Frankie's No Kiss Blogfest

Here are the Rules, straight from Frankie Writes:

1) Sometime between now and Jan 2, 2011 (Uh, yeah. I just found out about it this very minute!) write a post about the No Kiss Blogfest to let everyone know you are participating and that they should too. Why? Because it's awesome!

2) Sign up for No Kiss Blogfest by clicking over and filling in the Mr. Linky. Because Mr. Linky is awesome.

3)Tweet about No Kiss Blogfest, using the hash tag: #nokissblogfest because #hashtagsareawesome

4) After you've recovered from New Years Eve, write a blog sharing your Almost Kiss, No Kiss Blogfest entry (either one from your WIP, one you just wrote, one from a book, movie or tv show) and post on January 2, 2011!!! Because reading your posts are awesome!

For the blogfest I'm sharing an excerpt from Churches, Chickens and ChiChi's, my first in-process novel. It hasn't been edited in a bit so I hope it passes today's muster.

It was dark when Sammy stepped from the Boeing 767 at the gate in Atlanta. She was glad she’d told her father not to pick her up, she wanted him at the hospital with her mother. She needed the drive to Gainesville to gather her wits. She had slept a bit on the plane, just enough to ease the hangover from the night before. Of course, the two Bloody Mary’s had helped.

She was still angry at J.C. And even angrier at herself. There was thinking to be done, decisions to be made and a huge mess to clean up. But right now, the main thing was Mama.

Fighting the tears that threatened again, Sammy shook them off and threw a brilliant smile at the man who had just deplaned. Tall and lanky with broad shoulders, dark hair and flashing eyes, he was exactly what her bruised ego needed. He looked crisp and fresh in black-on-black Armani, in spite of the five-hour flight across the country.

“Cherie,” he grinned, “you here for long?”

“Don’t know,” she replied, tossing silken hair from a pixie face that held sad, green eyes.

Lanky waited a beat for Sammy to fall in beside him. She had a designer bag  over one shoulder and towed a laptop and carry-on behind her.

“May I?” He asked, reaching for the carry-on.

“I’ve got it, thanks,” she flashed another of those almost-famous smiles. “You changing planes? Coming home?” The report of her stiletto heels rang through the concourse, blending with the symphony of Hartsfield. One PA announced an arriving Delta flight, another, a last boarding call.

Lanky paced her, smitten. She knew that look.

“I’m just passing through. My next flight’s out of Concourse B. And you?” he asked.

“Oh, just visiting,” Sammy shrugged and stepped on to the escalator descending to the tram.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, close behind. “I have a couple of hours to kill before my next flight.”

Sammy hesitated. What was another hour or two? She could use the diversion. When she’d called Daddy after landing, he’d said Mama was sleeping.

“No, handsome, I’d better not,” she concluded. “I have to grab a rental car and head north. I don’t want to get in too late.”

“Mon Cherie, are you sure?” he implored. “It’s early. One hour. No more.”

Laughing, Sammy waggled her head and gave him a little pout. “No, Handsome. I’m sorry.”

The tram pulled up and after everyone had gotten off, Lanky extended his arm for her to board. Sammy stepped in, chose a center pole and wrapped her arms and leg around it. The dark man took another and watched her with jet-black eyes, a speculative smile on his lips.

He was certainly a sight to behold. Too bad she didn’t have time to play. But still, she was tempted.

The tram announcement interrupted her thoughts. "The next station is concourse B. The color-coded maps and signs in the vehicle match the station colors. Please move to the center of the vehicle and away from the doors. Please hold on. This vehicle is now leaving the station."

When Lanky edged over to share her pole, Sammy unwrapped enough to give him a handhold.

“One little kiss, Cherie?” he leaned in and whispered.

“Non,” Sammy giggled. Then sighed. Oh, it felt good to be pursued. Even if only for a while.

“The train is approaching Concourse B. Please hang on.”

“Just one?” his breath tickled her ear.

“Non, s'il vous plait, non. Stop teasing.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, my heart breaks.”

“We have now arrived at Concourse B. Please step away from the entrance. The doors are about to open.”

“Your stop, handsome,” Sammy said. “Have a great flight. And thanks for the offer.”

Lanky chuckled, leaned closer and planted a warm kiss on her lips, his eyes never leaving hers. Then moving away, he stepped to the door and stood, watching her.

“Au revior, mon amour,” he laughed, stepping off the tram, and waved as he turned to go.

“Bye,” Sammy waved, green eyes sad again, watching him though the closing doors.

“Bye,” she whispered.

Okay. So he did lay a little smackaroo on her, but she didn't kiss him back. And she didn't give in to her baser instincts, either. She didn't have that drink with him. So I'm hoping it qualifies.

Please let me know your thoughts in the comments. Then click on over to Frankie Writes to read all the other entries or to submit your own last-minute one.

Thank you so much for stopping by. For reading. For commenting. And, hopefully, for following as well. I'll be over to read your posts tonight!

~Olivia J. Herrell

So Long 2011, Hello 2012

If you're looking for a fun way to meet some cool writers, start 2012 with Frankie's Third Annual No Kiss Blogfest on January 2nd. Click on over to join in.

What a difference a year makes. This time last year I was blogging and writing on a regular basis after climbing out of a pit of depression. My Goodbye 2010 post had 25 comments. This year's had two, other than mine. Not that I'm counting. But it is a good indicator of what kind of blogger/friend/writer I've been this year. A sucky one at best.

For 2012, I pledge to do better, to get back out there, heart and soul. No guts, no glory, right?
2011 turned out to be a year for healing. 2012 is my year for charging forward.

Onward!

Happy New Year, Olivia J. Herrell

P.S. And don't forget the No Kiss Blogfest. Here was my entry for 2011, an excerpt from my first work-in-process Churches, Chickens and ChiChi's:

It was dark when Sammy stepped from the Boeing 767 at the gate in Atlanta. She was glad she’d told her father not to pick her up, she wanted him at the hospital with her mother. She needed the drive to Gainesville to gather her wits. She had slept a bit on the plane, just enough to ease the hangover from the night before. Of course, the two Bloody Mary’s had helped.

She was still angry at J.C. And even angrier at herself. There was thinking to be done, decisions to be made and a huge mess to clean up. But right now, the main thing was Mama.
Fighting the tears that threatened again, Sammy shook them off and threw a brilliant smile at the man who had just deplaned. Tall and lanky with broad shoulders, dark hair and flashing eyes, he was exactly what her bruised ego needed. He looked crisp and fresh in black-on-black Armani, in spite of the five-hour flight across the country.

"Cherie,” he grinned, “you here for long?”

“Don’t know,” she replied, tossing silken hair from a pixie face that held sad, green eyes.

Lanky waited a beat for Sammy to fall in beside him. She had a designer bag over one shoulder and towed a laptop and carry-on behind her.

“May I?” He asked, reaching for the carry-on.

“I’ve got it, thanks,” she flashed another of those almost-famous smiles. “You changing planes? Coming home?” The report of her stiletto heels rang through the concourse, blending with the symphony of Hartsfield. One PA announced an arriving Delta flight, another, a last boarding call.

Lanky paced her, smitten. She knew that look.

“I’m just passing through. My next flight’s out of Concourse B. And you?” he asked.

“Oh, just visiting,” Sammy shrugged and stepped on to the escalator descending to the tram.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, close behind. “I have a couple of hours to kill before my next flight.”

Sammy hesitated. What was another hour or two? She could use the diversion. When she’d called Daddy after landing, he’d said Mama was sleeping.

“No, handsome, I’d better not,” she concluded. “I have to grab a rental car and head north. I don’t want to get in too late.”

“Mon Cherie, are you sure?” he implored. “It’s early. One hour. No more.”

Laughing, Sammy waggled her head and gave him a little pout. “No, Handsome. I’m sorry.”

The tram pulled up and after everyone had gotten off, Lanky extended his arm for her to board. Sammy stepped in, chose a center pole and wrapped her arms and leg around it. The dark man took another and watched her with jet-black eyes, a speculative smile on his lips.

He was certainly a sight to behold. Too bad she didn’t have time to play. But still, she was tempted.

The tram announcement interrupted her thoughts. "The next station is concourse B. The color-coded maps and signs in the vehicle match the station colors. Please move to the center of the vehicle and away from the doors. Please hold on. This vehicle is now leaving the station."

When Lanky edged over to share her pole, Sammy unwrapped enough to give him a handhold.

“One little kiss, Cherie?” he leaned in and whispered.

“Non,” Sammy giggled. Then sighed. Oh, it felt good to be pursued. Even if only for a while.

“The train is approaching Concourse B. Please hang on.”

“Just one?” his breath tickled her ear.

“Non, s'il vous plait, non. Stop teasing.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, my heart breaks.”

“We have now arrived at Concourse B. Please step away from the entrance. The doors are about to open.”

“Your stop, handsome,” Sammy said. “Have a great flight. And thanks for the offer.”

Lanky chuckled, leaned closer and planted a warm kiss on her lips, his eyes never leaving hers. Then moving away, he stepped to the door and stood, watching her.

“Au revior, mon amour,” he laughed, stepping off the tram, and waved as he turned to go.

“Bye,” Sammy waved, green eyes sad again, watching him though the closing doors.

“Bye,” she whispered.

Frankie's Third Annual No Kiss Blogfest

This year my entry to Frankie's No Kiss Blogfest is an excerpt from the prologue of my newest work-in-process, Blessed Are The Peace Makers.

"The mail creaked and Awen grunted as she drew it from the prince's broad chest and arms. Shoving it aside, she summoned all her strength to drag him from the water. From the depths of slumber, William cried out. Awen probed his chest and shoulder for wounds, then wrapped her arms behind him to inspect his back. Her ear rested over his heart, listening for the beat of life. It was faint, but present.

The wounds had closed, save those that kept him from waking. She leaned in to confirm that he was breathing, and felt a light stirring on her cheek. It was present. She turned her face back and her lips barely grazed his.

Steel eyes flew open, startling her. Recovering, Awen’s face blossomed in welcome.

Attribution

The eyes flickered, staring without seeing, then just as abruptly closed. His body was waking but his spirit still wandered.

Awen touched her lips to his cold, white ones. The eyes fluttered. She put her hands on both sides of the handsome face and slowly kissed him in the way of the druid. Forehead, nose, chin, cheeks. Then his eyelids and his temples. Finally, her lips came back to his. This time they were warm, and breath tumbled out of them like the water from the rocks.

Awen waited, her face only inches from the fallen warrior’s.

His eyes fluttered open. Sight was returning. He almost focused, then fell back under, the death sleep unrelenting.

Awen sat back on her heels and looked in to the forest. The glade had darkened. The light was waning. It was time to set a fire and a kettle. But first she must wake the almost dead."

Please leave a comment to let me know what you think of my little snippet. I'm counting on the Blogfest to inspire me onward. It's time to get onward with the business of writing, past time to get this story down for others to read. Oh yeah, and don't forget to click over now to read the other entries.

Flirt Fest Blogfest, I Had To!

The gals over at Critique This WIP are hosting a Flirt Fest Blogfest today. I had decided not to participate in another blogfest until I get this manuscript rolling forward again, but here I am, unable to resist. After all, it's a Flirt Fest!!!





Make sure and click over to Critique This and read all the other entries in the Flirt Fest, there are some truly amazing writers over there.

I'm posting another scene from my current WIP (work in progress for my non-writer readers). In this one our main character, Sammy, just stepped off a plane and is feeling particularly vulnerable.

Fighting the tears that threatened again, Sammy shook them off and threw a brilliant smile at the man who had just deplaned. Tall and lanky with broad shoulders, dark hair and flashing eyes, he was just what her bruised ego needed. He looked crisp and fresh in black-on-black Armani, in spite of the five-hour flight across the country.

“Cherie,” he grinned, “you here for long?”

“Don’t know,” she replied, tossing silken hair from a pixie face that held sad, green eyes.

Lanky waited a beat for Sammy to fall in beside him. She had a designer bag over one shoulder and towed a laptop and carry-on behind her.

“May I?” He asked, reaching for the carry-on.

“I’ve got it, thanks,” she flashed another of those almost-famous smiles. “You changing planes? Coming home?”

The report of her stiletto heels rang through the concourse, blending with the symphony of Hartsfield. One PA announced an arriving Delta flight, another, a last boarding call.

Lanky paced her, smitten. She knew that look.

“I’m just passing through. My next flight’s out of Concourse B. And you?” he asked.

“Oh, just visiting,” Sammy shrugged and stepped on to the escalator descending to the tram.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, close behind. “I have a couple of hours to kill before my next flight.”

Sammy hesitated. What was another hour or two? She could use the diversion. When she’d called Daddy after landing, he’d said Mama was sleeping.

“No, handsome, I’d better not,” she concluded. “I have to grab a rental car and head north. Don’t want to get in too late.”

“Mon Cherie, are you sure?” he implored. “It’s early. One hour. No more.”

Laughing, Sammy waggled her head and gave him a little pout. “No, Handsome. I’m sorry.”

The tram pulled up and after everyone had gotten off, Lanky extended his arm for her to board. Sammy stepped in, chose a center pole and wrapped her arms and leg around it. The dark man took another and watched her with jet-black eyes, a speculative smile on his lips.

He was certainly a sight to behold. Too bad she didn’t have time to play. But still, she was tempted.

The tram announcement interrupted her thoughts. "The next station is concourse B. The color-coded maps and signs in the vehicle match the station colors. Please move to the center of the vehicle and away from the doors. Please hold on. This vehicle is now leaving the station."

When Lanky edged over to share her pole, Sammy unwrapped enough to give him a handhold.

“One little kiss, Cherie?” he leaned in and whispered.

“Non,” Sammy giggled. Then sighed. Oh, it felt good to be pursued. Even if only for a while.

“The train is approaching Concourse B. Please hang on.”

“Just one?” his breath tickled her ear.

“Non, s'il vous plait, non. Stop teasing.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, my heart breaks.”

“We have now arrived at Concourse B. The doors are opening. Please exit the tram.”

“Your stop, handsome,” Sammy said. “Have a great flight. And thanks for the offer.”

Lanky chuckled, leaned closer and planted a warm kiss on her lips, his eyes never leaving hers. Then moving away, he stepped to the door and stood, watching her.

“Au revior, mon amour,” he laughed, stepping off the tram, and waved as he turned to go.

“Bye,” Sammy waved, green eyes sad again, watching him though the closing doors.

“Bye,” she whispered.

A big thanks to Merissa, Julie, Margaret and Courtney, the aspiring romance authors who fuel Critique This, for hosting this blogfest. Don't forget to click over to read the other entries to their Flirt Fest Blogfest.

The Ice Age Cometh

!SPOILER ALERT! If you haven't, but plan to read To Build a Fire by Jack London, please know that this post is about my visceral and psychic reaction to it and contains definite spoilers. If you don't mind the spoilers, read on. If you do, click here to read his short story (it takes only 10-15 minutes, maybe 20), then come back to process your own reaction by reading about mine and leaving us a comment. 

Thank you for stopping by. Please enjoy...

Staring out the window, I watch fat snowflakes land on the mound in front of my apartment. As each conglomeration tumbles before sticking, my mind turns to one of my favorite movies. A work of fiction, Day After Tomorrow is woven around fact and depicts the coming of a new Ice Age. Before the Big Freeze, there is day-upon-day of relentless snowfall in the northern (and not-so northern) regions.

This is what is happening now, and I can't help but compare. Places with normally-mild winters, like Boise, Idaho, where I currently reside, are getting pounded. And have been for thirty-plus days. On the other side of the globe, normally-sunny Greece is blanketed in snow.

My mind jumps to a short story by Jack London that I recently read for a creative writing class. Other than research, I rarely watch or read what I believe will be a downer. If there is no redemption, no deliverance, no life-affirming message, then what, pray tell, is the point?

To Build a Fire is London's short story about a foolish man in the Klondike. He ignores common sense and an old-timer's warning to take a shortcut to his gold-mining camp. He's on foot and alone except for an Alaskan Husky that (like me) doesn’t particularly care for the man. It's nearing winter in that Arctic tundra—the sun is scarce and the temperature often plummets to seventy-below.

The story is an account of arrogance gone awry, and as I read, my apprehension grows. Something awful is going to happen, and the man will likely die. The more I read, the sicker my gut feels until I can taste the metal of dread. 

I plod on, as assigned, though I hate each beautiful, well-placed word the man 'speaks' in his head. When he takes a step, breaking through snow and ice, and his whole foot sinks into a running stream, I know (because of London's masterful foreshadowing) the time has come. And even knowing, I wish for the best for this arrogant man.

London describes in acute detail the progression of hypothermia as observed by the man, one frozen body-part at a time. I felt it all—his numbness, fear, panic, his futile attempts to light a match and tinder, only to have his one chance at survival snuffed out.

Then his quick descent into apathy, eyeing the dog and considering slitting it open for his own survival, the dog backing away because he doesn’t trust this man. Then his surrender, succumbing to the coming of death, and its gentle kiss as he falls 'asleep'.

I hated this story, hated and loved it at the same time, because of Jack London’s literary genius.

In sharing my reaction and pondering the point of this awful (and beautiful) story with Debbie, my teacher and new friend, she posited that since it was written during the Alaskan gold rush, it was likely meant as a warning to foolhardy souls heading to the Klondike. A preview of what to expect. That I can wrap my head around. That I get.

But back to the snow falling outside my window and mounded halfway up the Handicapped sign. As one who always looks for the 'why' in things, I had wondered why I continued to read a story that left me feeling icky and cold. Especially in the middle of my first frozen winter.

That 'why' occurs to me now.

Maybe I read London’s dark narrative, in spite of my own rules, because a new Ice Age cometh and I need to know. I will now recognize the signs of fatal hypothermia, and maybe find comfort when I face surrender to my own frozen limbs and halting heart.

Or maybe it will be another millennium before the next Ice Age, and it was merely an excellent assignment designed to further open this writer's mind to the power of narrative prose.

Either way, the snow sure is pretty.

What are YOUR thoughts on London's short story?

That Rebel, Olivia J. Herrell, writing as O.J. Barré

O.J. Barré is the author of the Awen trilogy. Book One, Awen Rising, is in final edits. The first draft of Book Two, Awen Storm, is nearing completion, and Book Three, Awen Tide, is swirling in the mists of creation. UPDATE: as of December 2020, the first two books have been published and the third is scheduled to be released Summer 2021. Click the links to view their respective pages on Amazon.

Introducing VEXED by @AuthorWren Michaels

Hi Y'all, That Rebel just got a face-lift. As part of the new look, you'll be seeing more book releases, beginning with Wren Michaels' hot new romance VEXED. Released today, you'll find the order information at the end of the article. Get it hot off the presses!

Following is a Q & A with Wren, then keep reading for a juicy excerpt. (Ratings alert...R for sexy, steamy situations and some language.)

I give you Wren Michaels and VEXED:

Thanks for sharing in the release of my first full-length novel! I hope you enjoy reading about Kena and Luc as much as I enjoyed writing them. There's plenty of action, adventure, romance, and Vodou for everyone!

I did a little Q&A about the book:

Q) How did you dream up the dynamics of your characters? Originally the story was going to be completely different when I wrote the first 5000 words or so of the book. But after I came back from the 2014 Romantic Times convention in New Orleans, I was inspired to write something with a Vodou/NOLA flair. So the book took a twist and became so much more than I ever imagined. I wanted a strong heroine and an alpha male. But Luc ended up being more of an Alpha/Beta blend. He's not really one or the other. He's quite complex. Kena ended up being a witty heroine who took things into her own hands.

Q) Do you have any habits that get you in the writing frame of mind? Music is my biggest influence. I listened to mainly instrumental gaming soundtracks while writing. But one of my Critique Partners burned me a CD of music she thought would be perfect for this book, and it was filled with great songs by The Black Keys, Rolling Stones, Zepplin, Jack White and Muse. It ended up really making scenes come alive for me.

Q) How much real life do you put into or influences your books? In this book I tried to make the characters reflect their Vodou based deities. I did take some artistic liberties and spun a few things, but I did a lot of research to make sure a lot of the intricacies of their actual descriptions and quirks made it into the story. 
 

Vodou stole her life. A gay ghost stole her boots. And the man who stole her heart stole her memories. Kena plans to get it all back.

Ex-cop Kena's life is filled with regret, beer, and Cheetos. That is, until her ghostly roomie sends her dumpster diving, leading her to a sexy stranger named Luc and a fate she'd rather not remember. As Kena's memories resurface, so do her feelings for Luc, the man she's secretly been in love with for the last thousand years. And he needs her for more than a stroll down memory lane.

Vodou spirits, known as Loa, have been trapped in human form, and are trying to make their way back to the spirit world. But Luc's brother is possessed by a vengeance demon conjured at the hands of NOLA's crime syndicate kingpin. Saving him means damning herself to a spirit prison in a loveless, arranged union with the very man she's supposed to rescue. But not helping Luc's brother sentences him to death, leaving New Orleans in the hands of black magick, and losing Luc forever.

After stripping out of the wet clothes, I wrapped the towel around myself and wandered out to his room. On the bed lay a white long-sleeve button-down shirt. With a hard swallow, I dropped the towel and picked up the shirt, pulling it to my face. I took a long, hard sniff. Laundry detergent. Of course. Did I think it would smell like him?

Like he'd give you a dirty shirt to wear, Kena.

Thankful he didn't witness me in idiot-mode, I slid myself into the shirt and was caught mid-button when he knocked at the door.

“Are you decent?” He pushed the door open a crack.

“I'm clothed, if that's what you mean. Decent is debatable at the moment.” Purposely leaving the top three buttons undone, I worked my way to the bottom button as he walked in.

He halted mid-stride and looked at me. His chest rose and fell in quick spurts, training his eyes over me from head to toe. Veins traversed the length of his arm as he clenched his fists at his sides. “I don't wear underwear, so I apologize I have no bottoms. It's all I had that was long enough to cover you.” His position relaxed as he leaned against the mahogany armoire.

“Anything's better than cold, sopping-wet clothes.” I ran a finger through my hair, now slowly drying into loose stringy curls.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened tonight?” Folding his arms across his broad chest, bulging muscles stretched the navy-blue fabric barely covering his biceps.

I shook my head. “Not until I get some honesty from you, big guy.”

With a tilt of his head, he donned a sly grin. “You haven't asked the right questions.”

“Is this a game for you? Do you enjoy messing with people's lives? Do you get off on some fucked-up high being in total control?” My fingernails burrowed into the palm of my hand. Everything in me wanted to slap the shit out of him and then ride him like a cowboy.

He pushed off the dresser and walked over to me, lowering his head coming to a stop inches from my face. “You're the one in control and yet you refuse to acknowledge it. You refuse to let your mind accept it. Stop playing and start being.”

“What do you want from me?” I yelled, a little louder than intended.

“I want you to be you. I want you to”—he stopped and dropped his gaze to my lips, and then slowly made his way back up to my eyes—“come back.”

“Kiss me.” The words rushed from my lips without another thought. My heart hammered so hard in my chest I thought it would shatter my rib cage.

His breathing quickened. A low growl rumbled in his throat. “Don't do this to me, Kena.”

“Don't do what? You're the one doing things to me.” I slammed my hands against his chest and he sailed across the room, his back hitting the dresser behind him. “Shit! I'm sorry.” I reached out for him with a trembling hand.

Fuck, I’d done it again.

He shook his head and straightened himself up. In a blur of movement, he shot across the room and grabbed onto either side of my shirt, yanking me up to his face. “You want me to kiss you?”

“Yes,” I said in more of whooshing sound than a word.

He pressed his lips against my neck and his fingers curled into the fabric of the shirt, pulling me onto my tiptoes. “You don't even know who I am.”

“I don't care.” Words no longer made sense to me, only his touch spoke a language I could understand.

He laughed as he pushed me against the wall. Gripping the back of my head with the entire palm of his hand, he splayed the other across my cheek, his thumb resting against my jawline. Tilting my head back, he hovered his lips over mine. “You will.”

His lips crushed against my mouth.

With a sweep of his tongue, he devoured me into a kiss the likes of which I've never experienced before in my life. He punished my mouth with his tongue, sliding it over mine in a delicious dance of ecstasy and aggression. His hold on me was not that of violence, but of passion. The way his fingertips eased against my face, yet held me there as if he was scared to let go, revealed a vulnerability. He may be a man of few words who knew how to play the vague card, but his body and actions gave him away.

I arched into him, and he pinned me back against the wall with his hip. Clawing at his shirt, I ripped it out of his jeans and slid my fingers over his heated skin. A surge of energy rushed my fingertips as they glided along his body, electrifying me.

“Fuck, Kena,” he hissed, pulling back from the kiss.

In a movement so fast it blurred everything around me, he shot out the door, slamming it behind him. He left me gasping, clinging to the wall behind me just to remain standing.  My legs wobbled like Jell-O as I stumbled to the bed and collapsed. He sucked all the air from my body and replaced it with an ache, a driving need for more of him.

What the hell was he?

Amazon | All Romance eBooks | Evernight Publishing | Book Strand | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble

Wren Michaels hails from the frozen tundra of Wisconsin where beer and cheese are their own food groups. But a cowboy swept her off her feet and carried her away below the Mason-Dixon line, where she promptly lost all tolerance for snow and cold. They decided they'd make beautiful babies together and they got it right on the first try. Now Wren lives happily ever after in the real world and in the worlds of her making, where she creates book boyfriends for the masses to crave.

Facebook | Twitter | Amazon Page | Website | Tsu |

Sourwood Sunday with Swallowtail

Did you know that woodpeckers whine? I didn't either. This morning I was sitting on my deck soaking in the morning shade and semi-coolness before the heat of the day chased me inside. Close at hand, two woodpeckers whined.

I found one in the chestnut oak to my right. There it was, a Downy on a limb. Whining. Dude was looking right at me until he lost interest. Then he attacked the thick bark with his thorn beak, sending it flying.

The other was in front of me, hiding behind a veil of leaves. Whining. I spied her when she hopped on the trunk and hammered away. From her looks she was a Hairy Woodpecker. Interesting that both subspecies would whine.

The cicadas are chorusing. I had forgotten what it was like to live in the south and and experience their rhythmic song. Last week I started taking the time each day to just sit, close my eyes and let my body feel the the sound of the cicadas singing the earth's rhythm.

A couple of weeks ago I noticed scores of butterflies partaking of a blossoming sourwood tree about fifty yards from our deck. The sourwoods have been blooming for weeks and are waning. This lady still blooms, though the blossoms are fewer. So are the butterflies, mostly tiger swallowtails. They flutter then light, clinging to blooms that curl forward to receive, like hands in supplication.

Eric, in answer to your question, this is one way I create. I sit still, I watch, I listen. I hear. I feel. I see. When I'm feeling, senses engaged, the voices cease and my head quiets.

I let my mind be quiet. Or wander if it wants to.

I be.

Now for some pictures of me be-ing yesterday.

This is me.

Sun kissed.

Be-ing.

Somewhere down that lazy River.

The Chestatee outside of Dahlonega.

Floating on a 'catamarran'.

With an oar.

Spinning stories in my head.

My two companions, Carolyn and Beau. Waiting patiently on moi.  

There were five turtles just before I snapped this, but one plopped off in to the water.

Notice how muddy the water is? We had heavy rain, two days in a row. The water is about two feet higher than usual.

It was a leisurely float, no real paddling other than to steer. Several class one rapids of the pre-K variety. Two class two. Maybe first grade. Nothing more strenuous.

Just a lazy be-ing day.

This looks like a black swallowtail, only it has no tails. So hmm...Anyone know?

She was hanging out on a sandy beach along the way.

We stopped here to stretch.

And eat an apple.

She graciously shared her beach.

This is Bugsy under my 'new' wicker thrift store chair this morning. He's always in to just Be-ing.

This song was stuck in my head as we floated down the river. I had never seen this video. My my. Would you stand in line for a kiss like this?

And who knew Robbie was such a hunk?

Cochran Falls, Stage One

I climbed a mountain. Me. Who is afraid of heights.

Not intentionally, of course. The intent was to see Cochran Falls. Which we did. It was our second attempt, the first being a couple of months ago when we took the wrong fork on Blackhawk Road and ended up on the wrong trail. This time, we mapped it out on Google Earth.

We parked and followed a jeep road that was full of huge standing puddles, some resembling small lakes. The road looked impassable, even for a four-wheeler. As we neared the falls, we met some riders on horseback (whose tracks we'd followed) on their way back down.

At the end of the jeep road, we picked our way over a trail that followed the creek. Mountain goats might think twice about this trail. Once, I had to find a handhold in the rock above and throw my leg around an outcrop to get by. While this may be common for the less faint of heart, for me, it's quite remarkable.

Here, the tiny way markers led to the other side of the creek, so we crossed and kept going. Wrong. We should have crossed, then crossed back. Or just stayed on the right side of the creek. On the left there was no path.

We scaled that mountain. Literally. Not far up, it became an almost vertical climb. I am not exaggerating. We kept thinking if we got just a little bit higher we could see the top of the falls, the place where Cochran leaps over the lip of the mountain and cascades straight down. We never did.

What we did see, were a lot of wild rhododendrons that will bloom in a couple of months. We used these for anchors and to pull ourselves up. At times there was nothing to grab, but I discovered I could inch uphill on my knees. Randy even resorted to that a time or two.

Three hours in to our hike/climb, my legs were shaking and we still hadn't reached the top. There would appear to be a summit, then a ways further up, we'd realize it was not.

It was definitely beautiful from up there, above the trees and the world below. A little hard to appreciate or enjoy when resting on the side of a near-vertical incline. But, beautiful nonetheless. We found a rocky verge and stopped to rest, eat some trail mix, some fruit, drink some water. I got a couple of pictures, but by then, the overriding thought was not beauty or pictures, but how in the hell to get back down.

We did. I have to admit that I seriously thought of calling 911 from up there. Just to have someone spot us on GPS and tell us an easier way back. I will also admit that for a moment, I got scared. My fearless leader, however, forged on. Since he seemed to know what to do, I forced my shaking legs to follow.

We mostly slid down. On our butts. Which gives a whole new meaning to the term 'back slide'.

As I descended, a childhood memory of sliding down the banks of the red clay hills in the woods behind our house, crept in. Back then, we'd done it for fun. Or so I'd thought. Maybe Mama had taken us up there, then realized the only way back down without getting hurt was on our backsides. Because, quite honestly, I don't remember doing it on a regular basis. And, if it was just for fun, wouldn't we have?

We were careful to avoid the saw briers. These are wicked strong briers that reach out and grab and can hurt like the dickens. There were so many in our downward path, I dubbed Frosty 'Saw Brier Mountain'. I think I may still have one stuck in me arse.

Part way down, the trees I used to stop my downhill slide (otherwise, we'd have been like Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone) were marked by some wild animal. Not one or two trees. But, lots of them. So, now I'm having visions of being stalked by a mountain lion. Or a mad mama bear with cubs. Randy assured me the marks were too low for either. Whatever it was, we were right smack dab in the middle of some animal's territory. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

I'm sure if I hadn't been so frantic to get down, I might've appreciated the beauty of the moss-covered boulders with water dripping out from under them. And maybe I was afraid to look too close for fear of finding a cave or den underneath. Remember that old adage, what you don't know won't hurt you?

Eventually, we made it back to Cochran Creek, just below the falls. We crossed over and picked up the goat trail, but I was too tired to kiss the ground. Afterwards, we trudged the remaining mile and a half back to the truck, which we reached exactly six hours after we'd left it.

Home again, I took a hot shower and collapsed, muscles screaming from head to toe.

It's now two days later. Randy found a discussion forum on GeorgiaHikes.com that talks about a guy who died up there, having fallen on slippery rocks in the falls. Ha. Glad I didn't read that before we went up.

But, yes. We'll go back. Why? Because we still haven't gotten to see that glorious, free-falling cascade.

And because we're stubborn and refuse to say uncle.

Photographs from top to bottom: mud 'lake' on jeep road on way in to Cochran Falls; Lower Cochran Falls; Lower falls through rhododendrons; view from rocky verge; slide below lower falls; below slide