weren't losing out minds,
And the officers left, but one stayed behind.

"I hope you don't mind my asking so late,
"But would you consider being my Valentine date?
Cupid's arrow did more than just inflict strife,
It brought "him" to my doorstep and into my life.
I rubbed my backside, while nodding my head,
I had a date for Valentines and proof "Love" wasn't dead.

Happy Valentine's Day!

and
"Designer Genes - The Boyfriend Cut" is FREE on Amazon Feb 14th-16th

Wacky Wednesday!

2014-01-08T06:25:00.002-07:00

Surprise! I'm not dead. Now while that may come as a disappointment to some, hopefully I'll give you something fun for hump day (which conjures up visions of anything but camels).

I've considered myself somewhat of a fashion diva...on a low budget. I also have the illusion when I look in a mirror that I'm still a size 4. Those who know me just peed themself. Bitches. I really was a size 4 when I married Forever Guy. Then I gave birth to twins, turned 50, hit menopause, and became a writer. I can't even push my arm through the leg of a size 4 pant now. But "magic mirror" lets me live the fantasy.

The fashion crave [or disaster] of 2013 has been leggings, or as my generation calls them "tights." Long tubes of opaque nylon material in various colors you wear under skirts and dresses (or ski pants - made great thermals back in the day) - not with a belly shirt.

The first "legging" sighting I experienced was at the mall in the early fall. A lady, older than moi, walked by sporting gray and black striped "tights" with a short, waist-rimming leather jacket and black ankle boots. I picked my jaw off the floor and thought about running after her to tell her she needed to cover up. Everything was visible from her panty line to the mole on her left derriere cheek, yet she strutted like a proud peacock. And no one reacted.

Here I'm thinking the poor old doll has wandered away from a nearby lockdown facility, her mind half gone along with her wardrobe. She waltzed into Dillards, the swankiest department store in my little town, conversing with the sales clerk at the jewelry counter and heading straightway to the expensive makeup counter. It was beneath the Lancome sign that I was introduced to the latest fashion statement. Three sales girls gushed over how chic "Dolly" looked and questioned where she found such darling "leggings." Leggings? As in acceptable leg coverings? Alone and not under something?

In unison, the three near-starved-to-death-dressed-to-kill clerks let their false, spidery lashes brush down their noses when they took in what I wore, glaring as if I was radioactive. Dress pants. What was I thinking?! I almost stripped down to my panty hose to feel more stylish (they were "tan") until I remembered they were reinforced with steel girders from the knee up. More like a vision of industrial strength bermuda shorts instead of a uniform thickness from top to bottom, fitting a "legging" appearance.

Now had my nylons been "sheer-to-the-waist" and I wore some silky "Secret" beneath instead of practical 100% cotton covered in tiny daisies and washed like a thousand times," I might have passed the judgment trio and maybe even given Dolly some stiff competition. Granted, I would have had to dump the prison-issued loafers and strapped some Jessica Simpson death traps on my swollen feet, not to mention "lift" a leather blazer and try to move gracefully with a two-ton metal detector ring dangling from the wrist, but there's a chance [like snow in Hell] that I could have pulled it off.

[No matter how much alcohol you pour in your eyes, you will never be able to erase the mental picture I've just seared into your brain.]

All the way home, and clear through the month of October until bravery allowed me to buy a pair, I swore I'd never be caught dead in public wearing something so vulgar. Then I tried a pair on.

Comfort - soft butter and angora type comfort. Black and white with a stark pattern to disguise the "lumps." They caressed my legs as I pulled [okay tugged] them upward, flipping the lycra over my backside like a large, tight elastic band, and settling them in an area on my torso where my waist used to exist. I turned this way and that in front of Magic Mirror, listening to the phantom"oohs and awes" whispering in my head. I didn't look half bad! [Or half good, but I didn't give a damn].

I slipped a black tunic that barely covered my cushiony backside curves, then topped it off with a long sweater that nearly hit mid thigh. I added bulky leg warmers over my boots, leaving only about six inches of my lycra-wrapped leg exposed. To distract from any exposed jiggling that might occur, I wrapped my neck in a sparkly scarf and sponged my lips ruby red. All "look here - not there" tactics. I'd transformed into a fashion diva -- a larger than lifesize version, but one nonetheless!

What surprised me more than the fact the leggings actually fit, was the new found sense of confidence I sported. I dared to break the rules and have some fun. And just like Dolly, I strutted the mall, the grocery store, restaurants, and even dared to wear them to work on casual Friday. I also bought a second pair and put them in my Christmas stocking.

Do I hope it's a fashion fad that will disappear in 2014? Oh hell yes. While they may be the latest and greatest, they look ridiculous on anyone older than six, regardless of body shape. But right now, I like looking fabulous at ridiculous. And I'll keep them until they're thread bare. The beggars really are comfortable and warm. After the craze wears off, they'll make great jammies!

How about you? What's the craziest fashion fad you've dared to wear?

BACK TO SCHOOL SUBURBIA STYLE

2013-08-20T07:27:00.002-06:00

I know….it's been forever since I've stopped by. "Life" is my only excuse…oh…and I released "Designer Genes – TheBoyfriend Cut!" Yep, being an author, promoting myself as an author, and keeping up with the day job VISA dictates I still maintain, let alone pay attention to Forever guy and the family, has pretty much sucked my blogging time. But I thought I'd take a moment and share my latest morning giggle.

School has started. The minivan assault begins about 8:20 a.m.—an endless parade through my neighborhood to the elementary school at the top of the hill. I have a thirty second window between the brigade and the succession of yellow school buses to get through the intersection.

I've also noted the latest in "mommy attire" required for drop off. Coordinated workout gear. The fashion runways in New York don't compare to what I see in the mornings. White minivan "A" pulls into the drop off circle. Perky Mom A bounces (yes bounces) out of the driver's side and makes a full sweep of the car, complete with manicured fingertips drawing a sexy trail around the back fenders until she reaches the side door. Today, she's dressed in a purple ensemble with lime green stripes accentuating her curves. A rim of lime green peeks out of her purple sneakers and trims her ankles. Her hair is pulled into a thick ponytail just below the coifed "bump" and she makes a point of "swishing" said ponytail as if she's a racehorse leaving the track with the winners wreath circling her neck.

Minivan "B" pulls in behind "A," leaving enough room for Perky Mom B to take her fashion walk, sporting a little hot pink and black number. Same ponytail, full make-up as well, and a 12-rep toe warm-up to show off her muscular calves while she unbuckles Junior from his safety harness.

Minivan "C" is next, Perky Mom C offering stiff competition in her royal blue and neon yellow ensemble. Unlike Perky Moms A and Bin their thigh-hugging long shorts, however, Perky Mom C has chosen shorts barely qualifying to earn the title, and a sports bra. Her long legs deftly carry her in smooth sashay, drawing the attention of any male within a half-mile radius. She has also wrapped her hair in a messy bun (which I have discovered takes more time to look messy than curling every strand of hair) to allow as much skin exposure as possible. She does a deep bend to unlatch the side door, releasing her primped and coifed offspring. A lipstick stain adorns the cheeks of her children, followed by finger waves all the way to front doors.

Moms A and B, embraced in a tight purple-hot pink huddle and engaged in judgmental conversation, suddenly realize they have not shown sufficient affection to the fruit of their loins, and summon them from the playground to suffer an embarrassing display of lipsmack while their friends giggle behind the chainlink fence.

The choreographed movements of the three fashion divas moving around the hoods of their "tribe transporters" is worthy applause as three doors shut in synchronized succession. I can't help but wonder of the three, which ones will actually head for the gym.

In order for me to take my little darlings to school, the weather had to be worthy a news report or they were seriously late due to my failure to have them ready and out the door on time. Many a morning I wrapped in a robe, slipped my feet into fuzzy slippers, and shepherded my herd into the family van. If my hair was swept into a clip or brushed at all, it was purely accidental.

When I got to the school, I slowed to a speed I felt my children could handle, already instructing the child nearest the door to have the "hatch open," and when the open side door aligned with the front door of the school, I yelled "jump!" The last one out of the van ran alongside until the door was closed again. This way, I figured I trained them to break track records in high school and earn a scholarship, or if they dropped out and became homeless, they'd have the skills necessary to hop a freight train.

I did manage to screech out "have a nice day" before leaving skid marks on the roadway in my retreat. I had exactly 7.5 hours to myself before they'd return and I wasn't going to waste a single minute.

So are you a Perky Mom or sought by Child Protective Services when it comes to school drop off? Do you dress for the other perky moms or, like me, figure if you're coordinated from the waist up that's all that matters?

Thanks for stopping by and if you pick up a copy of "Riley's Pond" or "Designer Genes," a review on Amazon or Barnes & Noble would be greatly appreciated! Happy Tuesday!

I'd like to thank the "Academy"...oops. Not an Oscar? Close enough!

2013-02-22T22:30:00.001-07:00

Wow! I'm so honored...seriously! I blog like every third Saturday on the fifth odd month of an even numbered year. Yep, that often! (Sorry my dear, sweet followers). I try to do more, but when I decided I had to put my butt in the chair and finish the edits on Designer Genes if I wanted to release it in April, everything else had to be shelved. However, my dear friend, life coach, talented author, and all around beautiful person Sandy Rowland, http://sandylrowland.weebly.com/index.html isn't about to let me slip behind the curtain and watch from the sidelines. She's nominated my blog, such as it is, for The R.E.A.L.I.T.Y. Blog Award! As part of my thank you, I'm paying it forward by announcing her book "Conquered" is FREE until this Sunday! Of course it's the welcome mat to Apollo's Gift (the cover alone is a present). Here's the links to both.

http://www.amazon.com/Apollos-Gift-Greek-Gods-ebook/dp/B00B4ES4SQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1358922360&sr=1-1&keywords=Apollo%27s+gift+by+Sandy+L.+Rowland

http://www.amazon.com/CONQUERED-Kivronian-Vampire-Series-ebook/dp/B008GTHGTA/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1355242952&sr=1-1&keywords=conquered+by+sandy+l.+rowland

Okay, now onto the purpose of this blog. (There's a purpose? You're not just blindly walking an endless word path into utter nonsense? Well, maybe.) This award comes with a list of rules:

Visit the blog of the person who nominated you, thank them, and acknowledge them on your blog.

Answer the questions below and nominate up to 20 bloggers whom you feel are awesome and deserving of notice. Visit their blog and let them know.

Cut and paste the award to your wall. (check out the upper left hand corner...I'm such a techno spaz!)

The questions: (Uh-oh. This is where I have to expose a bit of real self. Now would be a good time to check out Sandy's books)

If you could change one thing, what would you change?

I wish I hadn't wasted so much time in life trying to please others and fretting over their opinions. I still struggle with insecurity and the fetal position is my "comfy curl." The decision to become a writer professionally is probably the most life altering change (next to menopause) I've undergone. I wish I'd made the decision ten years ago. I've missed out on a lot of years of that inner joy a writer feels when they pen "the end" to a story.

If you could repeat any age, what would that be?

Okay, I've regained self-composure, changed my pants and the hiccups are almost gone. Seventeen with the knowledge I have now. There's a couple of bitches I'd love a chance to teach a life lesson, not to mention a couple of boys I'd like to hear sing soprano.

For real? Forty-five. The kids were grown, my first grandchild had arrived, and I felt physically and mentally sound. Of course that all changed at age forty-six (see paragraph above). Insanity is now my reality.

What is the one thing that really scares you?

Dogs. My fear of the canine species is paralyzing. I was mauled as a child and the psychological scars are deep. In this case, "size" doesn't matter. Yes, I've always had a dog (my own did not attack) and currently have a loveable black Lab, but he's the only one who doesn't lift the hairs on my neck when I see him. I literally froze in the middle of the road yesterday when I spied a Pitbull running loose near my car. If the owner hadn't caught it and put it in their car, I would have fainted and been ran over. Two cars were stopped and honking. I didn't hear them.

On a more personal level, I fear failure, and not just professionally (although I wonder sometimes if I'm going to make it). I worry I'm not the best wife, mother, daughter, paralegal. I do know I rank *5 stars* in the grandma department, but they're still young and impressionable.

If you could be someone else for the day, who would it be?

In spite of my quirkiness, I really like myself. After all these years, I can honestly admit to liking the person who stares back at me from the mirror. She's aged a bit, put on a few pounds, but has great hair. And a sense of humor. She makes me laugh when I feel like crying. It's taken me a while to get to a place where I accept myself the way I am, flaws and all.

If I truly had a fantasy 24 hours being someone else, I'd probably pick Nora Roberts or Stephenie Meyers and make sure all royalties for that day went in MY account!

And my nominations are:

Calisa Rhose
Sonya Weiss
Suzanne Lilly
Brenda Maxfield
Sandy Bruney
Lynn Lovegreen
Ruth Casie

Thanks for stopping by and my nominees...thanks for playing along. Do stop by and visit their sites. They've all got great stories to share! Have a great weekend.

HANG GLIDING or SKYDIVING?

2013-01-29T22:41:00.000-07:00

ARE YOU HANG GLIDING OR SKYDIVING?

Are you a risk taker? Push limits? Bend the rules? Have you ever done something borderline (or not) illegal and got away with it? Your deep…dark secret. Or do you step on the cracks in the sidewalk? Walk under ladders? Own black cats just so they cross your path daily?

One is a "hang glider," the other a "skydiver." So what's the difference?

Hang gliding requires the use of tactical skills. If you know how to maneuver correctly and catch the right air currents, you can sail hundreds of miles. You coast silently above the earth, deciding the direction you'll take. The duration of your flight depends on how long you can physically hold the kite.

For me, that means walk off the edge and plummet to earth. I have zero upper-body strength, so unless I catch the right current, my concentration isn't on flying, but landing.

Sky diving is for the adrenaline junkie. It's the rush of free-falling—completely uninhibited by anything. No strings, no rules, and deafening silence.

To step out of a plane; backwards and witness the sky up close and personal, or "kamikaze" (falling forward) and experience the heart-thundering rush of watching the world below through your own personal zoom lens, surpasses the hesitation of walking off a ledge with a kite already open.

Your safety net is folded and strapped to your back—not unfurled, rigid, and already catching the wind. Your life basically is at the end of a rip cord.

Your flight time, however, is limited and there comes the point of "no-return" where you must decide…open the chute or become a human puddle. Again, the adrenaline rush kicks in. How far can you safely push the envelope—enjoy ultimate freedom? And then the "what if" factor dances in your brain…what if the chute doesn't open? The back-up chute isn't positioned correctly?

Because (a) I am a control freak, and (b) a mega pansy-ass, I could never literally skydive. The same goes for hang gliding, although of the two and given no other option, like a root canal without anesthesia, I would choose this option (slower death and I could spin on the monkey-bar for old-time sake). True, when I was young, impetuous, and believed in such myths as "trust me baby" from the mouths of hunky heartthrobs, I actually considered sky diving (this is also where I must confess to possibly being old enough that hang gliding hadn't yet become a thrill seeking sport and my pet was a real Tyrannosaurus Rex).

So how does this fit you as a person? A writer? Easy.

How do you approach life? Your work? Your writing? Do you jump into things without evaluating everything you're going to need to complete the task and just deal with the speed bumps when they happen? If you're a writer, then you're probably a panster. A skydiver.

If you must have everything organized, arranged, your research complete and notes nearby (perhaps suffering a tidbit of OCD) before you start a project, then you are a hang glider, and if a writer, a plotter.

Both have their pros and cons. If you over analyze a project (edit a story to death), spend countless amounts of time in research, some probably unnecessary, then you've wasted time instead of gaining ground. You are gliding over the world, taking in all the scenery, and in some respect, avoiding the landing. A hang glider.

Writers understand this all too well. We edit, rewrite, re-edit, scrap, cut, pull our hair out, bare our teeth at loved ones, and end up hunched over our desk, our noses buried in chocolate and tears of frustration washing the residue from our cheeks.

Yes, organization is necessary. We can't focus if too much clutter surrounds us physically or emotionally. But we have to be careful that we don't purposely pirouette for the sake of spinning. Sooner or later, we're going to crash if we don't make the decision to land.

While I've thought of myself as more conservative—a "hang glider," after writing this blog I find myself to be the opposite. I'm skydiving, free-falling, and praying my chute will open before impact. I hate itineraries. I love to explore side roads—take the scenic route (usually inside a car or a vehicle that can outrun wildlife if I'm in the woods). When I go on vacation, I don't want a timetable to follow. I want freedom.

As a writer, I love the thrill of creating in the moment—the rush of having a story unfold with characters playing out the scenes in my head as I vigorously type. That's probably why I hate editing. There are "rules" to follow and deadlines to be met. I've made procrastination an "art." But when I'm done and ready to upload my story to share with the world, I feel unbridled relief when my feet hit the ground (or the publish button) and my chute settles behind me, knowing I've "landed."

That lasts two seconds. I'm back in the plane and feeling the rush again as I climb each level, waiting to jump all over again.

"Riley's Pond" was my first jump and I soon discovered that cords get tangled easily and wind currents (critics and sales) can cause turbulence and make you anticipate a crash landing instead of a soft one, making you fearful of wanting to take the risk again. But I've survived a few rough lessons, learned some new techniques on packing the chute (which is bright yellow – more on that later) and I'm poised on the platform—the deafening roar of air rushing the sides of my plane, my heart in my throat.

My "Designer Genes" trilogy launches soon with Book One "The Boyfriend Cut" (gorgeous cover to the right courtesy of Kelli Ann Morgan, Author of "The Rancher" and owner of Inspire Creative Services) and from now until "jump day" I'll blog something to tie in a part of the story with life, either personal or professional.

Under the tab above, you'll find the excerpt from the story where Marli learns to "skydive." Sorry, no spoilers just know it's a very important part of the story.

So when it comes to "risky business," either personal or professional, are you a hang glider or a skydiver? I've got to say either way, the view is breathtaking.

Yippee!

As always, thanks for stopping by.

IS ABUSE BEING MADE TO LOOK SEXY?

2013-01-08T07:14:00.002-07:00

DISCLAIMER:
Please note, this is a sensitive area of discussion and I'm sure there are those who may not share my opinion, so please accept my apology beforehand. I do not intentionally mean to offend anyone (in particular my friends who write the edgier stuff) and certainly respect your right to disagree with any part, or all, of my take on this subject. This is my personal opinion and not meant to be taken out of context, but is a topic I have strong feelings on, and dear to my heart on a personal level. With that said . . .

I ran across this blog from Twitter the other day and it is exactly what my editor (whom I adore emphatically) has accused me of with my male characters in Designer Genes. Wow! First it felt like a slap, but then more like a bonk on the head to get me to realize . . . damn she's right!

http://tinyurl.com/a4poxe6

In the above article posted on "The Blog" from the Huffington Post, Vanessa Van Edwards makes some alarming points to support this concept many authors are guilty of (moi included, unfortunately). She targets the Twilight Series mainly because this is where the shift in Young Adult romance happened . . . or I should say exploded.

A note here. I write Young Adult Romance through many sub-genres from futuristic/dystopian (which is the platform for my"Designer Genes" trilogy), historical/time travel, to contemporary love stories. This blog (or soapbox) was meant to focus on the Young Adult/New Adult (whatever the hell it is) fiction books. However, some of the Adult fiction novels stealing the limelight, may be guilty of the same things discussed in the Huffington Post blog. While BDSM is a lifestyle choice, it is being portrayed through the literary platforms as the "norm" for sexual relationships. "Sexy." (Wait . . . don't stone me yet.)

The scary thing is young readers (our children and grandchildren) read books far older than their age and may get a false impression that this lifestyle is what will be expected of them in a physical relationship. And this isn't just our girls. Boys are reading this stuff, too, and the messages they receive are confusing. Do girls want this? Should I do this? Do I want to do this to a girl? The list goes on-and-on and I've never been more grateful that my kids are grown because if I had hormone-crazed teenagers maneuvering this phase of life, I'd be scared as hell. We'd be having many long rides in the car. (This is what I did with my teens when we needed to discuss delicate matters - they can't jump from a vehicle traveling 70+ mph down the freeway).

In my books I have the sexy, flawed heroes and heroines who surrender their hearts (and sometimes a little more . . .), but I didn't realize that some of the strong character traits I gave my heroes may, in fact, reflect unsolicited dominance -- a form of abuse. When I found my new editor/therapist/literary trainer she immediately called one of my stronger male characters a "douchebag." She even said I should just "throw glitter on him and stick him in the sun." Yeah, I had to lick my wounds on that one. Now when I send her revisions, I specifically make reference to having hopefully removed all "douchebaggery-stalking-injunction-worthy traits."

But to me, what I wrote sounded romantic and sexy. Wrong. Here's the points Van Edwards touched on, some that I was guilty of and my editor suggested I change. These are only highlights, with my personal slant. The blog goes into further detail using examples from the Twilight series and movies.

1. "Love scars are cherished." Bella proudly wore her bruises as badges of her lover's strengths, admiring them in the mirror, and in the movie, each black & blue dot holding a "cherished memory." Recently, I've ran across a couple YOUNG ADULT BOOKS that associated physical pain with sexual arousal. Yep, rubbing shoulders with Harry Potter on the bookshelf, are stories written about other "special powers." I am proud to say I'm not guilty of this one in my teen reads. Now there are books that refer to cutting, hair pulling, and other drastic measures used to relief emotional pain, and these are real life, sadly, but they're not projected with any sexual connotation . . or shouldn't be.

2. "Smothering behavior is romantic." Okay, this is where my editor caught me. I had my male character following my heroine out of a sense of wanting to protect her . . . but she wasn't really in danger. It was more from a misguided issue of jealousy, which I had not established grounds for in the story. "Douchebaggery-stalking-injunction-worthy" behavior. By showing my heroine spineless and blindly accepting my hero's stalking and dominating behavior as romantic, she looked "weak," not "vulnerable," which is what I didn't want. Weak characters are boring and death to a story.

3. "Dangerous sentiments are romantic." Whew. Dodged that bullet. I never fell for this line of crap as a teenager, so it never crossed my mind to write it in this context. Van Edward's recall of Jacob's behavior ("Eclipse") is a prime example, though, and I had one of those "I could-have-had-a-V8" headsmack moments when I realized as a reader and Twihard fan, I thought this was acceptable, if not adorable! Poor Jacob! Gag.

4. "The most desired women don't eat." Again, I was found "not guilty." Anyone who has suffered, supported, or been through the emotional trauma eating disorders cause (and death is a consequence of starving your organs) knows how dangerous this thinking is. Again, Van Edwards points to Bella never eating in front of Edward...always having butterflies that stole her hunger, blah-blah-blah.

"Skinny is sexy." "Boys don't like fat girls." "If you gain weight, you'll lose him." Garbage! And any girl (or woman) who succumbs to this convoluted way of thinking needs their head examined. Also, any boy (man) who would dump someone they care about because she gained weight, and then believes such shallow, selfish crap justifies their d**k-brained behavior, needs serious help. It's shameful and disgusting.

5. "Lying to parents is justified and unpunished." I'd even add to that "lying is justified and not accountable." Van Edwards again points the constant instances where Bella is always sneaking around and lying to her father...and not getting caught? Life-threatening situations (um, she ends up in a hospital because she just happens to run off to Phoenix without a word; disappears for 3 days and there's no "Amber Alert" even though she's a minor; and in "Eclipse" where she's camping overnight on a mountain side in freezing temperatures while her father is investigating suspicious deaths and yet Bella can only think about her "douchebaggery-stalking-injunction-worthy loverboy") and yet again, we Twihards accepted the whole package . . . and swooned.

Yes, I was found guilty of this, but not pistol-whipped by my editor because I do show my characters getting caught and suffering consequences for their bad choices. I also show my characters learning something from their mistakes that help them when faced with a crossroads in the future.

A lot of today's popular Young Adult/New Adult (and some adult) romance fiction do not portray "learning experiences." In fact, there's usually entire chapters where heroines, especially, repeat the same mistakes and then stand there, usually scantily clothed, scratching their head and wondering "how did this happen?" And the reader thinks "oh you sweet thing, he just loves you so much."

6. "Violence is shown as acceptable behavior and a sign of masculinity." A romantic symbol of strength. Isn't the world we live in violent enough? Do we really need to paint it as a revering quality in our characters? Yes, Romance's greatest conflict is the love triangle and when you're dealing with hormonal overloads and raging jealousy that clouds commons sense (and I'm talking teenagers, although adult men seem to revert to adolescent behavior under the same circumstances) there's going to be the fist fights; the parking lot brawls. But these should be the result of defending another's honor or a shield of protection for an immediate danger, not as a way to "keep" someone close to the heart.

Peer pressure used to be the mainstream in YA, but now it's boyfriends' (and girlfriends') manipulative/dominating influence, and while there are great stories that show how young adults come to recognize this behavior as unacceptable and get help ("Dreamland" by Sarah Dessen; "Stay" by Suzanne Colasanti), lately more stories portray it as the preferred, "sexy and loving" behavior girls (and boys) should WANT in a romantic relationship.

So here's my point to all of this. First, I'm grateful to my editor for catching me adding to this dangerous, yet popular trend, and while she never forces me to change anything in my writing (always, "it's your story"), she made me realize this isn't something I'd find acceptable in a relationship, or would want my daughter, granddaughters, or friends to believe acceptable behavior either, so why would I write it as such. It's not sexy. It's dangerous on many, many levels.

Second, I wholeheartedly believe, support, and defend an author's "right to write" anything. ANYTHING. I do NOT agree with censorship, boycotts, or vicious criticism of any author's work, and will rally to defend any of my writing comrades who fall prey to such simple-minded antics. While that might sound a bit contradictory to what I've posted, it's not. I'm not opposed to what someone writes, I just worry how it's being portrayed, especially to young readers. A very thin line, and as I've discovered in my own writing, one that's a faint gray and easily crossed.

Authors in general are not moral gatekeepers, but as a Young Adult/New Adult author I personally feel a sense of responsibility to portray romance through the emotionally charged phase of life where kids morph to adults, in as positive light as possible and still keep it realistic. "No glitter" and definitely no abusive behavior represented as an acceptable form of "love." Again, there are certain lifestyle choices, but they are just that -- "choices" and should be written as courses mutually decided and consented to within an already meaningful relationship -- not forced or manipulated, and not represented as the "only" way to have a satisfying, "sexy" physical relationship.

Personally, I don't believe it should be ever be written as a character's "first" experience either. I think they should be shown stumbling through clumsy, awkward, sometimes heartbreaking, but more innocent romantic scenarios before choosing anything alternative. Again...just my opinion. It's "your story."

Okay, feel free to "stone" me. I've thrown my hunky "douchebag" in front of me to take the blows. Isn't that romantic? Sexy?

As always, thanks for stopping by.

And the Winner is . . .

2013-01-03T23:21:00.000-07:00

TA - DA.... Wait. Before I tell you my decision, I must paint the picture...tell the convoluted story.

In my last blog I left you breathless with anticipation of what I was going to do about my extravagant indulgence. I agonized about what to do, loaded my package in the car twice to return the items, but just never quite had time, or the desire to part with my treasures...racking up 18% interest each day I held on to the little beggars. Then two days before Christmas, a wonderful twist of fate.

As I've explained or complained, hubby is officially retired...and bored. I try to keep the sink piled with dirty dishes for him to wash in the morning and laundry piled to an impressive height to give him something to do in the afternoons. Even the dog helps out by pushing his 80 lb body through the door whenever it's carelessly cracked open larger than two inches, making a mad dash for my office and leaving a trail of large paw prints across the tile floor. But despite our efforts, hubby still manages to find large blocks of time to peruse various sites that "sell stuff." I threatened to put passwords on all the computers after he found his "sensational deal" and purchased a second Harley Davidson off Craigs List.

His latest cyber hangout...eBay. Unfortunately, hubby isn't as "seasoned" in the bidding game and learned about the "buy it now" feature the hard way. He was eyeballing a new guitar (he's been in a rock band ever since I've known him) and happened to put in an "offer." The guitar disappeared off the site a few hours later when he got up the nerve to show me. The next morning he checked his emails and guess what? He won his guitar!

Yep. God moves in mysterious ways. Hubby was ensnared in his own trap and had to pay the piper. Guilt, remorse, and eyes begging forgiveness for his impulsive behavior stared at me. Of course being the loving, understanding spouse that I am, I consoled him while my inner goddess donned her dancing shoes. Christmas morning...I pulled out my purchases. "Santa" couldn't say anything, especially when I handed him the printout confirming his PayPal purchase and shipment date. A few chords from the Hallelujah chorus echoed in my brain when he conceded his defeat and said I could keep whichever one I wanted.

The problem still remained, however...which one? After a week of research, including several discussion forums and a membership to Consumer Reports, I made my decision. Drum roll please...

http://http://www.amazon.com

Kindle won over iPad Mini...on the following points. Besides the Dolby speakers and awesome HD screen - and it is beautiful... here's the differences that swayed my decision. With the latest "ice cream" software technology, the graphics on Kindle Fire HD are sharper, no glare when reading, even with the clear screen due to no layer of air between screen and tablet itself. Apple products have "airspace." I watched a product video on the Apple site to confirm this. Kindle Fire HD has 1G memory, iPad Mini has 516 MB of storage. Kindle Fire HD's processor is faster - 1.5GHz vs. 1.0GHz from iPad Mini. I experienced this with a friend's iPad Mini - had to wait for things to download and there were dead spots in the WiFi. My Kindle downloaded faster and there were no dead spots in my office with the WiFi.

The other thing that Amazon's Kindle Fire HD can do that Apple's iPad Mini cannot, is multitask. I can have my music going, a book open, along with my email and Facebook without any issue. The iPad Mini can only do one function at a time. And lastly, Apple can't support sites that use Adobeflash (which is the latest platform used). The two features that made it hard to give up the iPad Mini were the front and back camera (Kindle only has a front facing, but you can turn it around for video or buy an adapter with a rear-facing camera) and the "Facetime" feature. However, Kindle Fire HD does have Skype. I even found a way to side load my iTunes onto the Amazon Cloud and play them on my Kindle Fire. So far I've found all the apps I want and a few new ones. All my email accounts loaded effortlessly and my Netflix movies are awesome in HD.

If you are an Apple diehard, I'd wait until this fall to get your iPad Mini. That's right. Apple already has the iPad 5 coming out in April and an updated iPad Mini slated for September, which is supposed to have the retina display screen. Well worth the wait. I know 7 inches shouldn't make a difference, but it does. I didn't realize I'd bought the 8.9 size Kindle Fire HD until Christmas morning and I'm so glad I got the larger size. Worth the extra bucks. As far as the complaints about the advertisements, I only have one ad (picture only) on the screen when I turn it on. There are the "recommended for you" displayed below your sections, however, under Device Settings, you can turn off that option. Voila, no hassles - at least with my version.

Okay, I'm stepping off my Amazon soapbox. No compensation given for my blog-infomercial. Just my preference. I'm still pinching myself. For me, this was the best choice. For someone else, it might not be. I will admit the Bestbuy salesclerk had to pry the iPad Mini box from my hands. I felt like I dropped off an unwanted kitten to the pound. I hurried home and downloaded two new books, ordered a bright red cover, and uploaded the cover to Designer Genes...but that surprise will have to wait until next time.

Later friends. Thanks for stopping by!
http://www.harleybrooks.com

WELL...I'VE DONE IT NOW.

2012-12-21T12:17:00.003-07:00

I'm a sucker for "last one" scenarios, and my own worst enemy. I never know I need something until the fear I can't have it strikes. So I've dropped numerous hints regarding my desire for a tablet from Santa, but considering he's managed to tell me everything he's purchased and has asked virtually nothing about my electronic desires (play with that as you may...it's Friday and possibly the last one...ever), I started to panic.

I'd narrowed it down to the Kindle Fire HD 16gb thinking that would serve most of my needs (again...thoughts allowed). I decide as I pull into the drivethru for another "home-cooked meal" and spy the BestBuy sign, to just go in and "see."

Yeah right. First you should know the return policy for BestBuy is fairly liberal and as long as you don't remove the merchandise from the boxes, you will get a full refund, including any extended warranty purchased.

So I stand there, handling the same store display as several hundred others have during the day after picking their nose and god-knows-what-else with their grimy hands, checking out all the features. Yep, I'm certain this is what I want and when the sales clerk (my, they've upped the standard for hiring clerks because he is cuuute!) goes over all the options I decide I need to take an assertive step in securing my future.

This decision also possibly saves my husband from a miserable Christmas morning wherein I cry and accuse him of never listening to me, ignoring me as an important person in our marriage, only thinking of himself as he ogles the chrome steps I've bought for his new truck (yes NEW) because I listened to him, and ending with a melodramatic display where I possibly toss the Christmas casserole in the garbage and go so far as to question if he has a mistress—who got a Kindle Fire HD for Christmas. Yes…the stuff soap operas are famous for.

This decision is also cemented when it is discovered there is only one Kindle Fire HD 16bg left! I wrap my fingers tightly around the box, a deep feral growl rumbling in my throat at unsuspecting passersby who take note I have the last one in my possession. As we round the corner to the checkout stand, we pass the display holding an iPad Mini. A momentary discussion transpires on the pros and cons of both tablets, ending with the acknowledgement there is nowhere in the universe you can get an iPad Mini at the moment (even the Apple Store is out until after Christmas), confirming I've made the right choice.

Then the evil store manager who has overheard the conversation between me and my commission-earning-boy-toy leans in and announces they received six iPad Minis in the morning shipment and have 3 left. A woman who had no business interjecting into my private moment, overhears and immediately stakes claim for two of them. Do the math.

The Mayans have nothing on the whole asteroid theory, because my immediate universe exploded. One iPad Mini left! One! I didn't know I how desperately I needed an iPad Mini until this very moment!

The sparkle in my salesman eyes turned my bones spongy. He reads my thoughts, anticipates my next move, and swoops in (now imagined wearing a body-hugging, if not "enhancing" [can't there be a "Wonder Crotch" in men's underwear it we get them in our bras? It's only fair.] spandex superhero suit, complete with furling cape) heroically staking claim on my behalf of the last remaining iPad Mini. The store manager places the shiny white box on top of my Kindle Fire HD box in front of the throngs of customers who have circled, drooling and green with envy.

Of course where one brain is overworked in a man, the second one suffers blood loss, and my salesman who foolishly believes I'll relinquish custody of the Kindle now that I have the iPad Mini, makes the mistake of reaching for the box, still clenched in my numbing fingers.

His eyes how they twinkle, his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose…about to be bloodied. I clutch both boxes to my chest, which after all the chocolate consumed over years of writing and the holidays packing in more, the "sisters" have become a force unto their own to be reckoned with, daring him to remove it (of course it's buried pretty deep at this point and if he tried, could constitute a felony). The crowd gasps when they realize I'm going to buy both. My inner goddess faints after tallying the final price.

Again, I reaffirm the store's return policy, smile at the clerk who has returned to his normal attire in my head and is happy with my purchases for good cause, and walk out of the store. I pick up cheeseburgers and fries, slip into the garage and make up some lame excuse about traffic causing my delay.

Later I sneak out to the car, retrieve my precious gems and stow them under the bed. At Two A.M. I awake in a cold sweat, slither out of bed and onto my knees. I use my stupid smart phone (another blog in and of itself) as a flashlight, illuminating my extravagant purchase.

What the hell have I done? And how do I choose? Maybe I should keep both? My inner goddess is presently packing her bags because it's become clear I've truly lost my mind. My dilemma has developed complications. Santa may have a heart attack.

So my Christmas elves…thoughts? If you had the choice, which one would go back and which one would find a way into your stocking? Or…are you as evil as I am in deviant thinking and could possibly create a fathomable rationalization to keep both?

Stay tuned—I have four days to decide (or maybe not…).

Merry Christmas my friends!

The Best Is Yet To Come?

2012-11-20T12:57:00.000-07:00

WE DIDN'T HAVE A CLUE!

"Grow old with me . . . the best is yet to come."

Tomorrow I celebrate 37 years of marriage to the boy who turned my life upside down in the most wonderful way. He borrowed my binoculars at a Doobie Brother's concert and two weeks later when he cleaned off the top of his chest-of-drawers, he found a telephone number scribbled on the back of the ticket. He braved the call, vaguely remembering the concert (the bottle of Black Velvet he and his roommate shared prior to the concert may have played a part) and confessed later, he couldn't remember what I looked like until he showed up at my front door. When I walked out to his truck, he said it all came back to him. "I remember you had a great ass!" Yep. Out of all the guys I dated who wooed me with roses and even written romantic prose, I picked him! Why? He made me laugh. Our life together has been every bit as unconventional and unpredictable as our chance meeting.

We thought we knew what the hell we were doing...both had great jobs, I just bought a new Camaro, he had an awesome 4-wheel drive truck, we moved into a fantastic apartment (had a gas fireplace!) and we were in lust. Not love. We believed we were, said the words and took the vows, but looking back, we were kids. We had no clue what constituted "true love," but we soon found out. Yes, we had a couple of great years where our priorities centered solely on each other, but then our daughter was born, followed by the tag team, a miscarriage, and the oops child. It would be at least 25 years later, after a lot of tears, slammed doors, heated words, nights on the sofa, and even the threat of giving up by both of us at different times, before we realized we were truly soul mates. Until you've weathered the heartache of life changes that comes from raising children, economic issues, and health problems together, (and I consider watching the my svelte curves melt into a pear-shaped puddle a major health issue) and yet can still see the sparkle in your beloved's eyes -- set behind thick glasses -- do you really gain the understanding of "love."

GRAMPS HAS THE MAGIC TOUCH

Did I picture this in my head when I stared into hazel eyes as I swore my undying love before a room full of friends of family? Yes, as a matter of fact I did. I knew his teasing smile, the way it made his eyes crinkle, would look the same a hundred years later, and the gentle arms that cradled me when I cried after burning our first dinner, would still be my most favorite place on earth many decades later.

November 21, 1975 - I married my best friend.

Thirty-seven years later . . . I'm still falling in love.

As we start the celebrations for the "season of thanks," hold tight to those things that bring joy in you life.

LETTER TO WHOMEVER . . .

2012-11-11T12:00:00.000-07:00

Dawn is about to break, the sky turning from lavender to apricot. A few clouds drift overhead, stretched into thin gauzy lines. If I were home, I'd be thinking about all the things I could do with the new day. Stupid stuff like hanging with friends, meeting up for a burger, or maybe load up my dirt bike and check out a new trail or race the old favorite. I'd probably call my girlfriend later, because that's what boyfriends do, and see if she wants to come over to my place, maybe rent a movie we'll halfway watch while we stretch out on my sofa and engage in serious lip lock. Maybe she'd spend the night and we'd have mind-blowing sex before falling into a deep sleep, wrapped in each others' arms…satisfied and in love. Or so we'd both want to believe.

But I'm not home. I haven't fallen into a deep sleep for over a year, had a decent cheeseburger, or dared believe in the word "love," let alone feel it. The dust I'd taste from a hard motorcycle ride is the only thing that seems to be global, but here, it doesn't have the earthy flavor of the forest or a sunflower field covered in fresh dew. No, here, dust is laced with unmentionable, unforgettable horrors that settle at days end, waiting to be resurrected by a footstep, a gust of wind, or a simple gasp of air when stumbling upon a sight to be forever scored in your memory.

The letters from home, a steady flow at the beginning, are sporadic. Mom writes, tells me what Dad says and keeps me abreast of family things. The girlfriend? Her words sounded different in the last letter. There's someone else, I sense it, and I'm sure the next letter, if there is one, will be the grand kiss off…"you're a really great guy…what we had was special…I've found someone…take care of yourself…be safe…" all the shit that says "goodbye forever."

"Forever" isn't something I can afford to believe in anymore, just as I can't hold onto a fantasy life where the girl waits, her heart and body solely yours, and nothing changes. Yeah, some things will be etched in stone, if… —the look of worry always constant in my mother's eyes; my older sister's meddling in my life; the pressure to be a good example for my younger brother; and Dad's expression, words, undecided—neither accepting nor condemning. Maybe after this hell is over, if "ever," there'll be a tone of approval, even pride in the son who vacated the house in a huff at eighteen, slamming the front door hard enough to rattle the windows. A bad night…sad memory—one that haunts my half-awake nights. If I could change anything, it would be that moment. Too bad life doesn't give us "do-overs," only tomorrows filled with regret and the hope for something better.

"Hope." Another feeling locked in a heart chamber. A dangerous emotion if freed, along with "faith." Empty promises.

A spider crawls across my leg and I flip it with my fingers, gauging how many feet I propelled the injured arachnid. Six feet is my furthest target. Depends on size and if I've got time to even care. Sometimes a mere brush off works, but most of the time, it's a slam—instant death
.

"Death." The stench of it reeks in the air. At first, the metallic smell of blood crashed into me like a freight train, bile constantly licking the back of my throat. But now, it's a familiar scent, along with sweat, decay, and other acrid aromas blending into the air filling my lungs, day in…day out. My clothes and skin are stained with the remnants of other lives that no longer exist.

"Exhausted." I'm always on high alert, every muscle tensed to the point of hot pain by days end, teeth ground down and sensitive from always being clenched, dirt crusted in my ears and around the edges of my nose, the corners of my eyes, and rimming my lips. I learned quickly not to lick my lips. After a day of pushing the nervous system to extreme limits, sometimes, breathing, but most the time not, your mouth is dry, lips cracked and caked with the world around you. Nothing savory, trust me.

The sun pops over the hills in the distance, a beacon—announcement that the day has begun, the game in play. All things making noise are in motion, the smell of fuel mixing with the faint aroma of weak coffee. Dust curls around me as bodies move through the dirt, shuffling to the required destinations. My back aches from sleeping at odd angles, my elbow raw from leaning on small rocks while I write this—a necessary discomfort.

Something in my gut tells me I need written proof of my existence today—that I woke, urinated, and consumed my morning rations before swinging my armor clad body into the seat I'll occupy for today's tour. Someone else sat here yesterday. I didn't see them at breakfast.

The tank starts its slow crawl, the power oozing through each metal screw, rivet, and around the bullet dents, proof the design of the iron shield worked at the moment. Beneath me, I feel the rumble of the enormous treads mashing the ground and the remains of yesterday into the pasty pallid earth. I have to hurry and finish these last words. I can already hear the ear piercing whistles of missiles in the distant, the burnt scent of innocent, and not-so-innocent, lives terminated wafting up my nostrils.

To my lost girlfriend…be happy. That's all I ever want for you.

To my sister…love your kids unconditionally. Hug and kiss them everyday, once for me, and tell them how terrific they are, even if you feel like strangling them.

To my little brother…I don't know if you won the state championship in basketball, but know that the victory isn't what matters. It's the journey in getting there where you'll learn about yourself—what you're made of. Don't let anything anyone says to you ever define you, got that? Praise swells your head, criticism drains your self worth. Be true to yourself and whatever the hell you become, give it your all. I'll kick your ass, otherwise. And be nice to Mom and Dad. They're saints and love you…all of us.

Mom, you're my first and only true love. You hold my heart and because of you, I have the strength to face today. Thanks for loving me, despite my efforts to change your mind.

Lastly, Dad…sorry for being such a screw-up those last weeks. I was scared—still am. I've crapped my pants and cried more than when I was an infant. I want to make you proud. I want to be everything you've hung your hopes on…I want to be like you.

A plume of black smoke blinds me, turning daylight to the darkest night in an instant. My cue to fold this paper into a tiny square and tuck it in the pocket over my heart. Hopefully, tonight I can burn it in the "Dear John" can we ceremoniously turn all the bad shit to ash.

If not…

Take a moment during your day, the one filled with all the things you get a choice in doing, and remember those who, while fighting for our freedom, don't have the luxury of choosing how their day may end. Granted, none of us do, but those overseas...far from home, family, and all the things we enjoy at this moment are more likely to find a grim reaper around the corner than you or me. Say a prayer, wish on a star, send a message of hope into the universe that those who lost the battles of old, will stand watch over those fighting the new ones. And to those who have lost loved ones, know that this author is grateful for the sacrifice and will never take for granted the freedoms I have in my life through the loss of theirs.

Blessed Veteran's Day to all deserving of the title and those who love them.

Hallowed Secrets - The End

2012-11-03T11:41:00.001-06:00

PART IV

Fresh dirt ironically smells clean—raw and untouched. If it didn't stain, dirt could almost be considered sterile. Except for the worms. I dug my fingers into the floor I lay on, attempting to push myself up. A sharp pain squeezed around my ankle and grounded me.

"Help!" My plea was met with a mouthful of damp loam. Maybe even a worm. Another pile of soil showered over my head. "Stop!" I screeched. I didn't dare turn my face up for fear of getting dirt in my eyes.

"Sam? Sam are you all right? I'm so sorry, I didn't know there was a hole—"

"It's a grave, Ashley! A freakin' grave!"

Ashley leaned over the edge stretching out her arm. "Grab my hand, Sam." Another clump of damp loam tumbled over the back of my shoulders, a rock hitting my head.

"Ouch! Ashley, don't move. Every time you get near the edge, more dirt falls in. I'm afraid I'm going to be buried alive! Besides, I think I've twisted my ankle. You can't possibly pull me out."

"What can I do?"

A flat drop of water splashed my cheek, followed by by a couple more. Unbelievable! I was living the cliché horror movie. The thunderstorm…the power flickering out…the sixteen year old babysitting for some strangers at a remote house on the outskirts of civilization... All I needed was the—

Bang! Boom!

A loud clap of thunder rearranged my internal organs. In my reverie I pictured the doorbell ringing with a slasher-dude in a hockey mask waiting on the other side, but a flash of lightning zigzagging across the sky with an ear-piercing crack at the end was definitely worse. Now I could just sit in this hole and wait for either the sides to slither away and cover me in mud, or water to fill up my earthen bathtub until I drowned.

Ashley lowered a shovel handle. "Here, hold on to this."

I wrapped my cold fingers around the rough wood and struggled to get on my knees but my leg wouldn't cooperate. "I can't!" I cried out, feeling my hands slip down the shaft, a splinter slicing the delicate skin on the end of my index finger.

Ashley bent over the side of the grave, pushing a small landslide my direction. "Damn! I'm sorry, Sam! I'm going to get help. Don't move!"

Real funny. Another clap of thunder sent me cowering in a slimy corner. "Ashley? Ashley! Don't leave me!"

"Sam, I have to. I can't get you out. I promise I'll be right back."

"Wait!"

She peered over the side, her hair hanging like wet spaghetti over a strainer. "What?"

"Tell me the truth. Were you there the night of Kevin's accident? Were you in the middle of the road?"

Ashley sat on the side of the hole, her mud-covered legs pulled tight to her chest. "Sam, I didn't know it was Kevin. Jason was supposed to meet me at a party, but he texted me and told me to go to hell. He was going to talk to you and didn't want to see me anymore. I smoked some pot with a group of people out by the pool. Of course I spilled my guts to some guy, tried to make out with him, but he pushed me away. Another rejection."

More raindrops started falling and Ashley stood. I panicked, trying one last time to get to my knees, but landed with a splash.

"Sam, I got really messed up at the party. I texted Jason to come get me, or I thought it was Jason. I told him where to get me and I stood in the road. I wanted to teach him a lesson for hurting me. When the car came around the bend, it was your car and I thought 'how fitting' that you and he would be together to play the ultimate dare game. But it wasn't you…or Jason. It was Kevin. He didn't know how to play the game. I froze, Sam. I couldn't jump out of the way in time. He swerved—the wrong way. He didn't go into the parking lot…"

"…He went over the edge," I finished. "Ashley, was Kevin the guy who rejected you at the party?" She nodded, her arms folding tight across her. I could see her shoulders shake with the sobs.

"He must have punched his number in my phone before…he must have got the text…"

My heart sank. I'd taken the keys to Kevin's car when Jason picked me up, but left mine behind without thinking. Of course his number would have been the last one in Ashley's phone when she texted…he would have come to her rescue. Kevin was like that."

"Ashley, don't…"

She dropped to her knees. "I didn't sleep with Jason either. I lied. I've been so hurt, so lost and scared. Jason was all I had left and he chose you. Maybe that's why I thought your brother's death was the trade off. Sick, I know."

A stolen soul for a broken heart.

She jumped to her feet. "I'm going to get help. Keep yelling out, in case someone comes into the cemetery. I'll be back, I promise."

Another crack of thunder split the heavens open. I yelled after Ashley, but my cry came back to me, flat…unheard. Enough water had pooled in my muddy hole to cover my feet. I shouted for help several times, but no answer.

What if Ashley left me here on purpose? Maybe she dug the grave herself…lured me to gaping hole hoping to bury me? She knew where to find a shovel.

Rain poured in heavy sheets. I had no idea how long Ashley had been gone. No one knew I'd wandered into the cemetery. No clue was ever found because I had tucked it in my pocket. Ashley could have gone back to the school and if any one questioned my whereabouts, she could simply shrug her delicate shoulders and innocently deny having seen me. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day…or next week, they'd find my shriveled body under a thick blanket of caked mud.

No connection to Ashley would ever be made…just like the night of Kevin's death. The truth would die with me. Not even Jason knew the whole truth…how she wanted to punish him, maybe even me. If Jason had been driving—the thought made my stomach hurt.

Kevin? No answer from beyond either.

I propped my head on a folded arm. Cold water lapped against my cheek and my throat was the only hot part of my body, scorched from yelling. So this would be my fate. I'd shut my eyes and simply go to sleep. No fanfare…no dramatic exit. I'd take all the hallowed secrets from tonight with me. I closed my eyes, the streamlets of water filling my exposed ear…

"Sam? Wake up sleepy head." A light kiss graced each eyelid and warm arms wrapped me tight. "I need to go before your parents find me."

"W-what?" I bolted upright. My bedroom remained shrouded in the lavender shades of early morning. "H-how did I get here?"

Jason sat up, his expression puzzled. "Uh, we ditched the fundraiser and had our own private Halloween Party. Your parents were gone….remember?"

I scrambled out of bed and wrapped in my robe, feeling a slight jolt of pain in my ankle. "Ouch. When did I twist my foot?"

"When we were running from my car to your porch. You slipped on the wet grass. Does it hurt still?"

"A little." Why can't I remember? I whirled around. Bedding covered Jason's lower body and I wondered if the rest of him was as bare as his chest…or me. "Did we?"

Jason dropped his eyes, a ghost of a smile curling his mouth. "Wow, one beer and you don't remember? Maybe I should give you a refresher course—"

Dazed, I was about to ask how I went from muddy hellhole to in bed with my boyfriend, when someone tapped on my window. Startled, I jumped, just as Jamie crawled through. She looked at her twin brother.

"Dude, you better be dressed or stay put until I leave."

"Shhh!" Jason said. "What are you doing here?"

"Thought you guys might want to know the latest. I snuck over to the Gas-N-Go early this morning to meet the chemistry geek, Marcus, for coffee, who you were right, Sam, is not such a geek—"

"Long story shortened, sis?"

"Patience, bro. Anyway, we're sitting in the booth back by the coffee machine and these two cops come in—not anyone who's pulled me over before. They're talking about some girl they found dead in an open grave in Johnstown Cemetery. Guess who?"

Jason and I exchanged a glance waiting. "Who?" I finally asked.

"Ashley. Guess she slipped and fell in somehow. She must have been unconscious because she was face down and sadly, drowned in a puddle."

I felt the room sway. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Marcus's brother is a cop and he verified with him. Last night when it started raining, the party broke up. You two had already split. Me and the 'geek twins' never did get to the cemetery to find the last clue. Maybe if we had, we'd have seen something or heard her. Everyone's going to be freaked out when the news breaks later. Anyway, loverboy, you better get home before Mommy discovers you're gone." Jamie gave a small wave and slipped back out my bedroom window.

"Jason, you sure you didn't talk to Ashley last night? About Ike's party? Kevin's accident?"

Jason pulled on his boxers and jeans. Crap.

"No. Should I have? And why would I talk to Ashey about Kevin's accident? It's not like she was there or anything."

"I thought you two—" Jason looked genuinely bewildered. Had I dreamt everything? The conversation? The scene in the graveyard? The fight between Jason and Ashley?"

"Babe, did you and Ashley ever have sex at Ike's party?"

"No! I went to the party and she was there, but I was too worried about you and didn't stay. Yeah, she tried her usual tricks, but I never even kissed her—I swear. Babe, we already talked about this." Jason tipped my chin, stared in my eyes. "Sam, I know you've had a hard time since Kevin died, but are you all right?"

"Did I disappear last night?"

He kissed me gently. "Only with me." He lifted the window. "Wanna catch a movie tonight?"

"Sure."

He slipped out and I walked into the bathroom and checked myself in the mirror. My hair showed no sign of being caked in mud. My clothes were in a heap at the foot of the bed, also clean. I picked up my jeans. Dry. A piece of paper stuck out of the pocket.

A stolen soul for a broken heart seemed like a fair trade.

But things went wrong, the timing off, the game suddenly changed.

I took my place on the stage waiting for a rescue that never came.

The lights too bright, the edge too close—the faces not the same.

Life is never what it seems and soon everyone will forget

Except for one who holds the clue and keeps the hallowed secret.

I ran the mysterious poem through the shredder next to my desk and picked up my clothes, only to drop them with a sudden prick. I lifted my finger to the sunlight peeking through the blinds and removed a splinter from the tip of my index finger.

"Hallowed Secrets" - Part III

2012-10-30T23:54:00.000-06:00

PART III

I could barely make out the words from the dim light filtering through the leaves of the trees lining the wall from the streetlight over the wall. Something about stolen soul in trade for a broken heart…things went wrong…rescue that never came…the face not the same.

"What does any of this mean, Ashley?"

She moved back a few steps, her eyes scanning the cemetery. The voices we heard had drifted to the other side. A few playful screams screeched, followed by wicked laughter. I waited to see if anyone moved our direction…someone familiar…Jamie…Jason.

The hairs on the back of my neck twisted tight to my skin, a nervous chill skittering up my spine. As if reading my mind, Ashley spoke, her tone threatening.

"No one's coming, Samantha. All the clues are in the newer section. We're alone."

I remained behind Kevin's grave marker, using it as a shield. "Did you do that on purpose?"

She shifted sideways, her gaze trained on me. "What do you think? Of course I did."

"I don't get it."

"That's the beauty of it…you never 'get it,' Sam. You're oblivious or naïve. Maybe just stupid."

I recognized the simmering rage slowly reaching the boiling point. "I'm not stupid, Ashley. I know you want Jason back and using your body to lure him is cheap…but then, that's what you are—a 'user.' But he sees through your tricks. I also don't believe he slept with you."

Ashley tossed her golden mane back, her laugh unnatural…evil.

"Believe what you want. It only matters what everyone else thinks, anyway, and after tonight, they'll embrace my version. I'll have their sympathy and you, their hatred." She reached out and clawed my hand, drawing blood.

"Ouch! Why did you do that? Jason's right. You're crazy!"

I shook my hand, letting the cold air temper the burn. Something was off. A whispered warning kissed the shell of my ear, the voice familiar—Kevin. Get away from her, Sam. I whipped around expecting to find him standing next to me, but all I saw was Ashley matching my movements. I stepped back…she stepped forward. Suddenly she yanked on the sleeve of her pink shirt, shredding the shoulder seam.

"Look what Jason did when I refused his advances. We were here alone for so long…what were we doing? Jason didn't want to go with Buck. He wanted me alone…all to himself."

"No one is going to believe that lie. Jamie was here. Your shirt wasn't torn and Jason left with her."

Ashley picked up a rock, tapped her cheek with the stone. "True. Jamie will defend her counterpart to the death. That's what sister's do for their brother's, right Sam? Or not."

Tears welled in my eyes, and I stumbled over my foot when I moved again. I hadn't been there for Kevin. He'd come home from some girl's house a wreck. I couldn't tell if he'd been drinking or was high. He sounded angry.

"Watch your back, Samantha Barnes," he'd slurred at me, shaking his finger dangerously close to my eyes. "Stay away from that Jason kid." He twirled his hands in the air as if recreating a tornado. "Trouble surrounds him, trust me."

I wouldn't listen to anyone talk bad about Jason, least of all my messed up brother. When Jason called and asked me to go for a midnight drive along the ocean, I said yes, hoping we'd find someplace to make-out until dawn. Mom had gone with Dad on a short business trip and wouldn't return until the next day, so I decided to bend the rules and break curfew.

Kevin morphed into his surrogate parent role, warning me of the dangers of being out with a boy this time of night, then taking it further by forbidding me to leave. No way could he stop me. I'd be forced to tattle on his present physical condition while tending his impressionable "baby sister."

The headlights from Jason's car bounced across the ceiling of the living room. I picked up my purse and Kevin grabbed my elbow. "Sam, please don't go. Not tonight. There's weird stuff about Jason you don't know," he warned again. "Someone else."

"Jason's seeing another girl?" I'd asked, actually stopping to take stock in what Kevin had just said.

"No, not exactly. His ex. She's obsessed with him."

"Ashley? How do you know Ashley?"

At this point, Kevin slid down the wall, his long legs stretching out across the entry hall. His head lulled to the side, an idiotic grin slicing one side of his cheek. "I just do." The grin disappeared and he rolled onto his side…and puked.

"That's it. I'm out of here. Clean up your own mess."

Ashley drew a long gash along her cheek with the sharp edge of the rock, zapping me from my flashback into my own haunted story presently playing out. In the muted grays of the dark world surrounding the two of us, the fresh blood glowed brilliant red against her white skin.

I moved into a patch of light on the gravel path separating the family plots. Ashley followed like a reflection in a mirror.

"Or was it you, Sam? Jealous girlfriend attacks boyfriend's ex. Your skin is under my fingernails, after all." She dragged another, smaller scrape across her bare arm. "Yes, that's more believable. I mean everyone knows you vanished the night your brother died."

My legs felt like strings blowing in the wind, my mouth dry and unable to utter a word.

"I didn't vanish."

Ashley danced away a few feet and I followed as if caught in a weird spell.

Stop Samantha. Don't move.

"He was looking for you, you know."

"Who? Jason? I was with Jason."

"I know! But you weren't supposed to be! Don't you get it? Didn't you read the dumb ass clue?"

She moved a little further. I took a baby step the same direction."

"Remember that night, Sam? There was a full moon? Jason loves full moons—the way the landscape seems to glow, the sky inky black."

"Yeah, I know. Tell me who was looking for me."

I wished I had my cell phone. I needed to call someone or at least be able to shine some light. I hated the cemetery—the empty eerie quiet—the feeling of being watched. I also wanted to read the clue crumpled in my hand.

Ashley jumped out from behind a headstone. "Boo!" she laughed. "Did I scare you?"

My stomach dropped to my toes. "Fine, you scared me. I'm leaving now." I turned around, confused, having no idea what direction I faced. I couldn't see Kevin's grave.

I told you not to follow! "Shut up!" I screamed inside my head.

I started walking, not knowing where, just that I had to get away. Why hadn't anyone come back looking for us? How much time had passed?

"We were supposed to meet up that night," Ashley called out, stopping my escape. "I wanted to play one of Jason's dare games, have him rescue me at the last minute. You remember playing those silly games, don't you?" She twisted a long piece of her hair around her finger, slowly walking toward me. She let go one of her famous falsetto laughs. "Oh that's right. You were too chicken to play. Half the fun was making you scream. I'll bet you peed your pants a dozen times."

My hatred for Ashley grew each second, the anger building with her hurtful walk down 'memory lane.' I did remember those dangerous games we played—or she with Jamie and Jason, the summers of our preteen years.

Playing Ashley's favorite game, we lay on the hot asphalt of Main Street and waited for cars. Maybe it was fear, or plain common sense, but I always chickened out at the first hint of headlights and ran for the curb. Jamie would be next, but Jason would stay beside Ashley. If he moved, she challenged him to stay a couple seconds longer, locking hands. When the horn honked, Jason would jump up and pull Ashley with him. They'd laugh the rest of the night, and I'd lag behind, scared out of my wits and feeling like I had to throw up. If I headed for home when we rounded the block, Ashley would tease me. No, I never did wet my pants, but the humiliation of the accusation in front of Jason was torture enough.

I didn't realize we'd crossed to a side of the cemetery I'd only seen once, in daylight. The streetlights were too far away and couldn't penetrate through the thick branches, still holding enough leaves to form a screen. In the corner sat a maintenance shed or garage. The light on the corner of the building looked like it had been shot at or someone like Ashley who had a rock fixation, had smashed it. Either option left me in a dark, unfamiliar area.

Sam, get out of the cemetery! Think of something…just get the hell out of here before it's too late.

"Too late?" I answered Kevin as if he stood beside me, urging me back the direction I came.

"Late for what?"

"The food," I answered quickly. "There won't be anything left and I'm hungry. Come on, let's go. Everyone will be back at the school by now and wondering where you are."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? To run and tell everyone what a lunatic I am."

"I don't know what's going on with you, but I swear I won't say anything. Between us, I promise."

Ashley twirled in a circle, arms stretched out. I worried she'd fall on the uneven ground and get hurt, sealing my fate. "You're so full of crap, Sam. You'll run straight to Jason, all teary-eyed and vulnerable. Jamie will swear an oath to have me removed as class president. Hell, they'll probably put you on the throne."

I reached for her when she tripped and she latched onto my arm."Jason never showed up. He chose you instead. If only he'd done what I'd asked…"

Help me, I pleaded in my mind. This time, no answer came.

"Ashley, this isn't funny. Let go. You're hurting me."

"As you wish."

She let go and I fell back, losing my footing and dropping into a large hole…an open grave.

Hallowed Secrets - Continued

2012-10-30T00:08:00.000-06:00

PART II

I pressed against the side of the building, hidden in the shadows, watching Ashley link her arm through Jason's when he hesitated beneath the intricately scrolled ironwork that arched and curled over the entrance like the Angel of Death itself. When she gently eased her fingers through his messy locks of hair, stroking over his earlobe, he leaned into her whispered pleas. I surged with emotions I kept a tight rein on, but my self-control crumbled when his hand pressed her lower back and followed her through the archway.

Anger flared like fire chasing gasoline and jealousy fueled the blaze, momentarily blocking my vision behind thousands of tiny stars. A forced breath heaved from my chest and before I could grasp a rational thought, my feet pounded the pavement, sending me in the path of an oncoming car.

I froze in the headlights, horrid memories flashing in the blinding white until the blaring horn brought me crashing into the present. I leaped onto the curb, clutching my chest and ignoring the foul language as the car continued down the street. Bile licked the back of my throat and I swallowed hard to temper the nausea. Turning away from curious onlookers, definitely not wanting anyone to follow me, I closed my eyes and stepped over the metal threshold separating life and death.

I entered the cemetery.

Silence as thick as the darkness enveloped me, the living world behind the stone walls, completely shut out. I stepped behind a tree and took a moment to let my eyes adjust, scanning the shadows for Ashley and Jason. A taunting giggle echoed, almost sounding haunted. Another deeper, seductive laugh carried on the wind—Jason's.

I summoned all the bravery I could muster, which only filled my pinky finger, and walked toward the lusty sounds. Gravel crunched beneath my shoes, sounding too loud. My labored breaths bounced back to my ears from the nearby headstones as I moved across the grass…trespassed over graves.

Don't walk on the graves…the dead will haunt you. Too late. My dreams had been plagued for months with ghosts, visions of my brother sitting on the edge of my bed, and even at times, sensations of him pulling my hair. But the dreams faded the past month, alerting me a little more of me died along with the memories.

I swiped the unbidden tears from my cheeks, slowing my pace as I came closer to my destination. I could hear Ashley and Jason's voices on the other side of old man Carter's grave—a large medieval looking cross, tipped off center from an overgrown root of the oak tree a few feet away. I hid behind the cross when I saw their silhouetted bodies. Jason had his hands set on her waist, and Ashley's linked behind his neck.

I felt sick.

"Stop this, Ash. I'm not playing your game. I'm with Samantha and I don't want to hurt her." I heard the wet smack of a kiss and my knees buckled. "I said knock it off!" Jason sounded angry, but he didn't step outside of her arms.

"She'll never know. Come on. One night, that's all—like old times."

I watched the shadow of her hand graze down his chest, his abdomen, and blend into the blob of darkness where their bodies met. Jason moaned deep in his throat and rage burned behind my eyes. She's touching him…and he's letting her!

The jagged sound of a zipper pierced the quiet. I slid to the damp grass, unable to tear my gaze away from the nightmare playing out before me. Jason jumped back, away from Ashley's outstretched hand.

"No dammit! Don't!"

"Why not? You used to like—"

"Enough!" Jason roared. He yanked his zipper up. "I'm out of here."

"What? You'd just leave me in a graveyard alone? You're such an ass!"

"Better than what you are. Are you coming?"

"Go to hell!"

"Suit yourself." Jason turned and started walking. Ashley walked closer to where I'd scrunched tighter, not wanting to be discovered. Jason would think I was a jealous freak and purposely followed them…which I did.

"I'll tell everyone it was your fault," Ashley loudly dared. I heard the gravel shift when Jason's steps halted.

"I had nothing to do with what happened that night, and you know it."

A girlish bubble of laughter left Ashley's mouth. "Everyone knows you're an adrenalin junkie."

"I'm no such thing—"

"How you like drive without headlights the nights there's a full moon."

Jason thought it was cool how the moon made everything appear to glow.

"I only do it for a couple of minutes when there's no cars around," he defended.

"Or see if you can beat the train Millpond Crossing."

"I haven't done that since I was sixteen. It's dangerous."

"So is screwing without protection, but that didn't stop you at Ike's party. Poor Sammy…too sad to hang out with her boyfriend. What pathetic excuse did you give her for not answering her constant texts? Bet you didn't say it was because you were hooking up with me."

Jason's voice was close now. "I was drunk…too drunk. Your version of that night is different from how I remember it."

"Is it? Wonder what version Sam would believe?" Ashley moved close enough, the floral fragrance from her perfume wafted over me with the soft night breeze. Her voice lowered, as if she knew I sat a few feet away, listening. "You came to me, Jason, not the other way around. Sam was messed up after the accident and pushed you away. I was there for you."

So that's what happened? Why Jason suddenly acted so weird? I pulled my legs against my chest, biting my lip hard to ward off the tears. Jason slept with Ashley.

After a child dies, homes become living graveyards…family members ghosts passing through each other's lives with haunted faces, silent, until someone does—says the wrong thing. Broken silence proved worse—screaming, wailing, and endless blame. Reality horror shows.

My family imploded. I couldn't handle the constant drama and fastened myself to the only normal things in my life—school and friends. But as the remaining only child, I served as a constant reminder that I, too, could be taken from them at any moment. Smothered, stalked, my whereabouts questioned constantly, I withdrew from any social life, not wanting my friends, especially not Jason, subjected to interrogations, phone calls to parents to verify my stories, or being privately contacted by either of my parents with instructions on how to manage my grief.

Maybe I did push Jason away, but sleep with her…with any girl while I mourned? I didn't know who I hated most right now…Jason for losing self-control and betraying me—or Ashley for letting him.

I slipped on the grass when I tried to stand, sliding into a prone position and guaranteeing a deeply imbedded grass stain on my favorite jeans. No one apparently heard my "ugh" or felt the ground move when I landed, because Jason shouted loud enough to drown out any noise other than his own voice.

"That night turned into the biggest mistake of my life! You've held the threat of telling Sam over my head for six damn months! Don't you get it, Ash? I'm so done with you! No more threats. Leave me and Sam the hell alone. I've played your game and bowed to you demands—"

"Except for one," She shouted back. "Why won't you—"

"Dump Sam and come back to you?"

"To be honest, yes? After everything that's happened, why?"

I lifted my head, afraid to move any other part of my body. I needed to hear his answer, too.

"Because I love Sam. I don't care about you, Ashley. Not even as a friend…not after what you did. You're a nut job. I should to be with Sam right now, not the psycho bitch who caused her brother's accident."

What! Oh my hell! Ashley was the girl in the road?

She slapped Jason, the sound resonating like a fire cracker. I scrambled to my feet, ready to let my presence known when I heard Jamie call my name in the distance. I pressed into the black hollow of the oak tree, praying I wouldn't be discovered. Jason stood only a few feet away and if he knew I'd watched his and Ashley's performance, he'd hate me forever. And Ashley would win.

Jamie sounded breathless by the time she reached her brother and the tramp. She shined the flashlight directly in Jason's eyes. I panicked, watching the blue-white beam stretch my direction, but the same wayward root that tipped the Carter monument, deflected it away from my feet. I held my breath, imagining myself one with the rough bark scraping against my back.

Jason raised his arm over his brow. "Shut that damn thing off."

The light swirled as Jamie talked, gesturing with her hands at the same time. A wayward shaft of light swept across my feet, but no one noticed because another argument ensued.

"What exactly is going on, Jason? Why are you with her?"

Ashley scoffed. I couldn't see her, but I pictured her arm sliding in the crook of Jason's, or her thumb nail scraping a trail down his arm. "We're partners, remember? The last clues are here in the cemetery."

The beam now pointed heavenward with Jamie's crossed arms. "So where's your clue…or is there even one, Ashley?"

"You're such a witch, Jamie. And yes, there is a clue. We just haven't found it."

"Maybe you should change partners. I'll help you." The light flashed Jason again. "What's wrong with your face?"

Jason grabbed his sister's elbow and starting walking away. "Nothing. Come on, I'll help you find Sam." I heard his voice wander back Ashley's direction. "Game's over sweetheart. You lose. Just like before."

Ashley punched the air with her fists. "Drop dead, Jason!"

His answer drifted further away. "Fitting comeback, Ash. At least I have the choice to walk away. Too bad Kevin…"

And just like that, his voice vanished, taking my breath and possibly my last heartbeat with it. Too bad Kevin—what?

"Idiot. I won't be tossed aside like chewed gum. If he thinks he can replace me with that loser bitch, he's got another thing coming. If only she'd stayed away…"

Voices filled the cemetery, unruly and disrespecting of the spirits who owned the hallowed ground. Ashley spun around, heading in the direction of her adoring fans. Once I figured I was safe, I untangled from my oak sanctuary.

"I knew you were close. I smelled your cheap cologne."

My skin and skeleton seemed to rip apart at the shock of finding Ashley, arms folded, waiting on the other side of the tree. I smacked my chest, willing my heart to beat.

"Ashley! You scared the crap out of me!"

She circled me, crouching slightly as if a predatory creature surmising their prey. "How long have been tucked inside that termite infested tree?"

Impulsively, I brushed fingers through my hair, subconsciously worrying actual termites crawled along the shafts and would burrow into my brain while I slept. I swallowed the lump stuck in my throat, feeling my pulse behind my eyeballs from my heart still bouncing in my chest.

"Long enough," I declared, hoping she didn't catch the nervous warble in my tone.

"What exactly did you hear?"

"That you're a skank…oh, sorry, slut."

Ashley lunged at me, grabbing my hair in her fists and forcing me backward until my back slammed a grave marker. Kevin's. Angry and smarting, I butted my head against her face. She jumped back, pressing her hand to her face. A stream of blood trickled over her fingers.

"You broke my nose!"

"Right, like you weren't going to have it surgically altered at some point."

When she came at me again, I moved to the side, putting the tombstone between us.

That's when I spied the envelope glowing white against the charcoal-colored grass—the last clue. Ashley resembled the stone statues dotting the cemetery, turning rigid when I pulled out piece of paper. I stopped breathing all together.

"Trick-or-Treat"

2012-10-28T19:33:00.001-06:00

PART I

October 31st, "All Hallowed Eve," or in non-poetic terms, "Halloween," had finally arrived, putting an end to the relentless fanfare our school had been subjected to by our Senior Class President and royal pain in the ass, Ashley Daniels.

Wearing any hat that would insure her attention from head cheerleader, soprano soloist in the Madrigal Choir, the lead role of Juliet in Romeo and Juliet, she'd also somehow managed to convince the majority of mindless minions comprising my senior class, to vote her in as president. The fact that she could make a burlap bag look like designer clothes, and bounce her personal "pom-poms" just enough to hypnotize the entire male population of our school, only helped her cause.

The football team, including my hunky boyfriend, Jason, stood frozen, dollops of drool hanging off their gaped mouths, every time Ashley donned her cheerleader outfit and "jiggled" onto the field. I wore the exact outfit she did, followed third in line behind her, yet Jason failed to acknowledge my presence until I purposely shook my puff of shredded blue and white plastic in his eyes.

"Hi babe," he'd say, sheepish grin plastered on his berry red face. I couldn't help it if the team mascot, a grizzly bear, looked more like a guinea pig across my A cups while it looked like the "Incredible Hulk" stretched across Ashley's publicly declared "C's." I swear she stuffed her gym socks inside her bra. No one that small could be so well endowed and stand up straight.

I arrived at the school gymnasium an hour early as instructed by our bodacious leader, precariously carrying trays of cupcakes from Molly's Magic Sweets. I placed the five dozen cakey treats, a couple of ghosts having collided with Frankensteins and sporting green polka-dots, next to the basket holding the sealed envelopes. Five teams, four members to each one, handpicked by Ashley and her cronies, would participate in this year's "Spooktacular Scavenger Hunt," a town tradition and major fund raiser for the school.

I'd rather have stayed home and handed out cheap candy to the trick-or-treaters, than traipse all over town following clever clues and gathering donations at each destination. The scavenger hunt ended with the last clue in Johnstown's Cemetery, a place I avoided at all costs and not because it was scary in a crooked-eerie-angel-topped-tombstones way, but because a part of me was buried alive and slowly died every day over the past nine months.

"Don't you wish there was a way to open those and rearrange them so Ashley had to spend the night with all the chemistry and computer geeks?"

"I'll try and not take offense," I laughed, licking a remnant of frosting off my thumbnail from a pumpkin face I'd squeezed too hard.

Jamie, my best friend since third grade nudged my shoulder, sneaking the smashed pumpkin-faced cupcake and splitting it in half, hiding the bat-covered paper inside her purse. "Sorry. I forgot you loved chemistry…or at least your lab partner…Jason," she teased in a husky voice.

When I opened my mouth to object, she shoved the other half of chocolate cake between my lips, most of it crumbling to the floor. "Great. We'll probably be charged with theft and have to pay a hundred bucks for that cupcake." I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and cheesy-smiled at her. "Do I have crumbs in my teeth?"

"Don't worry. If you do, I'm sure my little bro will suck them away when he tongue tags you later." She brushed the fallen crumbs with her toe under the display table. "Where is my twin, anyway?"

"Probably in the showers. Practice ran late."

"Why don't you sneak in with him?"

I slapped her arm. "Jamie!"

Her lips curled into a smile the Devil would envy. "What? You don't think I hear you two going at it in his room? He may be downstairs, but his heat duct connects to my bedroom." My face flashed so hot, my skin should have melted. "Gotcha!" she laughed, "but judging by your reaction, my imagination isn't far off the mark."

Jamie palmed an envelope from the basket. "Ashley would, you know…join Jason in the showers if she had a chance."

"Don't remind me, okay? He claims he feels nothing for her and I shouldn't be jealous, but I can't help wondering, you know? I don't want to seem clingy, so I don't ask, but I watch her…"

"He's into you, Sam, more than he ever was with her. That was Freshman year. They were just horny teens with no brain function."

"You're talking about your twin brother. If he had no brain function—"

"Who has no brains? You Sis?"

I twirled at the sound of the voice, my stomach full of butterflies and heat instantly snaking through my veins. A hand wrapped the back of my neck, the other firmly at my lower back, pressing me against rock-hard abs. The smell of coconut shampoo and citrus body soap swamped my senses, and I nuzzled into the damp fabric of Jason's T-shirt. His lips pressed in a chaste kiss and returned, demanding a deeper one from my mouth.

"You smell good," I whispered before indulging in a nibble off his neck.

"Get a room!" shouted Buck, Jason's best friend.

Reluctantly, I stepped back, feeling the cold air from the open gymnasium doors slice between us. Jason kept my hand, tugging me to his side when the gym started filling with the football team and other classmates.

"Where's Ash? We need to get started." Jason dropped his dark gaze to my eyes for a second before sneaking a glimpse inside my shirt. "So we can finish," he said so low no one but me heard the intimate comment. If my bones hadn't already started turning spongy, I would have resented his reference to the nickname he gave her when they dated.

"I'm right here gorgeous!"

The room full of bodies parted like the Red Sea when she sauntered into the gym wearing skinny jeans so tight if there was a quarter in her back pocket, you'd see the year it was minted. Her pink button-up blouse was mostly "unbuttoned," leaving a gap just wide enough you could see the black bra she wore. When she sidled up to the side of Jason, tapping a manicured finger on the end of his chin, I could see the matching pink satin bow marking the front clasp.

"Miss me?" she purred in a sexy lilt.

I curled my arms around Jason's waist, my elbow purposely knocking her away. "Hardly," I sneered. Jason's arms folded around me, the soft kiss to the top of my head finally giving her a big enough hint to prowl elsewhere.

"Listen up 'peeps.' We've got two hours before Rogers Texas Grub arrives with our food." She held up two baskets—one with the assigned teams, and a second one with coordinating colored envelopes full of clues. "Let's see who has the winning team this year."

Luckily, I was on Jamie's, along with two other chemistry geeks. At least we had intelligent beings on our side. My stomach dipped to my toes when she read the last team. Buck and his girlfriend, Tina, an "Ashley wannabee," along with Ashley and…Jason.

Tears burned the edges of my eyes and my throat tightened. "That bitch!" I hissed.

Jason tipped my chin up with his finger. "Stop. I'm crazy about you. No other girls exist in my world—especially not Ash—ley." Oops. Major slip. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay. I trust you. Let's just hurry and get this over with. I have a late curfew tonight."

"Oooh, your basement or mine?"

"I was thinking we could sneak into the hot tub at my grandma's clubhouse. She gave me the code and the security dude only works weekends to save money."

"No bathing suits?"

"Underwear, champ. Let's not get ahead of ourselves just yet."

Ashley grabbed Jason's arm and yanked him away, but his "thumbs up" and wicked wink, held a promise the night wouldn't be a total waste.

Jamie gave my shoulder a playful punch. "Come on 'bedroom eyes.' We're the last ones out of here. Those two dweebs, Owen and—"

"Marcus. At least try and remember their names?"

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. They've got the first three clues already figured out. We'll be done in no time and then we can shadow loverboy and his asshat ex to make sure we ruin any plans she's got brewing."

Fear pushed my lustful thoughts aside. "You don't think she's trying—"

"To get Jason back? Hell yeah! Open your love-blinded eyes, Sam. There's only so much a guy can take before he'll surrender…even Jason. Those boobs were hanging out for a reason tonight, and it wasn't to make a fashion statement."

"If she goes near him, I swear I'll kill her!"

Jamie looked around the room, ushering me out the door. "Keep your voice down. People take those kind of statements serious nowadays. Something happens to 'queeny' and you're the number one suspect."

My hearth thrummed loudly in my ears. I was serious. Johnstown's Cemetery held more than decaying corpses. Dark, seedy secrets, tucked alongside the dead and sealed in pleated satin. Everyone had a life riddle—some solved in the light of day, others revealed under a cloak of darkness.

The double-edged mysteries, however, took on a life of their own…lived beyond the graves of those thought to keep them sacred, and among the innocent or those pretending to be so. Puppets held by ghostly threads who danced on deadly marionette strings. Puppets like me…like Ashley.

We were running behind, the last clue Marcus thought he'd figured out, sending us in the wrong direction. The clue eluded to an "eight ball in a pocket,' and all three of us jumped on board when Marcus said it had to be Benny's Billiards, the only pool hall (and bar) in town. When we walked into the smoky tavern, all eyes trained on Jamie and me.

"Perverts," Jamie scowled before easing a hip onto a barstool. Before I could set my butt on one, the bartender threw his towel over his shoulder and leaned to Jamie. I suspected the numbers tallied in his brain fast—face, boobs, hair. He gave me a sideway glance for a second, then back to Jamie. Again, I'd failed some "jiggle scale."

"Need to see ID princess."

"We're here for clue three," I interjected, forcing his leer my direction and away from my girlfriend.

"Clue three? I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Marcus jumped into the conversation, explaining our brilliant deduction and showing the barkeep the clue. Turned out "BB" also meant "Burger Barn," where a deep pocket was code for large fries, and an eight ball represents their special Crazy Eight club sandwich combo.

Standing outside Burger Barn, I tried forcing the steamy puffs my breath created into rings, while Owen and Marcus wolfed a cheeseburger and Jamie decided to use the restroom. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of someone moving toward the graveyard. Ashley and Jason!

I reached in my pocket for my cell phone only to remember laying it on the counter at Benny's Billiards. Damn! When I pulled my hand out, a lime green piece of paper drifted to the sidewalk. The last clue…the one I'd already solved and kept secret from my teammates. The last destination would place me at the foot of a granite monument, marking a grave I hadn't visited in nine months.

Imagining the inscription carved into the glittering flecks, panic bubbled in my chest. My heart physically hurt it pounded so hard. "Kevin Gregory Barnes. A life taken too soon…" My brother—whose car careened off a cliff to avoid hitting a girl standing in the road. A girl who disappeared, but left a note on my brother's grave the day of the funeral.

A piece of paper, dampened by the fresh loam mound, pale peach in color, the cursive script squiggly, probably from a shaking hand.

I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to die.

Taunt or Torture?

2012-10-18T16:44:00.001-06:00

What makes a story unforgettable...addictive?

I drive an evil little car. While it doesn't actually "talk," it has a way of taunting you. "Drive me just a little faster…ease down the gas pedal…five more miles per hour won't hurt. And you listen, obey, and constantly watch for "light bars" on cars parked in the distance. Then it happens again…come on, quit teasing…punch it. Just for a second…feel the rush. And like the mindless puppet you've become behind the wheel of a car that will indeed go 160 mph in the blink of an eye, you let your weighted foot drop closer to the floor board…and soar.

No one believed me when I first expressed this sensation Bleu, my bad little Mini Cooper, created, until I let a couple of people drive it. My daughter felt it immediately…"It wants more." Oh yeah. Then I let my colleague, author Jeremy Broadwell, drive Bleu home from conference. "This thing taunts you to go faster." Exactly.

Taunt – toy; tease; abuse.

That's what good writers do. They give you little bite size pieces of the story, sometimes dipped in something sweet, spicy or bitter, to get your attention. Just enough to give you a "taste." Like potato chips. Lays knew what they were doing when they came up with the brilliant marketing plan—"You can never eat just one." The oily little beggars are addictive. Place a bag of plain M&M's to side, and I have nirvana at my fingertips.

Just like the chips, dusted with salt, or tiny morsels of chocolate covered in a thin layer of candy coating, a good story will hold you prisoner—taunt you with a little more on each page until you're addicted. You're not going to stop eating the chips until you've surpassed yours and the neighborhood's allotment; the bag of candy not only will be empty, but you'll smack the bag a couple of times to insure you didn't miss one; and you'll find yourself on page 100 of the book without realizing your family has been standing beside you, yelling your name the past hour.

A good author sets the pacing in the book as if by magic, to end a climatic scene literally at the stroke of midnight. You know you need sleep—morning seems to arrive earlier each day, but you can't put the book down. You tell yourself "one more chapter," five more miles an hour. But to continue the torture, the next scene comes nicely wrapped with a bow that can only be untied, the surprise discovered, in the following chapter.

Subconsciously, you decide how you'll get through the next day on little sleep, making an empty promise to your inner goddess that you'll go to bed earlier the next night, and keep reading… punch it—just for a second—feel the rush.

Most of the time, I am disciplined enough to know if I shut the book, the story won't vanish and I can read it the next day. Sometimes I purposely save a book only for reading at bedtime, giving me a reason to actually go to bed at a decent hour, even if only to read to an indecent hour (I like to trick my inner goddess by making her believe if I'm in the bed….).

But every now and again, I'll stumble on a story that defies all self-discipline. One that the author has ensnared me in a thick web of deceit by luring me in slowly, then does something to the character that I've become comfortable with, making me hate the character and the author for blindsiding me. A simple clue I missed because it was colored brown or gray to blend into the background, only to trip over it later and find the story unravels immediately on the discovery.

Now I can't stop reading. I like to think I'm good at solving puzzles, catching the predictable "camera clues," so when I don't, I'm also irritated with myself. How did I miss that? It was so simple? Now I'm on a quest to prove to myself I will not miss another one, but again, the author has pulled a "rabbit" out of their hat at the stroke of midnight. I turn the page, only to find out, everything I believed happened… Another curtain parts, leading me in a totally different direction. Now, I'm really pissed off.

"Gone Girl" by Gillian Flynn. I'm only halfway through this torturous tale and have been inspired to spew or tout this author's ability in my latest blog. Lots of mixed reviews on this, and I can't tell you whether I love or hate the story…just that I'm addicted.

Read it? I'd love to hear your opinion (no spoilers though). Haven't? If you want to be flustered, intrigued, and your emotions yanked around, I recommend you get it. Warning, if you need a "happy ending" to make a book work, I'd hold off. Like I said, right now….I'm royally ticked.

Thanks a lot, Flynn.

AUTHOR...WHO ART THOU?

2012-09-24T16:00:00.000-06:00

WHO EXACTLY ARE YOU?

My local chapter is gearing up for their annual conference in a couple of weeks (check out the website http://www.utahrwa.com/HOWConference.html if you want more details) and of course the focus of conference is the chance to pitch to an agent or publisher—hopefully getting a request to see your work.

However, we focus so much on what to put on those cue cards we forget an even more important purpose. Believe it or not, selling your book isn't the most important thing an author should focus on. NO? My hair is blowing back by your gasps.

I just finished an amazing online course on "branding" taught by author Theresa Myers and as usual, I've learned something completely new, more challenging, but necessary to furthering my career. I have to step out of the comfort zone again. My skin has just started feeling comfortable, but now I need to shed another layer. Wish that meant a new, wrinkle-free and younger me, but alas, I write fantasy and live reality.

Here's what the course focused on. You are selling YOU, not your books. She asked us to post 3 things we wanted to be known for when someone heard our author name. Here's mine:

HARLEY BROOKS:

* Edgy, racy teen reads

* Emotionally charged stories

* Unforgettable characters

Edgy teen reads about choices and consequences, relationship issues, and self discovery.

Next, we were to find the common thread in our stories – the core. Mix, simmer, and boil down to what will become our tagline. This scared my inner goddess. I love my tagline. It represents me on both a personal level and in my writing. I'm a mother, wife, and daughter, constantly being called upon to fix my superheroes messes. I write teen romance about heroes and heroines without the sage wisdom of age, but having young hearts full of passion that rule their heads. Luckily, when I reached the boiled down version, I was close enough to keep my tag.

MIX: Everyone has relationship issues, suffers betrayal, falls in love, and gets their heart broken. Every choice has a consequence, some harder than others. Learn how to survive and take from the life lesson learned, what you need to grow. Forgive yourself. Even superheroes make mistakes.

SIMMER: Choices have consequences, relationships are messy, but broken hearts mend. Embrace life's lessons, forgive yourself and grow. Even superheroes get caught in their capes.

BOIL: Sometimes superheroes get caught in their capes. "Untangling superheroes from their capes" sticks.

Of course there was a mass amount of other information through the week long course, but this helped me identify who I am as an author, not just what my books are about. I represent my own business and the shingle I hang on myself has to promote me…my business. If I were a lawyer, or doctor, it wouldn't be about my clients or patients. It would be about what I do.

I'm in the process of updating my shingle on all the "shop sites" to promote me instead of "Riley's Pond." My books will become "references" and I will become the brand. Changing strategy also allows for growth in my career. I'm not limited to just my young adult stories. As "Author Harley Brooks," I can write whatever genre I choose, and those stories will help color my brochure.

Harley Brooks. "Untangling superheroes from their capes through edgy, emotionally charged young adult stories, filled with unforgettable characters discovering life is sometimes messy."

So Author…who art thou?

By the way, I'll be participating in a book signing event with Sherrilyn Kenyon and other talented authors in Park City at the Deer Valley Resort, October 6th, from 5:00 p.m to 7:00 p.m. Come by and say "HI!"

As always, thanks for stopping by! Joelene

www.harleybrooks.com

Tuck Away the Memory? I Say Never....

2012-09-11T12:21:00.000-06:00

I'd just arrived at work, put my purse under my desk, and managed two swallows of coffee before my "cubie mate" came rushing around the corner, her eyes red and watery. "Where does your brother live?" were her first words, not "good morning." I have three brothers so the question needed clarification. "Which one?" I asked. "The one in New York," she quickly responded, the tears now flowing easily over the apple of her cheeks. I caught my breath for a moment, sizing up that something was drastically wrong. "He lives in Manhattan," I finally answered carefully. "Why?"

At that point her crystal blue eyes filled her face. "You don't know, do you?" The little hairs on my neck prickled. "Know what?" I swallowed down. She didn't say anything, grabbed my arm and yanked me into our lawfirm's managing partner's office, where a television displayed a scene worthy any apocalyptic horror movie. At first I didn't understand what I watched. The twin towers, the two most impressive buildings I'd ever stood in the shadow of about two years prior, both bore gaping, smoldering holes.

Suddenly, my caffeinated-deprived brain made the connection and terror ripped through me. As I listened to the anxious voice recapping the horrid events playing out in real time for our stunned nation, my mind raced trying to determine where my brother would be at this time of the morning. He taught classes at the college only a few blocks from where the inferno raged, but my main concern was my then sister-in-law who worked in the financial district. Before I finished dialing my brother's number, which droned an electronic busy signal, I watched, frozen in an increment time I'd forever remember right down to how the carpet felt beneath my feet, as the towers gave way in a sick groan and crumbled into a massive gray cloud.

Most of my co-workers had never basked in the beauty of those architectural wonders, their glass facades mirroring Hudson Bay on one side, the East River on the other, and the delicate symbol of freedom, Lady Liberty encased in the Atlantic, like a badge of honor on their front sides. I went home at lunch, retrieved the wall poster of an aerial view of Manhattan I'd bought my youngest son, who was enthralled with New York City, but hadn't gone on the trip with me. I tacked it on the bulletin board in the copy room across from the office where the tragic events of the morning played over and over. During the day, I watched my co-workers stop and study the beautiful towers of glass that were the focal point of the picture. "I had no idea how beautiful they were," was the comment stated the most.

The structures were beautiful -- magnificent actually would be a better description. The Freedom Tower and reflective gardens being erected in their honor are also beautiful, but nothing will ever compare to the man-made wonders that once rested on that piece of earth, nor can any monument ever be constructed that will do justice to the memories of those who became mere names etched in stone, in the wake of the tragedy.

Now, they want us to tuck the memory away -- stuff it in a drawer marked "historical events." Claims that it's too painful for survivors of those who died, to keep reliving the tragic events year after year, or that it's not fair to them to publicly parade their loss because they've moved on with their lives.

I'm waving the "bullshit flag."

Have they really moved on in their lives? Have any of us? No. We're learned to live with what happened, but we will never move past it. Like I said, I can zap myself back to that moment, the memory still as raw and emotional eleven years later. Those who witnessed the collapse, whose lungs filled with remnants of the twin towers and those who died entombed in the massive destruction; who, like my brother, walked in mass across the bridges to the their homes, lived in terror of what was happening in the world around them because they'd lost all communication with the outside world; not to mention those whose loved ones never walked through the front door or slept in their beds again, leaving survivors with unsaid goodbyes, will never move past what happened. I can't even fathom the feelings those who were "chosen" to receive the final calls filled with "I'm sorry, I love you and goodbye forever," knowing the next time they heard their beloved caller's name it would be uttered from the lips of a total stranger, reading a passenger list of those heroes and heroines who knowingly sacrificed their life so I'd have a chance to stand on my patriotic soapbox today.

Our nation, collectively and individually, was forever changed, and asking us to "put away the memory" is a blatant slap in the face as far as I'm concerned. My security blanket was shredded that day, and I count myself among the lucky ones. My sister-in-law was away at a conference in Florida, and my brother was fine physically, but emotionally, like the rest of the New Yorkers who stood as witness, now scarred for life. But hey, let's tuck away that awful day, not relive the memory, or take a moment out of our busy lives to remember those who went to work the same as most of us, never to return home because they were destroyed at the hands of what could truly be called "grim reapers."

I say never. No one can make me dismiss such a poignant moment in time or diminish it's importance, anymore than they can stop me from my freedom to express my opposition to the idea, bend my knee in gratitude, or prevent the sudden spark of anger that ignites with the memory, only to be doused by the outpouring of patriotism that rose in the wake of 911.

Don't forget, or let anyone else for that matter. Pass on the stories, recant the events, share your memories and feelings regarding this precious moment, to the generations that follow in your footsteps. Don't let what happened eleven years ago today ever be "tucked away."

What about you? Do you believe 911 should quietly fade into history's background?

An Author's Crossroad

2012-07-12T23:20:00.000-06:00

Stained glass butterfly....

When I decided to write seriously, I stood at a crossroads—not on what to write, but on how to write. A delicate balance, especially since I wanted to write in the Young Adult genre.

Raised with a heavy religious mantle on my shoulders, at first I felt compelled to write to please instead of to write for pleasure. I felt the pressure of my dead grandmother looming over my shoulder, gasping at every unsavory word or scene, worried about the judgmental eyes of those in my small community, not to mention the mantra my mother drilled into me throughout my informative years..."Don't do anything you wouldn't do in front of me." Sound familiar?

I delved into my teenage romance, full of enthusiasm with the story my characters told, until one of my characters wanted to do something I didn't morally agree with. I tried to write a "bleached out" version, changing all the "gosh darn" words, shoving my hero's wandering hands into his pockets while placing a chaste kiss on my heroine's lips. Even altered their attire from the normal low riding jeans and cropped tees, to outfits that made Amish kids look risqué. I created the "Stepford Teens." When I tried to write their story in their new "appearance" it became as lifeless as they had. My characters fell silent and their story stopped. At that point I realized I'd written to please.

Then I attended a seminar where the very subject of characters who broke unheard of rules, scoffed at our moral upbringing, pretty much doing as they damn well pleased, was discussed. I mingled with authors who wrote bizarre sci-fi stories, erotic romances, and bone-chilling slasher-thrillers. Normal people who lived in normal neighborhoods with spouses, kids and pets—who wrote amazing "moral defying" books.

These brilliant authors who wrote dark works based on murder, rape, drug addictions, and sex, were not their characters. Just because someone creates a story based on a stalker who kills and dismembers innocent people, doesn't mean that person is constantly thinking those thoughts—that they may commit the heinous crimes themselves; or the romance writer who creates scenes full of mind boggling sex that makes your blood sing when your read their words, spends all their time "in the bedroom" so to speak. Not so.

Authors are storytellers. We're "secretaries" to our characters. We write what they tell us, casting aside personal hang-ups and bringing their lives to written form. We write for pleasure.

My books will not grace the shelves of religious bookstores. I decided I liked my colorful, gritty characters, who can make me blush (personally, I think they like the 'shock factor'). I know some eyebrows waggled and a few gasps taken when my friends read Riley's Pond, but there was no "bleaching out" the story. It would have stripped the essence of the characters—killed the story. Not all my books are as racy, but they border an edgier line—sometimes nibbling forbidden fruit. Depends on how much my characters want to share. But…that's the way I decided to write. No apologies offered.

Tonight, one of my neighbors approached me. She'd read Riley's Pond, which surprised me because very few people in my neighborhood know I write, or my pen name. She wanted me to know how much she loved the story. "You had me from the first paragraph and I hated turning the last page, knowing it came to an end." When I dared the question for her opinion on the racy context, she told me any other way would not have been Riley's story. She also expressed a hope all my books held a pinch of spice. (She was one of those I worried about!)

Now that's writing pleasure.

2012-07-03T14:12:00.001-06:00

Sometimes I wake with a story in my head. Tomorrow our nation celebrates another birthday and the traditions of all the ways the Fourth of July is celebrated, sparked this one. Enjoy, and have a wonderful, safe holiday. Happy Birthday America!

I parked my car in the gravel turnout and crossed the road to my favorite stakeout point; a large boulder nestled in the pines that kept me hidden, but gave me the perfect vantage point. Below me stood the two-story house, gray clapboard siding wrapping the exterior and crisp white shutters framing the windows. A large porch curled around the front corner, edged in a white spindle railing. The front door used to be a barn red color, adorned with a homemade flag wreath for the month of July, but now the door glared in shiny ebony black, a formal brass doorknocker stealing the last warmth.

Someone in a straw hat rode a fancy lawnmower, cutting long wide stripes across the expanse of green carpet that stretched from where the road intersected the private lane, to the manicured rose bushes accenting the wrap-around porch.

Wished Gramps had one of those when we were growing up. It took two of us an hour to mow with his old lawnmowers, one of us starting at the house and the other at the road, meeting in the middle to finish. The large maple tree on the property line marked the official dividing line, and whoever reached it first, got to choose between mowing the smaller back lawn or sweeping the drive and walkways with the big push broom to clear away the stray grass clippings. Both dreaded chores under the hot sun, but that's how the Harper grandchildren made a living starting at age eight, until they were old enough to work regular jobs.

Six of us were hauled down Harper Lane every Saturday morning in time to hear the roosters crow out back by the barns. Grandma had breakfast waiting, which we were allotted a total of thirty minutes to swallow before our name was retrieved from the mason jar for our chosen "job." Sweeping the porches and helping Grandma feed the chickens and harvest the eggs were the coveted chores, but saved for the younger cousins. Once you turned eleven, your name was thrown in the mason jar.

Grandpa would gather us into the formal dining room, place the job chart on the table, and the infamous jar. The early rays of sun streaming through the dining room windows made the bumpy lettering sparkle, our names written on scraps of paper looking like the fortunes you found in the cookies at Chinese restaurants. He'd announce each job, mimicking a game show host, reach into the jar and leave us holding our breath. Edging and mowing the vast grass that seemed to grow in size every week, weeding the vegetable garden and flower gardens, were the listed choices, and when done, we each received five dollars and lunch. The "babies" as we called them, only got two dollars.

The riding mower clanged loudly when the operator rode it down the driveway to the garage, pulling me from my memories. I shifted on the rock and leaned my elbows on my knees, squinting through my sunglasses at the porch. White wicker furniture with bright floral cushions arranged in formal groupings replaced the colorful wooden rockers that used to occupy the space. On the back porch, facing the cornfields and barnyard, hung a porch swing. I wondered if it was still there, or if modern iron patio furniture had replaced that memory as well.

Six rocking chairs, each painted a different, bright color would sway in ghostly movement with the afternoon breeze. They were for the "adults" to sit in and watch us as we played ball on the lawn, fought over the tire swing hanging from the old maple tree, or climbed precariously through the thick branches. The tire swing had disappeared and the lower branches we could reach as children had been trimmed away. The tree stood formidable, unfriendly, and lonely among the other sculpted bushes sharing the property edge.

A flag ruffled in the breeze atop a new tall mast on the other side of the driveway. Today was the Fourth of July. My gaze shifted back to the front of the house, the porch, where instead of a large flag boldly marking the day, half-arched banners in stars and stripes used to drape the railing, and little flags from the "five-and-dime" store waved proudly between the rose bushes and petunias.

Next to Christmas, the Fourth of July held my fondest childhood memories. Clad in new summer tops and shorts, mine always pink (I was considered Grams "girly-girl" among my older boy cousins), hair pulled into pigtails or braids to keep cool in the summer heat, we would be nestled in the backseat of the cars at the crack of dawn with our favorite quilts. The trunks would be packed with games, swimsuits, beach towels, coolers of food, and boxes of fireworks. Coming from different directions, our family caravan would descend one-by-one down Harper Lane for the annual Harper Family Fourth of July Celebration.

The half hour drive would lull us back to sleep, until the familiar crunch of gravel beneath the car tires when we turned off the highway and headed down the lane, brought us back to life. Spilling from cars in a noisy ruckus, we'd race to be the first through the front door. The smell of bacon and coffee greeted us on the porch, wafting through the open windows. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, piles of crisp bacon and carafes of orange, apple and grape juice waited our attack. From that moment on, the food never ceased.

After we tired of checking out the barns, playing hide-and-seek in the cornstalks, or croquet on the back lawn, Grandpa would haul out the large bright yellow strips of plastic and stretch them down the front lawn, then turn on the sprinklers, the arcs of water crisscrossing each other and making for cool afternoon in our very own water park. When our lips turned blue, we'd redress and the little ones usually napped on the floor in the living room, along with Gramps, while we were placed at the dining table with board games and threatened with cleaning animal stalls if we woke anyone.

Our mothers and Grandma chattered about everyone in town over potato salad and brownie preparation, while we played Sorry and Life. When the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers being grilled started our tummy juices churning, we were ushered out from under foot to set the picnic tables out back. Pitchers of lemonade captured the golden rays of sunset and kept the tablecloths secure. Soon, platters of steaming corn-on-the cob, plates of deviled eggs, bowls holding salads and baked beans joined the baskets of buns and various condiments dotting the tables. Gramps offered a prayer, much longer than necessary in our childhood opinions, and only when we started making faces at each other and giggling did he pronounce "amen," allowing us to eat.

The fathers and Gramps were in charge of evening entertainment once the sun dipped behind the hillside, to allow time for the "women folk" as Gramps called them, to do dishes. The boxes of fireworks were retrieved and each of us grabbed out favorite blanket and spread out on the front lawn. The "adult" rockers were carried off the porch and lined up for the firework display the town put on, once the sky officially blackened.

Meanwhile, we danced with sparklers raining dangerously over our heads and sparks burning out bare feet. The dads took turns lighting cones of spraying sparks that whistled ear piercing screeches, or lit buzzing plumes that hopped along the cement. The Harper Grand Finale consisted of the spinning "fire of death" Gramps would dramatically announce as he mounted the fiberboard wheel on the nail below the steel mailbox. A hose would be stretched out on the driveway in preparation, as many times, Gramps fire wheel caught the wood post on fire. Grandma repainted the mailbox every summer after sparks peeled her handiwork back to bare metal.

After all the burned remnants were cleaned up and hosed down, mothers and Grandma would shut the house lights off and join us on the lawn with pans of warm brownies and a platter of watermelon wedges. Gramps would set up a card table and bring the ice cream freezer out of the garage and place it in the galvanized bucket of ice. We'd settle in our little family groups, kids nestled close to moms and dads to await the sometimes scary fireworks while our faces became caked with chocolate crumbs and vanilla ice cream dripped over our knuckles from our cones.

The first bang always brought our hearts in our throats, followed by the standard "oohs" and "ahhs" for those colorful bursts of colors that followed, lighting the world in brilliance for a few seconds. After the last blinding flashes fall earthward and the sky returned to midnight velvet, we hugged and kissed goodbye, lumbering back into cars and snuggling into the blankets slightly damp and smelling of the sulfur air, drifting to sleep as the highway whined beneath the tires.

I close the memory and stand, stiff and sore from sitting so long. The sky has morphed to a burnished bronze, washing the house below in a blaze of orange from nature's daily finale. I lean against the tree beside me. Did the ice cream freezer ever get taken out of the attic? Did the new owners even know what the nail on the side of the mail post was used for? Maybe they watched the fireworks from inside, behind the plate glass living room window instead of laying on the cool grass, transformed in the blooms of color overhead or the smell the singed air.

As I turned toward my car, a familiar squeak echoed across the small valley. A woman carrying an armful of quilts emerged from the house, followed by the man in the straw hat carrying several folding chairs. I smiled as they lined up the chairs facing the hillside, spreading the quilts across the freshly cut grass. A van rolled down the hill, passing me in my hideaway, and turned down the lane. Mesmerized, I watched as doors opened and kids poured out of the vehicle, squealing excitedly. Another car emerged from the other direction, the same scene playing out. I counted four copper headed children in various sizes, hug three fair haired counterparts, before laying claim to a chair or blanket.

A melancholy sigh pushed my heart against my ribs. I'd almost made it halfway across the road when I heard the pound, pound, pound. I turned and watched as someone nailed a "wheel of fire" to the mail post.

WACKY WEDNESDAY RETURNS....

2012-06-20T00:38:00.000-06:00

Being a writer has not only given me a shelf to put my books on, but also a "shelf" to rest my arms on. This new career is not only changing my life, but my body as well. I do try to exercise (see blog on treadmill vs. yoga mat – a near death experience), but when the thermometer is inching over the 100 degree mark, I have a tendency to stay inside and watch exercise videos…usually with a bowl of popcorn.

But a dear friend of mine recently suffered a heart attack at an early age. This got all of us in our social group thinking and re-evaluating. So, I'm making an earnest effort to try and shed the fifteen pounds between my boobs and waistline. Hopefully the rest of the fat cells will get the same idea and start melting away.

First up, exercise gear, aka "the lycra outfit." Of course in my delusional mind, I honestly believe I can still wear this "suit of surprise." The pants slide on, with much effort, rounding my "cheeks" and settling tightly around my torso. *Note to self: Start tanning. "White fat" looks too much like whale blubber. Certainly cellulite covered in a golden sheen appears thinner than the Michelin Tire image staring back at me from the mirror.

Next up, the sports bra. Yep, the closest thing to an "iron death grip" I'm about to lasso Thelma and Louise into. It's an ugly battle. Neither of the "sisters" want to be trapped and fight for freedom. I get one tucked away and the other literally zips under my arm and around the back to hide. Drenched in sweat, I finally corral my "endowments" and step in front of the mirror to take inventory.

I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or just scream. The "twins" are now quadruplets! Luckily, the "panic buttons" are covered, but Thelma A is bulging out the side, while Thelma B is nestled under my chin, pushing my mouth into a wiggly corkscrew. Louise A won't be upstaged and is doing her best to keep my left arm from falling to my side while Louise B is taking "swollen glands" to whole new perspective, cutting off my air supply. I can barely see my feet to put on my shoes. When I step down, the rubber soles literally crack under pressure.

I head for the treadmill. When I step on the track, I swear "Mr. Nordic" groans. Kindle is set at a font size large enough for me to see through the one eye not squeezed shut by a pound of flesh, giving me approximately 5 words per page. I push the headphones deep into the ear canal to insure early hearing loss, and set my iPod to the exercise playlist – which consists of heavy drumbeats and explicit language. I hit START.

Did I fail to mention that after 'birthin' four babies Miss Scarlet', "bladder control" is ancient history? Add a couple chocolate layered pounds and a knock-kneed attempt to run the "track of death," and my scheduled one hour workout is cut drastically short. My jogging routine takes on a sense of urgency as I race to the smallest room of the house while deciding "now" is good time to resurrect those long forgotten kegel muscles.

Here's a fact worth considering. Men are supposed to drink four liters of water a day, and women three liters. Yep, that's a 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke with a nipple, and a 1-liter bottle of Fuji water – all consumed "pre-workout." We're talking possible tsunami conditions and the ultimate test of "moisture wick" fabric.

Luckily, I arrive at my destination without a nano-second to spare, but the dog will probably walk with a permanent limp. He's now learned the command "move!" and answers to different, slightly off-colored, name. As for my extra "baggage?" There may be a permanent bond, at least until I can afford new exercise attire. Wonder what the "Tent & Awning" store has in stock?

Have a great Wednesday, and try not to get too wacky. Thanks for stopping by and keeping me company. I'm kind of lonely without the gang hanging out here any more. Just Joelene

BEING A FATHER ISN'T FOR SISSIES

2012-06-17T21:26:00.000-06:00

What defines a father beyond the biological definition? To me, it's the way the "cape" falls over their shoulders, the holes in the bottom of the shoes from constantly trying to keep up, the worn folds of their wallets, premature graying at the temples, deep laugh lines at the corners of their eyes, and the permanent worry crease between their brows....all symbols they've shared a child's life.

I was blessed to grow up with two grandfathers who were both upstanding men. One, Grandpa Jo, I didn't see as much, but he spent every Christmas Eve with us. His trademark? A cane. One he square-danced with. I remember sitting on the hearth and giggling while he'd demonstrate. His hair was white as snow, his eyes chocolate brown, a WWI veteran who died at the age of 92 with a piece of shrapnel still lodged in his hip. Thus...the cane.

Grandpa Swain, feisty, stubborn, and almost as wide as he was tall, cursed worst than an old salty sailor. "Son-of-a-bitch" flowed eloquently off my toddler tongue by the age 3. When his father died, Grandpa was only 13 years old and the eldest child. He dropped out of school and went to work in the silver mines of Park City, Utah, to provide for his mother and siblings. He taught himself how to build houses from the sketches, to blueprints, to framing, plastering (no sheetrock then) until the last stroke of paint coated the walls. He owned a successful construction company wherein he taught his sons the trade that carried on long after he was buried. He owned the "pink cadillac" I blogged about months ago, always had a 6-pack of beer hidden in the fridge in the basement for "grandma's hair" and I imagine still swearing a blue streak beyond the pearly gates.

I was "daddy's little girl" and knew how to manipulate the title to my advantage whenever possible. The eldest child, only daughter, and commander of three little brothers left in my guard after school until parental supervision arrived home from work I got a taste of parenthood at an early age. I watched my parents struggle to keep us in a nice house in a respectable neighborhood. My dad taught me the meaning of work and a paycheck during the summer where I worked in his print shop and earned enough to buy my own school clothes from ninth grade on. Today, he's in the throes of Dementia, and my title of "daddy's little girl" has changed to warden, caretaker, and a couple of unsavory names yelled when his mind triggers a bad episode. I'm now the "parent," a role I got by default being the only daughter and closest relative. Watching your pillar of strength throughout childhood crumble, is difficult to describe and some days unbearable.

That's why I'm thankful for the strong arms of the superhero I married a century ago (some days feel that way). He drags me to my feet when I collapse and pushes me when I don't want to go on. He fits the description in the first paragraph above. Raising 4 children (2 surprise twins) and stepping in to juggle the balls I have in midair when I need to escape life for a moment, I'm sure was not in the travel brochure when he signed up for marriage. No, I'm pretty sure at age 23 there was only one thing on his mind when he took the matrimonial leap, however, life is in constant motion, and three years later, the game plan had changed drastically. Still in shock from when I announced we were going to be parents several years and a few grandkids ago, he's never once faltered since "dad" became his new name. He's changed dirty diapers, walked sick babies, rushed kids who thought they were invincible to the hospital, hunted down boyfriends who had his daughter out past midnight, towed cars teenagers pushed beyond mechanical limits, and even bailed one out of jail when he discovered the hard way that laws were in in place for a reason.

But he also taught them all how to drive a car, ride a motorcycle (a prerequisite of being a member of our family), camp, hunt, fish, work and save money for the things they wanted, and most importantly, to respect others. They are all now adults, applying the lessons their father taught them in their own lives, and when life turns sideways, they know Dad will don his tattered and patched "cape" to swoop in and save the day if he can, or stand beside them when he can't.

Happy Father's Day to all the men in my life, past and present, and to those who have shadowed a child along life's path by kicking a stone away, or holding a hand when one wandered too close to the edge.

MOVING DAY

2012-06-09T09:15:00.003-06:00

Sometimes I feel like the cartoon character comedienne Carol Burnett always started and ended her weekly television show with. I get up around 5:30 every morning, snuggle into a pink fuzzy robe and head for the coffeemaker. If I'm totally honest, I probably scratch my butt on the way to my office, too.

This morning when I walk through the door, still blurry-eyed and relishing the first swirl of hot java coating my throat, I find Jesse twirling in my chair and Jordan perched on the arm of the small sofa in the corner, with Marli seated to his side and tucked protectively under his arm. I rub my eyes, about to ask what's going on, when Riley barrels into the room, towing Taylor, and Jaxson following behind in a lazy swagger—dressed in his new camouflage fatigues.

Jordan rises to his feet, taking a precautionary stance in front of Marli. Always her protector. Always jealous when another male steps in her airspace.

"Why are you here?" he demands.

"What's it to you, pretty boy?" Jaxson answers.

Riley knocks his brother's arm. "Dial down the 'macho-machine' would ya? And honestly, do you wear anything else? I mean if you're permanently GI Joe, I'm raiding your closet."

"Touch my stuff and you're dead."

"Whoa, boys. No bloodshed before I've had my second cup of coffee, got that?" I motion to Jesse, "The 'throne' is mine. Plant your sweet butt in the chair."

"So you have been checking me out."

I thump my head on the desk, twice. It's way too early to exchange quips.

"I created, you," I choke out after a large gulp of my liquid morning vitamin. "But aside from your shameless peacocking, can I ask why you're all here?"

"I thought you asked us to come?" Marli answers plaintively.

I did? Maybe subconsciously, but I don't remember. Before I can retrieve a thought in my scrambled brain, a light breeze blows through the French doors. Leaning against the frame is Alex, looking completely out of place in his dark jeans, black T-shirt…and brilliant white wings. The gold centers actually glow when the first brave rays of dawn bend through the slats and stretch across the room.

"What's with the Bird Man," Jaxson asks, his eyes checking off my guarded angel. Jesse, however, stands and brushes his T-shirt tight, flexing a couple of defined muscles when two girls flank Alex's sides.

"Hel—lo ladies," Jesse croons.

Maddie tucks behind behind a wing when she spies the crowded room, and I notice all my male characters lean slightly to watch her, curiosity mixed with a tinge of lust and their forever raging hormones stirring beneath the surface. Alex's arm stretches out, offering a reinforced shield, but he says nothing. He doesn't have to. We all feel the steely glare of protection. He's her guardian angel.

"Guys, meet Alex, Jude, and Madeline." Alex clears his throat. "Forgive me, Princess Madeline." Maddie takes a small curtsy, pillowing her brocade skirt. My boys, all gentlemen under their various facades, bow in respect. My girls? Cross arms over chests and take a no-nonsense stance. Neither Marli nor Taylor handle female competition entering their territory well.

Wait. My territory! Why do I let these kids take over? Before feathers fly and the language starts, I raise a hand. "Sit, stand, whatever. Just be quiet. I remember why I called you here." I let them settle on couches, chairs, or on the floor. I forget how long teenagers' legs are, and I maneuver through the tennis shoe covered feet with my second cup of coffee.

"We're moving." My hair blows every direction as they all draw a deep breath. "We need a larger space, and well, I've created a special one just for you. Also, 'Boss Lady' will now be 'Ms. Brooks' to all of you. I'm officially a 'dot.commer' and we have a new home. www.harleybrooks.com I think you'll all like it there and you can flex your muscles…or wings, a bit with your fans. You'll each have your own room, so to speak, where I can share stuff about your stories, without it all being crammed onto this small space."

They murmur among themselves as if deciding what to do. "Hey. You don't have a choice, so deal. I promise once we're settled in, you'll like the new place."

Taylor pulls her legs close and rests her chin on her knees. Her big eyes hold a childlike innocence and I sense her uneasiness. She's been through a lot, and trust isn't something she's good with. "What about this place?"

"It's not going anywhere. I'll just work between the two sites. Besides, I've got some new occupants possibly moving in."

"Sorry, we're late. Still having some issues here, I hope you work out soon. I'm running thin on patience." Nate, my would-be suave detective if he didn't have cream cheese smeared on his suit, fills the doorway.

"Whatever," snarls Sydney as she fidgets with the handcuffs. "Unlock these, moron."

"And chance you running off on me again? No way."

Sydney reaches for the teal satin bra wrapped in his free hand. "Give me back my bra!"

The room stills. I can smell the pheromones and testosterone it's so strong.

Riley nudges Taylor's shoulder. "Can you get one like that?"

Jordan snickers and Marli slaps his chest. "What? I didn't say anything!"

"But you were thinking it."

"Well if he wasn't, I was," Jesse smirks.

"Great 'Detective Degenerate'. You've poisoned the minds of innocent children," Sydney scolds.

Nate scoffs. "I doubt it, but before I lose it and show them how to murder an ex-girlfriend, I'm taking you back to the cruiser. Like I said, Boss Lady. Hurry it up, or your writing a murder mystery, not a romance."

I stare into the bottom of my empty cup, wishing for something stronger. I straighten. "Okay, all of you head over to the new place. Go in through the back because the front still has wet paint, and try to not destroy the place before I get there." Alex's wings wrap Maddie and Jude. "You too. We've got work to do."

One by one my characters fade out, except for Riley. "Boss Lady, er I mean Ms. Brooks, you okay? This is what you wanted isn't it?"

I smile, wishing I could erase the crease between his brows. "Yes, I'm fine. Just scared. Now that you're out there, I can't protect you. You're no longer just mine."

"We're tough."

"Let's hope so. Riley, your story is officially out. Smashwords.com; Barnes and Noble (bn.com); Amazon.com, and in print version on Createspace.com. You ready for what comes next?"

"Can't wait! Party at the new 'frat house'," he calls over his shoulder as he disappears.

"It's not a frat house!" I yell out to the empty room "It's Drama Queens and Jock Kings…which you all are!" The faint sound of giggles echo back. I head for the coffeemaker. It's a "3 cup day."

Check out Riley's Pond, now available for $2.99 in ebook format or paperback. Also, buzz over to www.harleybrooks.com and take a walk through the new place, then hop onto "Drama Queens and Jock Kings" and show your support. I know she'd feel a lot better if some of her old friends stopped by. If you feel inclined to share a link or two to let the world know Riley's Pond is officially for sale and to check out the new digs, please do so!

For now, I'll juggle both places, but here, I'm just boring Joelene until another personality kicks me in the butt – one who has got to fix the mess Nate created. "Dirty Laundry," a working title, is the playful adult romantic comedy I'm playing with when the "kids" are asleep. Stay tuned.

The Secret is Out

2012-05-20T21:03:00.000-06:00

Pssst. Riley Martin here. Boss Lady doesn't know I've commandeered her blog and she'd be pissed if she found out, so you have to swear you won't tell. She's trying to be all "hush-hush" about what's going down, but I decided to let you in on the secret. She gets all anal about things having to be "perfect" before the world sees her stuff. She keeps holding "staff meetings" going over and over and over scenes, trying out different scenarios. All I want to do is get to the parts where I'm making out with Taylor. Finally, though, she got brave and made a decision.

At our usual Monday 5 AM staff meeting she made the announcement. Of course Taylor, Jax, and I, try to arrive early to get the best seats. She's got one of those desk chairs that spin and Taylor loves to tuck her legs under her chin and let me twirl her in circles until she's dizzy. I love when she stands up and has to lean into me for support. I try to keep her in my arms as much as possible. I'm seventeen. My hormones are on overload, and Taylor's gorgeous. What can I say? I'm a teenage boy. I'm the epitome of the cliche.

But this particular Monday, the cast from Designer Genes beat us to the office. The Jordan dude really bugs me. All suave, and tall with thick wavy hair and these eyes even Taylor gets lost in, which ticks the Marli girl off. I'd like to see a chick fight between them to see who kicks ass. Marli's from the future so Boss Lady probably gave her laser fingernails or something. Personally speaking though, Taylor beats out the Marli girl in the looks department. Especially on the "upper floor" where a couple of favorite body parts drive me insane. I'm sure Jordan would disagree, but I could care less about the silver-spoon-trust-fund baby's opinion.

When we were first introduced to the competition - Jordan, his cocky twin brother Jesse, and yes, his hot heroine, Marli, I'll admit to being jealous. I mean come on, Boss Lady gave the Jordan guy a Porsche for crying out loud! I got a used Toyota truck. What's up with that? His twin got a red Ferrari! Even my older brother Jax, got a cooler set of wheels than me. A Mustang Boss 302. Candy-apple red, a souped up engine, and chrome mags that blind you. My truck doesn't even have leather seats, and according to my dad, tires so bald they shine. When Taylor arrived on the scene in a blue and white Mini-Cooper, I developed some serious ego issues. Did Boss Lady have it in for me? Granted, she does allow me and Taylor some really hot scenes, which the "other team" can't have because the government owns them or something. Guess driving an old truck isn't so bad after all. Backseat works great.

Anyway, I'm already wanting to get in this Jordan's face because his brother is ribbing Jax about his fatigues. Hey, Jax is going into the Army. I figure Ferrari Boy has his tighty-whities in a wad because he wants his brother's girl. I don't even know their story, but the guy's crushin' so bad, it's pathetic.

Uh-oh! I hear Boss Lady. Quick, come close. I've got to whisper. You see, even though Designer Genes has all the fancy cars and lifestyles of the "rich and famous" they're going to have to take second position behind Riley's Pond. Yep! Boss Lady announced she's printing my story first! My. Story! (Okay, maybe Taylor and Jax say a couple of things, too.) Dude the look on the precious "first born" was priceless! "Country hick" with the used pick-up truck is going to lead the pack! Take that and stuff it in your designer jeans.

Just caught a peek of the cover. I'll sneak it at the bottom, but don't say anything. I remember that night with Taylor - gets my heart racing just thinking about it. Oops! Crap, gotta go!

Riley Martin! Did you tell? He looks sheepish and darling twisting in my desk chair. He's one of my favorite characters, although I do admit to blushing when he started telling me his story. He holds nothing back. That's what makes him adorable, frustrating, and vulnerable, with his heart plastered on his sleeve all the time. He gives me a wink and mimes a zipper closing his mouth just before he disappears. Such a tease...and a horrible liar.

Yes, I've made the decision to jump into the fast-paced, frightening, but exhilarating world of self-publishing. Not an easy decision, and made after a lot of sleepless nights and endless research. Our world keeps changing, and the publishing world is no exception. I predict soon the "big six" publishers of New York will be replaced by the "three powerhouses"... Amazon, Apple, and Microsoft (in case you haven't heard, there's been a digital marriage between Barnes and Noble and Microsoft). Anyone remember the little film depositories outside all the grocery stores, years back? Kodak is struggling to stay alive now that cell phones take pictures and videos without film. The stigma of self-publishing is almost extinct and I want to be on ground floor of this movement that is growing larger by the second, instead of scrambling to catch up late in the game. I've already seen enough changes in the four short years I've been an author to know the trends are shifting rapidly.

Riley's Pond is going out the chute first. Sent the manuscript to my formatting genius in New York this morning. Sexy, funny, and heartbreaking, but in the end, a tale of compassion, forgiveness, and unconditional love. A romance told through the eyes of the boy who survives it and the girl who makes him fight to keep it alive.

You can stop worrying. I already saw that Riley attached the cover below. I should add "sneaky" to his list of talents. The cover is official, and yes, I too remember that scene.....

…is it love?

—Riley

Lust is easy, painless, but empty. Love is frustrating, scary as hell, yet totally awesome. Finding a girl who believes you can do…be anything is beyond amazing. It rocks your world. Of course, this from a guy who told Taylor Wilson "I love you" over the phone—inside a closet filled with dirty socks and underwear.

…or lust?

—Taylor

Love or lust? Two very different things and nothing like the movies. Every guy can pull off "lust," but it takes someone willing to risk everything for another, to make it "love." A superhero—one strong enough to remove his cape…and wrap it around you. Riley Martin.

…or a dangerous combination of both?

Riley's Pond

A place where worlds collide, sparks fly, and a kiss "goodbye" means anything but.

Mother's Day...bah humbug

2012-05-12T00:20:00.000-06:00

I must confess. Mother's Day is not a favorite of mine. Not because I'm forgotten...the opposite. My kids are wonderful to me. Mr. "Grumpy Pants" always makes the comment, "you're not my mother..." but manages to make sure I don't do anything more than necessary that day.

When I was small, we gathered at my grandmother's house for lunch. Everyone brought something (I had 3 aunts who were amazing cooks, besides my own mother) so there was plenty to eat. I had fifteen cousins and we all lived in the same small town, so when you added the grown-ups, we filled the house. The kids played outside in the backyard, which consisted of rolling grassy hills and large cherry trees we liked to climb in our Sunday clothes. I don't ever remember a Mother's Day that it rained. Sunshine blanketed us and the perfume of flowers blooming everywhere, filled the air.

Then Grandma died, dissolving several of the holiday traditions. Granted, my mom and aunts tried to carry on traditions, but as we grew older, married, and had our own families, "getting together" as a mass soon dwindled to our own family units. The "magic" of my youth slowly faded.

When my mother had her stroke, the burden to carry on the tradition fell to my shoulders, as the only daughter. I tried for several years to make it work, but as my children entered their teens, life got complicated. I worked full time, the kids schedules were hectic, and time became a precious commodity. But my mother, bless her, remained locked in a timeless world and guilt seemed to keep me trying to do the impossible.

Finally, unfortunately because I'd reached the end of a fraying rope with my youngest, I put my foot down. First tradition stopped, and by far the most unpopular, I quit going to church on Mother's Day. I hated sitting there listening to someone speak of a "sugar and spice" world where a perfect mother existed, while my life was anything but that way. Instead of being uplifted and inspired, I went home depressed, questioning my parenting skills, but holding a potted plant.

Second, I stopped making the big meal. Too much work and without anyone to really help, a long day for me. Now, it's dinner at Chuck-A-Rama. I know its not the fanciest, best eatery in town, but everyone gets to eat what they want, how much they want, and immediately, which is important when dealing with little ones. Plus I love their rolls. Afterwards, I bid everyone farewell in the parking lot and go home...alone.

My children, those who live nearby, are fine with my version of Mother's Day. They're especially grateful I don't make them go to church! My mother still tries to inflict the guilt every year, but so far, God's been pretty understanding. I do wear rubber soled shoes all day, just in case.

Still, if I had my choice, I'd do away with all the hoopla. I ban presents. Cards are acceptable, but mainly, I just enjoy getting together and having a meal with my kids where someone else cooks and cleans up. No pressure, no hassle, and no guilt. Of course, my day isn't complete without a melancholy walk down memory lane to a simpler time when the sun kissed freckles on my nose instead of age spots on my arms, and spinning beneath the cherry trees in my fancy dress and shoes, wouldn't result in a broken hip or a knee replacement.

If I had to do it all again, would I choose motherhood? Put up with sick, colicky babies who grew into petulant teenagers that managed to summon trouble whenever they were awake? You bet. Granted, there are a few moments I'd love to have my "do-over" with, but as the sands in my hourglass sift faster, I don't regret my choice. My four kids rock my world. They keep me grounded and sane. Despite our battles, we've all become best friends. Now, I get to sit back and watch them parent their own offspring. Hopefully, they learned from my mistakes, and even if they don't think so, they're going to make their own. One day, they'll watch from my vantage point.

To all the mothers out there, and that includes godmothers, aunts, sisters, next-door neighbors...any woman who has an influence in a child's life, I wish you a wonderful, guilt-free, and relaxing day. And may there be chocolate close by! Happy Mother's Day!

TAGGED - "LUCKY SEVEN"

2012-04-25T13:43:00.001-06:00

A friend and great author, Tiffinie Helmer, has tagged me for "Lucky Seven." The rules of the game are as follows:

1. Start on the 7th line of the 77th page of your manuscript, and copy the next 7 lines to post.
2. Tag 7 other of your blogger friends to do the same.

It's a fun way to get a glimpse of an author's work, plus get to know a few of their favorite blogs to follow. So here's my 7 lines from page 77 of Riley's Pond, my soon to be showcased young adult romance, told through the eyes of the boy who survived it.

"Funny Mom. Can't a guy get a little religion without it being national news?"

Jaxson looked up from his breakfast, visually checking off my attire. "Well, whoever she is, she's got your nuts in a vise if you're going to church."

"Jaxson!" Mom scowled. "Wouldn't hurt you to get your 'nuts' tweaked if it got you inside a chapel."

"MOM!" Jax and I cried in unison, shocked. She never called body parts by proper names, let alone slang references. In fact, if Mom had her way, we'd never know we had a penis.

She held her hands up and talked to the kitchen ceiling. "Why couldn't you have given me one girl?"

Scene set up: Riley's new girlfriend and keeper of his lustful heart, is spending the summer with her grandmother who lives next door. Apparently, Granny, who we all know grandmother's have an instinctive seventh sense above motherhood, catches sight of a "hickey" placed very close to her granddaughter's heart, and decides "hell fire and brimstone" is what Taylor needs, not Riley, at least for twenty-four hours. Riley, on the other hand, is not about to sacrifice a day without Taylor and figures Grams won't kill him inside God's house. However, being only seventeen and on hormonal overload, he's ill-prepared for the "granny war" that attacks once "amen" is said.

Hard to tell much from seven lines, but hopefully, you get a "flavor" for the tone of the story. I love writing dialogue as a way to "color" my character's personalities, and Riley's Pond is chuck full of colorful characters. So? You're opinion? Something you'd read if you were seventeen again (or still are mentally, like me)? It's all right. You can be honest, just remember, Google-Earth will help me find you.

So, I now pass the challenge of the Lucky Seven to the following, whom I hope you'll pop over to see. They may kill me, but this is a way to say you're "IT" and let everyone get acquainted. Besides, it eases my guilty conscience somewhat for promising to do guest blogs, which I have not. Oh well, I promised my husband sex twice a day every day of his life when we got married. Ask him how that promise is working out.

Calisa Rhose, author of Home, at www.calisarhose.wordpress.com

Christina Wolfer, author of The Daughter, www.christinawolfer.com

Doree Anderson, author of Waiting, who will kill me for this, but now she can use Lucky Seven as a way to tout her newest release at www.doreeanderson.com

L.L. Muir (Lesli Muir) and yes, I have a death wish for tagging her, but she's got some great stories and this is the one I'm in the middle of right now and loving. Author of Somewhere Over the Freaking Rainbow check her out at http://llmuir.weebly.com

P.J. Sharon, author of Savage Cinderella, her latest accolade, at http://circlepad.com/pjsharon
Sandra Bruney, author of Plotz, and about to release The Lunch Club http://www.sandrazbruney.com

Ruth A. Casie, author of Knight of Runes, and I'm thrilled also the soon to be released sequel www.ruthacasie.com

Also, because she so "graciously" sent Lucky Seven to me, please check out Tiffinie's website. Her newest book released today, Moosed-Up. She's also from my favorite state, Alaska and the pictures on her website are hers.

http://tiffiniehelmer.com

Thanks for stopping by and I hope I've introduced you to some new favorite authors. If not, don't kill the messenger (many have tried and failed because...here I am). Later!