Roscoe James

Dancing with Venus - Trade Review

2011-05-07T19:44:00.003-05:00

A review for my contemporary lesbian romance - Dancing with Venus

You can find the original review here.

Dancing with Venus
by Roscoe James
May 2010
Contemporary/ Lesbian
64K
Ebook- Loose-Id

Buy it Loose-Id

Blues is Jessica Butler’s life. No performer romances the audience better. Unfortunately the audience is the only thing twenty-eight-year-old Jessie is romancing these days. Her life is an endless string of club dates with the occasional male groupie thrown in to stave off complete isolation. Careful to never surrender more than her body, matters of her heart remain a mystery, even to her.

On the outs with her family, she’s been running from gig to gig for over a year. When her little sister’s wedding invitation finds her in Chicago Jessie realizes it’s time to stop running. Unwittingly she starts a pilgrimage that turns the ever elusive matters of her heart into a train wreck.

Marcella Dionysius keeps company with the dead Europeans. Instead of bars and clubs, Marci’s venues are concert halls and recording studios. She’s a world-class cello player, a woman that loves women, and the only daughter of a very powerful man who wants just one thing before he dies. An heir.

Marci is an exotic Greek goddess next to Jessie’s pale, lanky, Midwestern form, and Jessie hates her sister’s best friend immediately. She hates her even more after their first kiss. Because this time running isn’t an option.

Dancing with Venus is one of those books that based on the first few pages, I expected to have issues with. However, this turned out to be one the better reads of this year not only in writing quality but amazing character depth portrayal that I don’t read too often. Roscoe James captured and created a character in Jessie that crawled under my skin and made a home.

At first I had a hard time with Jessie. She’s jaded to the max, going through life with a huge chip on her shoulder. She’s done whatever she could, to the point of being cruel, to piss her mother off at every turn, and she fucks guys she meets at her gigs just to add a notch to her little “pink” book. There’s something really hard about her, and yet, of course we see further on that it’s a cover up for something painful in her past and some deep vulnerability.

Now typically, I start to roll my eyes at the tortured, self destructive character who has a heart of gold really. It’s so stereotypical and kind of boring. Yet, surprisingly, the author took this to a different level and added some real depth to Jessie as a character.

As the story progresses, Jessie learns things about why she acts like she does that shock even her. Things that she completely blocked and forgotten because they were too painful. I felt this was very realistically portrayed and I thought myself that Jessie really had no idea of those things that were haunting her psyche and causing her to act in self destructive ways.

Marci was more of a catalyst character in this story. She’s not as well developed, but in a way, it doesn’t matter because this is more or less Jessie’s story and her growth. What I liked about Marci is that in contrast to Jessie, she’s very stable about what she feels and knows what she wants. She bee-lines it to Jessie and pushes her way into Jessie’s heart, which is something that obviously Jessie needed. She never wavers, even when Jessie goes in and out with her flakiness about what she wants or feels.

There were times in this story that I felt it could easily go the way of the “oh my god I’m a lesbian,” but it never did even though Jessie does freak at first. Jessie finds herself shocked that she likes being with a woman and does fight it on some level, but it goes deeper than the whole fear of what people will think. It touches a deep nerve inside of her that brings up stuff that have to do with who she really is, her core, her security, relationship with her parents, her childhood and so on. I liked this because so many times an initially non gay character that ends up in a gay situation screams that “oh my god I’m a lesbian” is used more as a cheap way to show inner conflict than as part a complex character issue. So kudos to Mr. James for that.

The next issue that almost derailed this story for me was the push-pull thing that goes on quite often as a conflict device. In this case, Jessie opens up to Marci but then freaks and pulls back. Not once, but twice. When they finally get together again half way through the story and again Marci wants some kind of commitment or declaration and acknowledgment of Jessie’s love, Jessie can quite bring herself to it and again, they go on their separate ways.

I was thinking at that point, ugh, really, I hate this back and forth indecisiveness of characters. But then Mr. James took that and didn’t keep it frustrating, but ran in a different and interesting direction. I think it’s very hard to keep a contemporary love story interesting without a side theme like suspense or some other plot device to keep the characters distracted enough to build up tension. But I will say that the story line went in a direction that did that in a way that was able to showcase Jessie’s internal growth and desperate need to get Marci back without pissing me off.

Instead of a constant back and forth, both go on with their lives, especially Jessie who has a booming personal life outside of her love of Marci. But all the while, she’s trying to find and get back with Marci. This puts the focus on the story back into creating enough tension that I was aching for these two to get together again without getting pissed off by the drama of it. By the time they do meet up again, it’s so clear that Jessie will do anything for that love even sacrificing the other most important thing in her life, her music.

For those who are wondering, there isn’t that much sex in this book. Much of the story takes place with both Jessie and Marci being apart, with just enough scenes of them together to establish what they feel and the crisis they go through to end up together. But I liked this. For once in a long time, sex wasn’t thrown in there to show a relationship between the couple at the expense of character development and plot.

And I wasn’t going to mention this because really, it doesn’t matter the sex of the writer. A good story is a good story and this was a well written story. However, something that struck me here was that Mr. James had more insight into a woman’s character than many of the female writers of the same genre I've read. And I dare say, that Jessie as a character does have an edge and vulnerability to her that made her more real for me than many female protagonists that I read in these types of stories.

So, bottom line, I highly recommend this book. While it does have some issues, and maybe some of the story could have been cut in parts where Marci and Jesse are apart and doing their own thing, I’m still left with thoughts of this book in my head and wanting to continue on with the characters, to see how they made out with their HEA. And I was quite impressed with the writing quality

Heat level: 3- there are some, short, somewhat graphically written sex scenes, but they are few and I didn’t find them over the top but more about expressing what the characters feel for each other.

Grade: B+, A-
Posted by LVLM(Leah) at 9:43 AM

I would like to thank Leah and Loving Venus-Loving Mars for their review. As a side note, the follow-up story of how their HEA works out has been started. By the way, this book is available in both electronic format just about everywhere, and in paperback edition (order at your favorite bookstore or from Amazon).

Thanks,

Roscoe James

www.roscoejames.com

To nook or not to nook - that is the question

2011-01-18T14:32:00.002-06:00

I’ve wanted an e-reader since I started writing e-books. I’d been waiting for the market to shake out a little (right, fat chance) so last year while on a month long trip to the states (Hola, I live in Mexico) I dropped into a Barnes & Noble and looked at the nook. From arrival on the e-reading scene the nook has looked nice. I thought it was much neater than the Kindle (which looked a little dated first quarter of last year). So I got to do the whole touchy feely thing with a nook and had, basically, one concern. And I asked the nerdy girl with the horn rimmed glasses the big question – can I download anywhere in the world. She said sure. And I became the proud owner of a brand new nook for $150 and change. I got a cover, purchased a book, downloaded some freebees, and had a great rest of trip.

Back home in Mexico (which is, to the best of my knowledge, somewhere in this world) my nook was set aside while I finished up the stack of paperbacks on my nightstand. Then there were my own books to read on my nook (in pdf which isn’t a very pleasant experience on the nook) just so I could live the moment of reading Roscoe James on Roscoe James’ nook – a real hoot). So end of November rolled around and I was ready to use that b-day gift card my wife had picked up for me while in the states. Lucky me.

So I went out and jumped through all the hoops of on-line shopping, found three books, placed my orders, watched the old gift card shrink, and waited for delivery. And waited, then waited some more. Finally my gift card swelled and I discovered my orders were canceled. After an hour and 50 minutes waiting for customer service to get to me I’m told that their servers are down and it will be a week before I can find out what’s happening.

So let’s make a long story short. After three weeks of buying the same books, calling CS and getting the runaround, and not getting anything to read, we went on vacation for new years. When I got back and the book buying frenzy had ended, the servers were back up, and I didn’t have anything else to do but spend time on the phone, I finally got an answer.

Get this – this is rich. Yes, I can in fact download content to my nook from anyplace with a wifi connection. There’s just one little glitch. I can only purchase from inside the US and Canada. Yep. That’s right. Nook can only buy books when calling from a US or Canada ip. I even got in touch with a friend, gave him my account information, and asked him to go into my B&N account and purchase some titles. Houston, we have a problem. I had in fact visited him in July. Unfortunately it never occurred to me that I should sync my nook with his PC. Cause unless I do that he can’t get into my account.

So I shot a nasty letter off to B&N which they didn’t answer and ordered a Kindle from my home in Mexico. It arrived in 7 days missing the little charger doohickey thing-a-ma-jig. I got the sync cable but no transformer. And there was a little message saying that transformers are not sent to some countries. But… there was a little – tell us what you think e-mail address. So I wrote em and said I had already purchased a book (Nicholas Sparks), had been reading the manual, that I really liked the screen and light weight, but that I felt their no-transformer to some countries was a total fail. I sent it off into the ether not expecting to hear anything in this lifetime. Got a response in 15 minutes. They were sorry to hear I was unhappy. Please go buy one from our store, pay for it, send the order number to this link, and we’ll refund full including shipping.

And guess what? I did and they did.

Night and day. This is why Amazon will rule the world shortly and B&N will be wondering what hit them.

The Kindle still looks dated (to me) with its keyboard at the bottom. I don’t like it. Get rid of it, Amazon. Give me more screen space and don't charge me big bucks for the 9" one. But my Kindle is lighter, page turns much faster, has longer battery life, brighter screen, higher contrast, and sells books anyplace I can connect. All that and real people actually answer their customer feedback e-mails. I know because there was a misspell in the response I received.

Another important observation. The navigation keys on the nook are as stiff as my 80 year old mother's arthritis. The Kindle page turners click and press easily.

In all fairness I don't imagine people living in the states are having much trouble buying books for their nooks. But I bet if they have reason to call customer service they’re sick and tired of the *&&%^ &^$#@#^% music.

Oh, and I have a fairly unused nook with $60 dollars in gift certificates that I'll be throwing off my balcony soon.

Thanks for dropping by.

RJ

Dancing with Venus

2010-05-28T08:38:00.001-05:00

Jessie stretched and stared at the ceiling. No cracks. No cobwebs. No stained wallpaper. To her right she saw a drooling Marci, mouth open on the pillow in an unflattering gape, still sound asleep. No Jethro. She slid out of bed, got dressed, grabbed one of her sister's big fluffy pink towels from the bathroom, and sneaked out of the bedroom.

In the hallway she heard her mother making noise in the kitchen and ducked into the living room instead. She went out the front door and turned left on the gravel lane in front of the house.

The sun was about where it had been when she'd arrived the day before. She walked past the barn and waved at Larry as the kid drove past to leave.

Her dad came out the door at the side of the barn and waved. Jessie waved back and smiled.

“Don't stay up there long, Jessie. Your mom's making breakfast.”

“I won't, Dad.”

“And be careful.” He wore that exasperated dad look he used to wear when she and Kimmie would go up to the old quarry to swim. She decided no matter how old she got her father would still have that look in reserve somewhere.

Jessie dug in her jeans pocket and waved her cell phone in the air. “I'll call you if I drown.”

Her father didn't see the humor and went back inside the barn shaking his head.

She didn't know what it was about the farm. The country air? The smells? The colors? She'd hardly slept, but she felt great. Refreshed.

Or maybe it was the crowd at Red's?

And she'd had the most erotic dream. Something to do with warm skin and gentle hands. She recalled a supple mouth that kissed like a lover, not some faceless name in her little pink book. Wet lips and a tongue that teased her nipples. She still tingled all over.

The gravel lane turned to a rutted dirt road before it disappeared into a stand of oaks and mulberry trees. The sweet smell reminded her of summers tormenting Kimmie with tales of the one-eyed monster that lived in the woods.

She felt bad about her sister. She even felt bad about her mother. At times. She felt like the black sheep in an otherwise normal family. Sometimes she wanted to run the show back and fix the glitch. Jessie decided there was no point in feeling bad. If she made a list of everything she felt bad about, she'd have a book. And she didn't believe it would be a best seller.

The trees gave way to a sunny open spot, and Jessie stripped. She stepped to the rocky ledge and took a deep breath. Her youth rushed back, and she could hear Kimmie yelling from the water ten feet below.

“Betcha can't catch me,” followed by a giggle. There had always been giggles in Kimmie's life. Sometimes Jessie wanted in on the secret.

She toed the ledge and dived. The water in the old Butler quarry was ice cold and felt great. She came up in the middle of the watering hole and cleared her face. She hadn't felt this good in a long time. Years. She laughed and watched a raccoon wash something at the edge of the water. She rubbed the water out of her face, and when her hand came away red, she rubbed her nose and mouth a second time. She didn't find any blood. She smelled her palm and realized the red smear on her hand was lipstick. She treaded water and stared wide-eyed at her palm.

What the…

There was a loud splash at her back, and Jessie, still staring at her palm, swallowed some water. Marci came up laughing a few feet away.

“You sneaked out.” A smiling Marci gulped air and disappeared beneath the water's surface.

Jessie stared openmouthed at the top of the water where Marci disappeared. She rubbed her mouth again and pulled another red smudge from one corner.

Miss World-Class?

“This is great! Beautiful!” Marci was bobbing on the surface smiling at Jessie.

Jessie rolled onto her stomach and swam for the edge. She crawled out of the water and toed her way frantically up the bank to her towel. She ran it across her face and rubbed her mouth hard for good measure. She looked at the smudge on the towel, then looked at Marci still swimming around like some dolphin. She looked down at the towel in her hand and caught sight of her nipple. She rubbed the towel across her nipple, and it came away with another red smudge. Then a vivid snippet came back. Marci's smile in the moonlight that crept around the curtains just before their lips met.

I was drunk. On two beers I got shitfaced…

She knew better.

Marci was drunk. She did…

Another vivid moment lit up in Jessie's mind. Her own hand sliding down the front of Marci's body… A breast was caressed and another kiss stolen. She stared daggers at Marci as the woman came out of the water at the edge of the quarry. Miss World-Class arrived, huffing from the climb.

“I stopped and asked your dad where you'd…” Marci's words trailed off. She studied Jessie's face, then quickly covered herself with her hands as best she could. “You regret it. I knew you would. I should have known better than to let some straight girl—”

“What?”

Marci stepped around Jessie without answering and started picking up her clothes.

Jessie grabbed Marci's elbow and pulled her up short. “Let some straight girl what? I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”

“You don't?” Marci added with a smirk, “Right. You sure did last night.”

Jessie was furious. Furious at her mother. Furious at Short Stuff for asking someone else to be her bridesmaid. Furious at Marci for being world-class and having some edgy challenge in her voice that Jessie couldn't answer. “That's what you say—”

Marci hooked her arm over Jessie's shoulder, trapping Jessie's head with her hand, and she pulled them together. She ground her mouth into Jessie's in some vaudevillian stage kiss of exaggerated bawdiness before shoving them apart.

“I bet you know what I'm talking about now, don't you, Psycho Woman?”

Jessie rubbed her forearm across her mouth and stared, flabbergasted. “What the hell was—”

“You liked it. Come on. Admit it, Jessie. You want another one just like it, don't you?”

Jessie stepped back, her towel slipped, and they stood facing each other almost as naked as the day they were born. “Are you crazy?”

“Like a psycho woman? What do you think, Jessie? Am I?”

She couldn't recall being faced with a situation she didn't know how to handle. How to control. How to manipulate to her advantage. The fact she didn't know how to handle this situation was even more confusing. Her mouth gaped, and she couldn't find a thing to say.

“Forget it, Jessie. Don't worry about it. No big deal.” Marci turned away and pulled her short white shorts on. “Yeah, I'm psycho. Psycho for thinking straight-girl love was more than just some scriptwriter's catchy turn of a phrase.”

Jessie was determined to win this pissing match.

“What? That's the best ya got? You don't even live on the same street as psycho. You don't—”

Marci was on her before she finished saying the words. She pulled Jessie into an impassioned embrace and kissed her unapologetically, full on the mouth. The vaudevillian act was gone. Marci's lips were warm and slippery, her tongue teasing and inviting. Her hands wandered Jessie's naked back until the towel fell away completely. Jessie was so shocked, so absolutely out of sorts, that she didn't react. At least that was how she would recall things later. It didn't matter that she pulled Marci against her body and trapped her with her own arms. It didn't matter that Jessie's tongue danced the same lubricious dance as Marci's. It didn't matter that all of Jessie's senses were focused on how different the experience was from the faceless names. Or how absolutely marvelous kissing Marci was.

With an unbidden sigh the kiss ended. Marci shoved away and sorted out her top to pull it on. Jessie blushed and looked away.

What the hell just happened? And who the hell is this woman that she thinks she can just…

Marci pulled her top down and stuffed her feet into her sandals. When she spoke Jessie didn't detect any challenge. The tough girl was gone. There was something more than a change of pace. There was a distinct change in tone.

“Is that psycho enough for you, Jessie?”

Defeat?

Jessie didn't let up. She couldn't. She pursued Marci the three steps she'd taken away and quipped, “Must not be. Didn't do a thing for me. Was it good for you, sweetie?”

Marci leaned closer, her voice an intimate whisper laced with renewed challenge. “Hell. You loved every second of it. I can smell it on you.”

Jessie was so mad she felt dizzy. “How the fuck—”

Marci didn't let her speak. “You can fool yourself, Jessie. But not me. Not someone who…” Marci leaned even closer, and their lips brushed. “That's right. You can't fool another lesbian. And right now there's nothing you want more than for me to kiss you again.”

Eyes defiant, Jessie stood her ground even as it crumbled beneath her feet.

“Yeah. I thought so.” Marci pulled away and sashayed off. Just as she disappeared into the stand of mulberry trees, she yelled over her shoulder, “You didn't flinch, did you, Psycho Woman? Not an inch. Just now. All I had to do was kiss you again.”

“But—”

“You could have had me. You could have known what real love is all about. Too bad. Your loss.”

Marci was gone.

Fuck! What the hell just happened?

The only thing Jessie knew for sure was that she'd done it again. Maybe not a boyfriend, but she had done…something she shouldn't have with her sister's friend.

What kind of a freak am I?

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Thanks for dropping by.

Roscoe James

www.roscoejames.com

Mixing Colors - an Artist's Perspective

2010-05-13T10:16:00.002-05:00

We have a huge amount of black crude spilling into the gulf daily. All day and night long. An ecological disaster of epic proportions. This crude will be washing up on shores all around the gulf. That’s the visible damage. The part we can’t see, the slow creep of death in the gulf waters will take years to play itself out. But I have a question for greater minds than my own.

We’ve seen over the last year or so the scientist’s explanation of how melting ice at our poles, the exposure of dark dirt and rock, will feed on itself and speed up the process. That the melting process will accelerate as more dark color is added to the pristine and constant white color of the poles (and Greenland and Iceland). If we consider the gulf is a rather large closed habitat (slip in and out between Florida, Cuba, and Mexico), that what you dump in there will take a long time to escape (which from an ecological POV is good… a better chance at containment), then what does adding that much black do to the heat absorption qualities of the seawater in the gulf? I have to assume it will raise the gulf water temperature by a degree or three. And if we do that what happens to hurricane season this year? How many class 5’ers do we get?

Am I the only one that sees what mixing that much black with clear ocean green will do in the long run? My thinking is that the heat absorption qualities of the gulf sea water will go up dramatically. Forget about the marine life ingesting the oil. Some marine life is very sensitive to temperature deviation. A few degrees more or less and they die. Simple as that. And you add a billion gallons (which will be surpassed before this is even plugged) of black pigment to the paint bucket the gulf is and the temperature is going to change dramatically. Or so I think. What aren’t the experts considering… or what aren’t they telling us?

But here’s the real question. I saw an article the other day that says we are at the threshold of the tipping point for dramatic climatic change. …threshold of the tipping point. Standing on the edge looking into the abyss. What happens to that conveyer belt of cold and warm water that runs in the Atlantic moving water up to the pole then back down past the gulf that is responsible for maintaining global weather patterns if we drastically change the balance of water temperature in the gulf?

Did BP and Halliburton just push us over the edge into the next global ice age?

i-What?

2010-02-27T12:56:00.001-06:00

Apple has thrown their hat into the ring. Exactly what ring that is has yet to be seen but they did it in true Apple style. They haven’t really reinvented the wheel with the i-Pad but they have put a new spin on the whole idea of personal computing/media center/light work station/e-reader. Just watching their promo video can be inspiring. And let’s not forget the nook, Sony, or the grand shoulders that Apple wants to climb on top of, the true pioneer in the world of e-readers - the Kindle. There are hosts of other equally worthy entrants in the niche market of electronic reading that I could mention but that’s not really what’s on my mind.

Now that we’ve seen almost (not quite - Microsoft is lurking out there) everyone else’s big ideas do we have anything we want to tell them? What would your idea of the perfect e-reader/anything else be?

Apple definitely hit the mark with look, style, and GUI (graphic user interface). Slick. Nice. Makes you want to tickle it just to hear it laugh. So that would be a good jumping off point along with size. Not too big and not too small. Apple got that right as well. Now give it some serious storage. Maybe a hundred gig’s worth (flash - no hard drives allowed), leave the wifi, dump the 3G. And something they could all do is get rid of the edges. You know, the frame around the screen. I want edge-to-edge workspace. Then make it an i-Pod, give it a built-in cam, a user replaceable battery, and give me twenty-four hours of continuous use.

On-screen navigation for page turning. Rub your thumb or finger just like a book and the page turns. Use an open format for e-books, allow color covers, photographs, and even short films (that ever important author interview) inside the e-books and, most important of all, sell it for three hundred dollars or less.

Yep. Now we’re talking. I’ll take two.

And speaking of two. Have you seen the concept videos for the Microsoft slate that has two screens and actually opens like a book? That is my favorite. That’s something I could really get into.

Thanks for dropping by.

Roscoe James

www.roscoejames.com

Your Thoughts?

2009-12-09T10:01:00.001-06:00

As an author I always want to know what my readers think. Recently I ran across an interesting idea and thought I’d give it a try. I’m placing Bastina’s Necklace up for grabs. That’s right. You can get your very own copy of the second in my Galactic League of Planets series absolutely free.

The Galactic League of Planets series is a future fantasy series that involves a little world building, characters from around the galaxy, and some pseudo science fiction. Rocket ships and other world beings.

Okay. Not free. I expect something in return. Well, besides your first born.

I’m giving away four copies to four readers that have blogs and will give the book a serious review. True honest reactions to the book. Like it, hate it, love it, don’t understand it… whatever. All you have to do is write it up and post it on your blog.

So if your interested in a little space romance then be one of the first four to post a comment including the address for your blog space. We can figure out how to get in touch later.

Thanks for dropping in.

Roscoe James

Turn Your Sound Up

2009-10-05T12:03:00.001-05:00

I don’t believe this video got enough play time when Orion was released. The book took off and I didn’t drag my home movie out and show it off. What I really like about this vid is the sound. I mixed this track from about forty sound bites, loops, and tracks. The same thing with Bastina’s Necklace and Forever’s Not enough. Anyway, give it a listen. And turn your sound up.

Thanks. And if you’re looking for Year One AP – scroll down.

Year One AP (After Print)

2009-10-05T10:07:00.001-05:00

Okay. Let’s do a little think tanking. Let’s talk about year zero. We don’t know when it will be we only know its arrival is inevitable. Might be in ten years, might be in thirty, but, as stated in a recent Newsweek article, the train is on the tracks and screaming toward the print publishing industry. Year zero is the year that the last two print pubs collapse (has to be two - it takes two to Tango) under a burden of debt and a business model that is older than plane travel and automobiles.

Sure. There will still be pint books. They’ll be consigned to the same arena as cigarettes. They’ll be special order, only for those that can afford them, and rarely seen. The print industry, the one discussed in the trades, the one that the e-pubbed New York Times will still be naming the e-best sellers for, will be found in cloud networking and the world wide web.

So there it is. E-book is the norm, the standard, not the exception. Each year there will be more new books than ever. Just like YouTube and their bevy of garage (read bedroom) recorded original works and covers, anyone that wants can stick their toe into the river of electronic books and get their name out there.

And a new revolution lurks just over the horizon for e-books. Sound, movie clips, pictures, and links. Imagine turning the page on a Stephen King book, the part where the kids are sneaking into the cemetery late at night to do whatever Mr. King has bid them to such a place to do, and the soft sound of crickets, breaking branches, rustling leaves, and wind can be heard. Or the heroine is standing on the edge of a cliff watching the sunset. The waves of the Pacific pounding against the rocks below can be heard. Kids playing. Gulls windsailing just out of reach.

Links to other books, other characters in other books, covers of other books, internet ‘places of interest’ that can bring a new dimension to the reading experience…if the reader feels so inclined. A faded video, like a ghost, runs as the watermark of the page just barely visible with thirty second loops of highlights for that particular page.

Books will become multi-media events and not just words on a page.

The price of a book will be somewhere around a dollar. The pirate wars will have been fought and won through technology. Sure, just like the print pub industry, the pirates will be out there, but there will be an entire navy of industry ships sailing their seas (because the electronic book industry is now one of importance – just like movies and music) and freeing books held hostage on some ass-talk server in the Ukraine will be a priority. Maybe the publisher everyone wants to be with will be the one with the lowest pirate to sales rate.

So. Here we are. Year zero (which is actually year one as years are counted. The date may be 2009 but we’re in the twenty-first century.

Now what? What will it be like for us, the lowly of the lowliest? The wanna be writer struggling to get our books seen on Fictionwise when the likes of Brown and King have taken over the front page.

Year one could be as close or as far away as we make it.

What do you see year one AP (after print)?

Thanks for dropping by. Leave me your thoughts. Who knows, I might write a book about them.

Roscoe James

Where Did I Put My Buggy Whip

2009-09-25T10:42:00.001-05:00

When was the last time you used a buggy whip? Let me be clear here. When was the last time you used a buggy whip outside the bedroom? Been a while for most of us. I’d venture a guess there are a few out there that wouldn’t know a buggy whip from a bullwhip (that’s the one Indiana Jones uses). I ask because there will be a day in the not too distant future (as in our children’s lifetime) when someone will be posting here at the blog with a new question along those same lines. They’ll be asking when the last time was you cracked open a book made of paper printed with words and was perfectly bound. Just like the buggy whip, books will still be around. But just like the buggy whip there will be people that can safely say they’ve never opened one in their life.

I had a great aunt who died in 1986. A wonderful person full of stories and pictures of the past if you took the time to get her talking. She was born just before the turn of the century. A time when Fischer made horse drawn carriages and everybody knew what a buggy whip was. And more importantly, how to use one. Even outside the bedroom. She was a woman that was born under a sky that didn’t have jet trails and roads were just paths of customary use that were occasionally strewn with rock and gravel to fill up the pot holes.

But she was also a woman who learned about the Wright brother’s historic first flight as a recently passed current event in a one room school house. Prop planes were the big thing when she was dating. That and the latest fad in personal travel – the automobile. She was born without a telephone and died with a wireless handset that, if the sun was right and it wasn’t raining, would actually reach up to the second floor deck. Well, when the battery wasn’t dead. She watched the funeral of an assassinated president and men walking on the moon on a black and white television set. She watched the first shuttle launch on a color console with a beautiful maple cabinet.

Oh. And she always drove an Oldsmobile. A new one every four or five years. When’s the last time someone showed up at work in their brand spanking new Oldsmobile?

Does this mean reading will be consigned to the lost art box along with handwritten letters and drop biscuits made from scratch? Hardly. I actually believe people will be reading more. I also believe that, just like the music people are collecting today, downloaded and licensed, that the personal libraries of the future will stay with a person their entire life. They might even become a point of contention in their last will and testament. Now there’s a cartoon to mess with your mind.

When I look at e-books and e-readers today compared to where they were just four years ago I see this photograph in my head that gets flogged around a lot of black boxy cars belching smoke fighting for space with horse draw wagons and carriages on the streets of Chicago (or maybe New York). Some guy on History Channel talks about the tons (yes tons) of horse manure that had to be cleared daily. Then I look at how long it has taken us to get where we are today and the evolution and impact of the automobile on the world. Not all of it good but certainly better.

Then I think about Moore’s law concerning the advancement of computing power. Basically it said (and the law became a driving force to the outcome as much as a prediction) that computing power would double every eighteen months. And it has. And recently I read an article that discussed re-vamping Moore’s law. Twelve months should do the trick.

So if the Kindle, Sony reader, and whatever Microsoft and Apple finally put on the table in the next six months, represent the prop planes of my great aunt’s era, I can’t wait to see what we’ll have in the next five years.

Then think about getting all those horse manure littering wagons off the road and imagine where our reading technology will be in ten years.

Printed literature, pulp fiction, and text books have seen the Wright brothers of e-readers take flight. You might even say we’re all Charles Lindbergh guiding the publishing industry on its first solo flight across the vast ocean of the best seller. Okay. Some of us are Lindbergh and some of us are Amelia Earhart. But we’re all involved in the same thing. Not just the pioneering moments of a new industry and the technology that will support it.

We’re all involved in defining just how soon someone will get to ask the question – when was the last time you cracked open a book made of paper printed with words and was perfectly bound.

How about we all go out and buy an e-book today? I’d love to be around to see the comment page on that one.

Thanks for dropping by.

www.roscoejames.com

Read Something Different… Bastina’s Necklace

2009-08-18T22:49:00.001-05:00

When Captain Dirk Roberts, ex-Corporate Space Fleet colonel, now independent space freight hauler--a man who doesn’t always have his papers or his life in order--seeks safe haven at the doomed planet Aznate, he’s only looking for a hot shower, a drink or three at the last spacer bar on the edge of known civilization, and repairs for his ship. What he finds instead is more intriguing than any tale of Blackbeard’s adventures and more beguiling than the fair maiden Guinevere of Arthurian legend.

From a hijacked ark to a plundered heart to the writing of the final Chapter in the ancient children’s fairytale of the legend of Bastina, only Haark, the god of the Bastinan people, knows how the story will end... But that doesn’t stop Princess Anleen from trying to rewrite it.

Buy Here

Thanks,

Roscoe James

Trying Something New

2009-08-17T15:31:00.001-05:00

I have a new laptop and discovered a new program – Windows Live Writer. So I thought I’d give it a try. This isn’t just about Live Writer. I do have a quandary I’d like some help with. So here ya go.

Do you prefer the romance between the two main characters blooms out of two Alpha personalities that are in each others face, defensive, agressive… blablabla. Or would you rather have an Alpha/Beta character set for the leads?

That’s really all I have right now. I think I’ll add a photo just to try it out.

Thanks for dropping by.

Roscoe James

www.roscoejames.com

Trade Reviews - Orion by Roscoe James

2009-06-22T17:34:00.005-05:00

Three reviews.

Reviewing site : You Gotta Read
Rating : You Need To Read
Reviewed by : Heather

Amid the towering monuments of Manhattan's concrete jungle, Pamela Wilkinson wasn't looking for a white picket fence and roses. She didn't yearn for silk sheets and gentle caresses. She wanted something else. Something different. Something good girls aren't supposed to crave and good boys know nothing about. She wanted more than the pull of rope against her wrists, the smell of leather in her nose, and the loud clang of the dungeon door slamming shut on her heart. She wanted the forbidden dance of master and submissive.

Horatio Sloan, wealthy eccentric and not easily denied, demanded more from Pamela than just her body. From a small art gallery in SoHo to the cold marble floor of his study, he would take from her more than her soul, demand more than just her heart, and possess her darkest, most secret place...

Her mind.

In Orion you follow Pam through her journey of finding and experiencing a new way of life. You watch her struggle with knowing what she wants while knowing that most people would find it completely insane. In the opening scenes of the book, Pam tells you that she doesn’t want just the average sexual relationship but someone to dominate her mind.

I was mesmerized by Pam’s journey into submissive. I was one of those people who would look at the pictures of leather, chains, collars, etc and think… Nasty. James puts your mind into another frame, allowing you to understand what is going through the mind of a submissive. It’s not about the sex or kink, but about pleasing your mate.

Anyone that is interested in BDSM really should read Orion. This book was thought provoking to say the least. James has created a world in which you are allowed to learn the inner workings of the mind of a submissive and a dominant. Following Pam through her journey, her decisions to become a submissive, the struggle of finding a Dom, her inner turmoil, and eventually her trial as a Dom will keep you intrigued and turning the pages.

Orion
Contemporary
CinLee
Loose ID
May 19, 2009
9781596329737
http://www.roscoejames.com/
4.5
E-BOOK

After spending an interesting evening at an erotic photography show, something deep within Pamela Wilkinson was stirred. A fantasy, a desire that she is just now aching to have realized. But all of her dates are complete failures at giving her what she needs and even her best friend doesn't understand what Pamela wants. During her birthday party, her friends give Pamela a dog collar and leash, which she promptly puts on. After teasingly leading Pam around on the leash, her best friend hands off the leash to a stranger while she powders her nose. Jolie has no idea what she has set in motion.

Horacio Sloan is immediately fascinated by the drunken woman at the end of the leash. He even warns Pamela that someone might take her seriously, but she doesn't deny that at all. Each week he finds himself at the bar, flirting with her across the distance until finally one week he brings his assistant along. Soon Pamela finds herself in a limo with a man who is a complete stranger and ends up spending the night at his isolated mansion. Frightened and fascinated, Pamela knows this is the one man who will give her fantasy life and he would not disappoint her.

I'm still catching my breath from this one. Each word flickers like a flame from the heat between Pam and Horacio. Horacio is a definite alpha master yet shows a gentleness in his handling of Pamela that borders on the exquisite. Pamela is a well fleshed out character, showing her internal struggle of wanting her fantasy at the same time as fearing it. If you like your stories hot, ORION by Roscoe James is not to be missed. The BDSM D/s elements are very strong in this book and elemental to the story but are written very well.

Wild and hot, you won't be putting this book down. ORION by Roscoe James is an exquisite story you won't want to miss.

Title: Orion
Author: Roscoe James
Publisher: Loose ID
Publisher URL: http://www.loose-id.com/
Reviewer: Amanda Nelson
Rating: 5 stars
Heat level: O

Pamela Wilkinson knows she wants more from a man, but that man is hard to find. While visiting an art gallery in Soho, she finds what she is missing…someone to make her own. So far, none of her dates seem to understand what she is seeking, until she meets the man. The man has been watching her every Friday night, up until the night. It was the night that Horatio Sloan came to complete her. She did things that she never thought she would ever do, and not only did them but found herself to be totally turned on by them. Horatio took her on a journey that began with a single word.

I was totally blown away by this book. Mr. James has managed to intrigue, entice and mesmerize me with this story. Instead of being the usual punishment and reward book that so many BDSM books are, this one showed me what a true Dominant/submissive relationship should be. Mr. James had the terminology and the action that made me fully believe in this relationship and what love can do to a person who craves this lifestyle. When Pamela was without Horatio, I felt her pain and when she was with him, I felt her total obedience. The characters, plot and scene playing were all so well written that I was able to totally lose myself in the story. The analogies used throughout the book were totally unexpected in an erotic story, yet they fit like a glove. The sex was everything that I would desire in a D/s relationship, the anticipation was very exciting and the climax was even more so. If all of Mr. James’ books are like this, I have a lot of reading to catch up on. I can’t say I’d recommend this book for light summer reading, but I would highly recommend this book for some late night titillation.

Amanda Nelson
Just Erotic Romance Reviews

You can get your copy here.

Thanks for dropping by.

Roscoe James

Author Interview by Lydia Hirt (give her a warm welcome)

2009-06-18T20:24:00.003-05:00

Lydia Hirt has been told she hides her nerdiness well and has been frequently reprimanded for correcting the grammar of superiors. With an obsession of books and the written word (and a secret skill at the Set® game), Lydia renounced the Chicago advertising world to join the publishing realm. Currently freelancing at Lake Claremont Press, she’s attempting to whittle down her pile of 22 pair of shoes to spend the summer in New York City, attending the New York University Summer Publishing Institute. Thrilled to join the Publishing conversation and keeping her fingers crossed on finding a job in Publicity, Lydia can be reached at novelwhore at gmail dot com or http://www.novelwhore.wordpress.com/.

Lydia recently interviewed me for an article she wrote for Beneath the Cover. She was kind enough to allow me to post the interview here. The full article can be read here. And I highly recommend it. Give her a thumbs up and add your two cents worth with a comment at the end.
So…on with Lydia’s interview.

How did you get started in writing romances? I decided I wanted to take a serious run at writing as a career. Breaking into fiction writing with one of the big publishing houses (or even finding an agent) is less likely than being struck by lightning (a statistical fact). E-books provide the structure and discipline of a traditional publishing house without the print side (though some are doing that as well). The most sold genre in e-book is erotic romance. So the answer is pretty simple. I’m here to hone my craft and build a resume.

Given the recent shakeup in the print industry - restructuring, rethinking of the print business model, drop in sales, and growth in the e-book industry to the tune of 100%, I firmly believe I’ve chosen the right place at the right time.

On a more personal note (evil grin) I like it. There is no more challenging genre. Romance is timeless (Romeo and Juliet) and plumbs the depths of mankind’s most intimate place. The heart.

Why did you choose the erotic vs. more mainstream genre? Again, access. The readers are there and the publishers are servicing the market. They’re always looking for new talent. But I must ask, why not? Eroticism goes hand in hand with romance – the natural next step that could be left at the bedroom door with a scene break. Erotic romance might be considered the ‘Director’s Cut’. Where romance walks through the bedroom and discovers what happens next.

Here are the opening lines to a book of mine that will be published shortly. Maybe you’ll find the answer here. I can’t take full credit for the idea of these words. I’ve adapted the thought from an author unknown blurb I came across. But it says very well what we all know to be true. The most active sexual organ is the mind.

He whispered in the dark.
“Tell me where to touch you so I may drive you insane.”

She smiled.

He blew on her ear.
“Tell me where you find the greatest pleasure.”

Her skin exploded in a million tiny bumps.

He trailed his finger down her spine and insisted.
“Tell me of your most intimate place that I may rape and ravage you beyond all reason.”

She kissed him softly and whispered back.
“Touch my mind.”

Orion by Roscoe James - http://www.loose-id.com/

How long did it take to get published? In 2000 I wrote a full length mainstream novel (95K words). In 2002 I sent over 260 queries to agents. All rejected. My writing career ended. In October of 2006 I decided to give writing one more try. I started investigating the publishing industry in 2007 and discovered e-books midyear. I spent time on the loops, forums, and blogs narrowing my selection to a specific publisher. In September 2007 I wrote a 45K novella and subbed. It was accepted in Jan of 2008.

Feeling you had when your first book was available? Great! Hard to explain. There is a feeling of accomplishment that comes with being part of any of the arts that is very fulfilling. I wrote 310K words last year and, good or bad, they all carry that same feeling of creating something from nothing that you’ll never find in a traditional nine to five job.

Ebooks vs. physical books? The future. I just checked. I have seven paperbacks on my nightstand. When I finish reading them what should I do with them? I much prefer an e-reader to a stack of paperbacks. If we are realistic about paper use, buying habits, and convenience, there is only one way books can go. Electronic. When we consider the average weight of a book bag or backpack carried by students to, from, and at school is around fifteen pounds, e-readers make even more sense. Take the backpack away and give our students an e-reader. FYI – I don’t have an e-reader yet only because the two big names (Sony and Kindle) do not allow downloads in Mexico. The first one that opens up their market will get my business.

What do you see as the future for the romance genre? Growth. Constant. Matters of the heart will always be first and foremost in the minds of modern society. After my complete failure in 2002 I discovered something that surprised me. The number one purchasers of fiction books (as a category) are women. The reason? Romance. I was in the dark on that one. I also believe romance (whether comedic, heartbreaking, or erotic) is one of the few genres that will stand on its own and endure. If you look at my DVD shelf you’ll find Matrix, Star Wars, Lord of the Rings (all of all of them) - and every one of those movies has a romance thread. You’ll also find Out of Africa, You’ve Got Mail, Four Weddings and a Funeral, and Notting Hil. There are no more dark and mysterious places than the hidden rooms of the heart. We may not all own a light saber or be saving the world from evil but we all have a heart and experience desire.

Publishing overall? The traditional business model that has dominated what and how we read for over a hundred years is under attack. Cumbersome, limited, and costly are some of the words I’ve seen used in recent months to describe that model. When we consider music, movies, and encyclopedias (with current search engines when was the last time you cracked open an encyclopedia to learn something?) we can easily see the spread of entertainment and learning into the electronic business model. My real question is – what is the publishing industry waiting on?

Is this the career path you dreamt of? Writing? Yes. Did I believe I would ever have the opportunity to pursue that dream? No. Why? The industry business model. The e-publisher has opened a lot of doors for a lot of new authors and every month you’ll see an e-author offered an opportunity with a print publisher.

What are your biggest struggles? Craft. Not telling the story but putting the story on paper. I find my vocabulary is limited, my grammar atrocious, homophones a mystery, and my comma use appalling. However, if you were to read through my small body of work you would find constant improvement. I work at learning my craft. When reading a book we want the printed page to disappear leaving only a movie in our mind. That’s where craft comes in. Ask a million people and nine-hundred-thousand will tell you they have a story and could write a book. The reality is another.

Do you find yourself having to defend your career? (I assume you’re referring to the erotic nature of my work) Nope. The family and extended family are well aware of what I do and support me completely. The first thing someone studying art and painting learns to do is to draw the nude form. When studying photography you study… the nude form. Rodin did blatantly erotic sketches when not creating sculpture. Should I mention D. H. Lawrence? I could go on. My work is not about its erotic nature. My work is about the story. The writing.

What’s the impact of being male in a female dominated genre? Good question. Right off the top of my head a word comes to mind – challenging. There are, in fact, some publishing houses that will not accept romance or erotic romance from a male author. Any book for any genre must be written to appeal to that genre’s readership. Every group of readers has expectations. I have no doubt that I am still learning what those expectations are.

Why do you believe your books are popular? The same factor that makes me work harder to understand what my reader wants is also my greatest asset. My writer’s voice. I bring a unique perspective and voice to romance. Through his eyes becomes very real when reading my books (even when writing from the heroine’s point of view). When I finally place my finger firmly on my reader’s pulse that unique point of view and voice will keep me in the forefront. This is why my pseudonym is male and you’ll find my picture, not some avatar, on most my web sites.

How do you reach out to your target? Reach has a lot to do with site traffic as determined by your publisher. People are becoming more accustomed every day to purchasing on-line. As an author your best asset is the exposure your publisher has developed over the years. But you’ll also find me on MySpace, Twitter (wait, you did, didn’t you), my blog, my author web page, different forums, group loops, and other writing forums. You look for opportunities where you can. The best advice I’ve had to becoming known as an author was simple. Write, write, write. I work fulltime at that.

You post excerpts, blurbs, covers. You look for exposure and make sure your name is coming up on the search engines.

How have you found success? Discovering what the reader wants to read and writing it. I have a book coming out the 19th of this month with Loose Id. A sub-genre I had never considered writing. Actually, a sub-genre I knew little about six months ago. This book started as a six-thousand word post at MySpace that I wrote for the sole purpose of entertaining my friends. The small post was so popular and drew so much attention that a publisher took interest. That post is now buried somewhere in the middle of a 56K word novella about BDSM and the Dom/sub lifestyle. The publisher is so excited about the book that it was fast tracked from first author full to published in two months. A very short turnaround. I’m working on the follow up as we speak.

Any endeavors that have failed? Sure. A lot. Biggest failure to date has been the wholly male point of view approach. I did that with my two earliest books because, frankly, it was safe ground for me. And while the books have a very passionate fan base I’ve learned that the female romance reader wants to hear from the heroine as well. They want the person they identify with to have a voice.

What is the most satisfying aspect of your career? One morning I started by day by checking my e-mail. I discovered a mail from a reader that pretty much sums up the satisfaction of writing. A woman (I assume – only signed with initials and I couldn’t tell from the address) wrote after reading Forever’s Not Enough. To paraphrase she started out by calling me a bastard. Then she explained that I’d kept her up until four in the morning because she couldn’t put the book down and I’d made her cry twice. That’s what romance writing is all about.

But a better answer might be - Having taken the journey.

Thanks for dropping by.

Roscoe James

Pirates of the crazy-bein'

2009-06-11T12:59:00.002-05:00

Fame, fortune, and great hours. Oh yeah. That’s what an author gets for all his hard work. Think about it. The author sits down and dreams up a story. Where did it come from? The author’s mind. An invention conjured from the author’s imagination. Daydreams turned into reading entertainment. Everyone daydreams. Some more than others to the chagrin of their teachers and bosses. Most people today can type. If they can’t type they can write. And if they can’t write they can pick up a tape recorder and record their imaginings and get someone else to do all the really hard work. Typing. Anyone can make up a story, get it on paper (or electronic media), and find an audience. Just post it on the internet. Add a button that says [Download Here] and you’re all set. Go for it! I mean, how much effort can be involved in creating the next Lord of the Rings, Star Trek, or Romeo and Juliet? We’re just talking about words, right? Words are just a bunch of letters put together in a predetermined order. No big secret there. The dictionary will give you that little tidbit of information for free (sorry, you might have to make an investment there). Yep, fame, fortune, and great hours can all be yours for the time it takes to type up a few pages of text.

Not. Let’s analyze the effort that went into one of my more recent releases. Bastina’s Necklace. Liquid Silver Books. Yeah, I know, a shameless plug. The final draft (the book you can read by going to http://www.liquidsilverbooks.com/ – another shameless plug) has (any one of my editors would kill me but I refuse to write these figures out) 70,217 words, 312,548 characters without spaces, 2,314 paragraphs, and 6,105 lines. Here’s a little nugget of knowledge that surprised even me. The book also contains 67,866 spaces. Yep. Spaces. Empty space. Blankness. Nothingness. My imagination must have gone on strike 67,866 times. Anyway. Those are the numbers. The stats. Kind of like a baseball player’s averages. The yards a football player advances the ball. The square meters of brick a bricklayer can construct in a day. The number of cartons of milk that comes out of the dairy’s plant each day. Cars built by Ford or Honda. The number of times you did whatever it is you do that provides your home, comfort and food for your family, and makes you feel good about yourself. You know what I’m talking about.

Let’s analyze some more. My typing ability is pretty good (another shameless plug – anyone need a secretary?). Just typing from text (put a book out there and ask me to copy) I can hit the upper fifties in words per minute. On a good day with creative writing I can churn out five-thousand words. I’ve done that several times. But that’s a good day. Creative writing is a little different from copying a book. A creative writer doesn’t see a written page in his or her head. I’m sure everyone works a little different but mostly we see events. Kind of like going to a movie, sitting on the front row, and typing the story out as the events unfold on the screen (sorry, could you run the movie back – I missed that dialogue). And we certainly want to make sure we go to a good movie when writing. But wait. What if we get a third of the way into our movie and we suddenly decide we don’t like where the story is going? Simple. We have this key called backspace. Works great. We just get rid of some of those words that came out of our imagination (Bad. Bad imagination. Shame on you) and we type some more words. New words. Better words. So…given the time involved in forming the images, interpreting them (what the hell is a woman with purple hair doing in my imagination? Note to imagination – get real), all that backspacing to change the reel in the projector, and getting the story from imagination to written word our typing speed might drop a little. Let’s just say that when the old imagination is firing on at least five of its eight cylinders that I can type about twenty-five creative words a minute. That means that Bastina’s Necklace (shameless plug coming – http://www.liquidsilverbooks.com/) required forty-six hours to type. That’s right. For forty-six hours of my time (a week’s worth of nine-to-five) I was rewarded with a science fiction thriller full of love, sacrifice, and romance. Something my readers have taken great pleasure in. How do I know? They told me (nothing like fame to make your day). Sorry? What’s that? Reader’s that thought I could have done a better job? Oh, right. There is that. Yep, you caught me. Fame is a two sided coin.

But back to my article. The reason I tried to get your attention to start with. For one week’s worth of typing you too can bask in the glow of adoring fans, watch your bank account swell, and enjoy the feeling of satisfaction that comes from creating something out of thin air. Just like this article. Right?

Where did I put that bridge? The one with the FOR SALE sign on it. And, of course I achieved this heady feat all by myself. Oh yeah. All by my lonesome. Not. Again. Truth be told my effort was supported by the publishing house (Liquid Silver Books – yep, more shameless plugs coming), the publisher (Tina Burns), the acquisitions director (Tracey West), my line editor (Katie Bryan), editorial director (Terri Schaefer), art director (April Martinez), production, administration, legal, and a host of others (believe it or not). Who are these people? They’re the credits at the end of my movie. The movers and shakers behind the production of Bastina’s Necklace from submission draft to final published edition (plug, plug, plug, plug). Just in case I haven’t expressed this properly let me take a second to say thank you to these people. A very heartfelt thanks.

Okay. The plugging and accolades are over. Let’s get down to the nitty gritty. The inspiration behind this particular creative moment. The reason the movie started running in my head today.

While my imagination was taking a break (my imagination has union rights that would make the UAW run for cover) I was forced to occupy my mind with other things. As is custom I was checking out the news and an article at MSNBC caught my eye. Music industry battles Spanish computer buff – Pablo Soto’s story may be every computer whiz kid’s dream – or nightmare (copyright MSNBC). Just the title brings the readers imagination into play. I can see the big, bad music industry with tanks and an invasion force of lawyers in fatigues, field equipment strapped on their backs, .45’s holstered, M16’s in their sweaty little hands, sneaking up on computer whiz kid Pablo Soto. MSNBC even provide a photograph of a perfectly normal looking guy (well, looks like a kid) who launched a computer program in 2001 that facilitates downloading software, music, movies, e-books – anything electronic that can be found or placed on a server connected to the internet – for free. This software was specially (and purposefully – that part’s important) designed to avoid the loopholes that spelled the demise of Naptster. The long and the short of it is Pablo Soto created a program that facilitates piracy. From reading the article I was left with the impression that Pablo’s program is, in fact, the very best program available for this task.

Pablo is painted as a child that left school at sixteen to support his family. That he was living a modest life and doing the best he could to get by. That his program is the result of his devotion to something he holds near and dear – designing computer programs. These are all actions and attitudes that societies applaud (with the exception, maybe, of North Korea). There is no greater story than that of the underdog triumphing. And rightly so. This smacks of hard work and dedication. Of integrity and an altruistic nature that should only be admired. And he did all this, created the number one P2P program in the world, and gave it away. For free! He continues to give it away for free. I still haven’t found his logic in wanting to help support his family and dedicating valuable time to something just to give it away for free. But who am I to question Pablo Soto’s motives? I’m just an author that can whip out a novel in a week.

Let’s backtrack a little. That book, Bastina’s Necklace, the movie in my head that a gaggle of other people dedicated time and effort to? The one that you may have purchased with money you worked hard to earn? The book I typed in just a week? I lied. The creative writing, rewriting, erasing, re-thinking – the creative process - actually took about four months worth of very hard work. Then there’s the time all those other people I mentioned invested to polish and shine and make the book the very best it could be. And did I mention that I write fulltime? That writing is what I have aspired to as a career? That, just like Pablo, I really only want to make sure my family is taken care of. And I should add that all those other people involved in the production of my book share aspirations very similar to Pablo and me. They just want to earn a living, provide for their families, have a home, and feel good about what they do.

Enough of that. Let’s get back to Pablo and his altruistic nature.

I think Pablo may be onto something here. We should all create something and just give it away. Everything we do should be free. Hell yes! The new capitalist formula for living a safe and healthy life. Free! The hell with all those movie production people that feed their families making sure the latest blockbuster that entertains you (and, might I add, makes you smile) is the very best it can be. Forget about the music producer that paid for the studio time to bring you the latest from your favorite singer or group. The damn studio time should be free! I’m liking this. So the manufacturer of said studio equipment, musical instruments, and the place all this angst and creative work takes place should be free as well. We’re on a roll, Pablo. Maybe some computer manufacturer will just give me a new laptop. I’ve worn the keyboard out on this one (all that typing). All those books out there by all those award winning authors should be free too. Just think of authors sitting at their computers (dedicated to what they love, just like you, Pablo) spending their time to create the latest and most captivating read they possibly can. All out of thin air. All for your entertainment. Their life would be so much simpler if they could just give it all away. No publishers to deal with. No line edits. No proof reading. No cover art to be anguished over. Sorry if the book doesn’t read quite as well as it used to. I couldn’t find anyone to work on my book for free. Nope. No cover. Misspelled words? And? Sheesh, the book is free! What the hell do people expect?

And if everything is free then what the heck do we need to do anything for? Why go to the office? Your house is free. Food is free. Energy is free (let’s all go tell the middle-east that we are no longer paying for crude, that Pablo said it should be free). Let me send an e-mail to all those people that helped in the production of Bastina’s Necklace and let them know that as much as I appreciate all their hard work and commitment to my endeavor to entertain the masses that I want--no, I demand that it be made available for free! Immediately!

Hang on. This is starting to smack of socialism. Well, more like hardcore communism. Maybe we should run over to the ex-Soviet Union and ask the people if they’re ready to return to the 80’s and let the government provide their housing and stock their stores. Just like the good old days. Or maybe Pablo should go live in North Korea for a year.

Sorry, Pablo. I’m being a little tough on you. The only thing you did was create a computer program. How people use it is up to them. Right? And the cocaine producers, drug lords, and pushers are just making a product available for the masses. Right? The problem is with the people that use the illicit drug industry’s prodcuts. Doesn’t matter that their product is addictive. Doesn’t matter that the use of their product clouds judgment and makes good people do bad things. All those people attached to the illicit drug industry are just trying to support their family, right? Put food on the table. Now I’m starting to get the picture.

So, Pablo, tell me. I guess the clothes on your back, the car you drive, the apartment you live in, the food you eat, the occasional cerveza you enjoy, are all free as well. What? I didn’t catch that. Maybe not. I don’t recall finding any free apartments, meals, or cars in Madrid the last time I checked. So I guess you do something else for a living. Wait tables? Wash cars? Collect garbage? Hey, I have a job for you, Pablo. We want to paint the outside of our co-op. We’ll hire you and when you finish we’ll fill you in on the new capitalist system. Free. We’ll be sure to say thanks and how much we appreciate your work though. What’s that? Not interested? I guess not. Maybe I should let the reader in on our little secret. Might help them understand the joke. Pablo’s program may be free but the advertising space he sells that appears on the computer desktop of anyone that uses his program isn’t. That’s right, Pablo Soto, the kid that just wanted to help support his family and, I feel, might be an adamant supporter of the new Free Capitalism scheme, receives income from advertising space sold to appear in conjunction with the use of his free software. So, basically, when the new summer blockbusters hit the screens Pablo is very happy. Thousands of people are just waiting to download their free (pirated – as in stolen) copies using Pablo’s program. Imagine how long it will take to download something as big as a movie. All that exposure time for Pablo’s advertising. Gotta hand it to you, kid. That’s pretty slick.

Son, take some advice from someone that actually likes to be paid for his hard work and effort. I read MSNBC’s article. Caught a few blurbs from you. Got the gist of what’s going on and, son, this boat won’t float. You are, in point of fact, making money through the promotion of an illicit activity. Your free program which generates income for you promotes the blatant theft of the hard work of a hell of a lot of other people. It would not be illegal for me to sell a gun to the guy down the street as long as I comply with the laws and regulations that govern that sale. It would be illegal for me to sell that same gun if I knew, directly or indirectly, that the guy down the street planned on committing a crime using that gun. That’s called common sense. Most activities performed by the human race are governed by that little pearl of wisdom. Here’s the advice. Cop a plea while you can. Take the genius of your ability and go to work for a software company. Become a very vocal and knowledgeable advocate against the piracy and theft of other people’s hard work. Beg for mercy and hope you get it.

Wait! I just had a thought. Someone can just hack Pablo’s program and install their own advertising. They can start a small competing business. They can hack every new version he comes out with. You don’t have a copyright on the program do you, Pablo? Sorry. Didn’t catch that. Let me check. Yep, here it is. Copyright xxxxxxx.com 1999-2009 Reserved. That’s just the web site. I’m not about to download the software. P2P software is notorious for having Trojans and stealing information from your computer. Oh, and look at this. Pablo has an XXL version that only costs $19.95. Any hackers out there? I can’t imagine that Pablo will mind. You can download the program with Pablo’s own program. Hack it. Then give it away for free. Who wants to be the director of marketing? Someone aggressive. You want to take every bit of market Pablo has.

A question for you, Pablo. Your program and your small company is your dream, isn’t it? Something that came into being through your imagination and creativity, right? You enjoy the fame and fortune of that creative spark on a daily basis, I bet. Maybe not too much right this minute but you have in the past. And given your position on this whole murky ‘I don’t support piracy but I earn money off the best damn piracy program in the market’ thing I don’t guess you’ll mind if someone in China decides to steal your program and make a little money off of it. I mean, what the hell is a little imagination and creativity worth?

A small post data for my readers. Pablo Soto has sold or given away more than 17,257,127 copies of his program. And I’m absolutely sure all those people are only downloading public domain material. Right? Just give me a minute. I know I’ve got that bridge around here somewhere. I have no idea why the city keeps taking down my FOR SALE sign.

The story behind the books - GLOP

2009-05-22T11:25:00.003-05:00

No. GLOP is not a sumptuous scoop of ice cream. Just as good though. GLOP is the Galactic League of Planets. The league is ten planets in as many solar systems that make up the spread of known intelligent life in the universe as of the twenty-fourth century. That number has expanded some since the series started but what’s a little extra hot fudge on your sundae?

I thought I’d share a brief of the events that culminated in an earth with no governance. An earth ruled by the Corporation. A corporation also known in some circles as the greedy bastards.

After the twenty-year energy wars that started in 2118 a starving earth was left decimated, half its population dead or dying. Countries and governments were in chaos, modern industry at a standstill, and climate change threatened a very cold and dismal winter. Salvation came at a price. Held hostage by imminent starvation the earth was sold lock, stock, and leaky barrel to the lesser of two evils – the newly formed United Corporation of Earth. Private industry placed a death grip on the small blue marble that floated three out from the sun. Then they squeezed.

By 2152 all borders had disappeared and industry burgeoned on the back of a world populous throttled by the heavy hand of the Corporation bottom line. Cultures, histories, and entire languages disappeared as world unification for the good of Corporate communication became the norm.

In the year 2197 a little known accountant working with the Corporation’s global management and market forecasting division made a startling discovery. By the year 2233 the delicate balance between cost of production, available raw materials, and standards of living would peak. With no new markets to conquer and the gradual decline of raw materials needed to sustain the globe’s growing population, the Corporation, and by default, the world would slowly decline into a postmodern stone age.

In all its wisdom the Corporate directors decided there was only one solution.

Expand!

In 2203 space was warped and instantaneous transport of people and products moved from science fiction imaginings to hardcore reality. Two years later blind jumps had been made to the surface of the moon. Before the decade ended the first intergalactic jump had been made to the surface of an M-type planet over 100 light years away. Another five years saw the advent of the HTU or human transport unit that made going to another planet as easy as walking into a closet and pushing a switch.

In less than ten years six planets in as many solar systems, all with some semblance of intelligent productive life, were engaged in active trade with the United Corporation of Earth.

Helium 3 became the energy source of choice and when a Corporate sales explorer set foot on the planet Meline for the first time a new discovery was made. Light beam travel. Suddenly moving around the galaxy was not limited to parts, peoples, and parcels that could be stuffed into a closet sized transporter. Galactic cruisers that could house millions of people and, more importantly, millions of tons of ore and goods, brought the high cost of transportation down and the bottom line up.

At the dawn of the 24th century the Corporation had come in contact with nine very diverse peoples in just as many solar systems sprinkled throughout the Milky Way galaxy. Trade and bottom line were the buzz words and the United Corporation of Earth not only recovered – they became a force to be reckoned with.

Then they got greedy…

Let the epic begin.

Meet the kickass heroines and smoldering heroes that will save the future for us all.

You’ll learn that love is eternal…and that the war has just begun.

Bastina’s Necklace

Forever’s Not Enough

Roscoe James

Thanks,
RJ

Now Arriving at Loose Id - Orion... you've waited long enough.

2009-05-18T09:55:00.003-05:00

Loose Id
Orion
by Roscoe James
BDSM D/s

Available the 19th of May, 2009

He whispered in the dark.
‘Tell me where to touch you so I may drive you insane.’

She smiled.

He blew on her ear.
‘Tell me where you find the greatest pleasure.’

Her skin exploded in a million tiny bumps.

He trailed his finger down her spine and insisted.
‘Tell me of your most intimate place that I may rape and ravage you beyond all reason.’

She kissed him softly and whispered back.
‘Touch my mind.’

Amid the towering monuments of Manhattan’s concrete jungle, Pamela Wilkinson wasn’t looking for a white picket fence and roses. She didn’t yearn for silk sheets and gentle caresses. She wanted something else. Something different. Something good girls aren’t supposed to crave and good boys know nothing about. She wanted more than the pull of rope against her wrists, the smell of leather in her nose, and the loud clang of the dungeon door slamming shut on her heart. She wanted the forbidden dance of master and submissive.

Horatio Sloan, wealthy eccentric and not easily denied, demanded more from Pamela than just her body. From a small art gallery in SoHo to the cold marble floor of his study, he would take from her more than her soul, demand more than just her heart, and possess her darkest, most secret place…

Her mind

Before they're all gone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2009-04-29T11:51:00.003-05:00

Bastina's Necklace, my latest fantasy SciFi book, has set a new personal sales record. I just wanted to stop by and say thanks to all my readers. The second in my Galactic League of Planets series, Bastina is a space pirate tale wrapped up in a fairytale. Love and laser bombs. Furry off-worlders and the evil Ondites. Everybody gets in on the action.

Stop by my publisher's site and get yours before they run out!

Oh, wait. E-books don't run out. hehehe.

Thanks again,

Roscoe James

Liquid Silver Books

Visit My Site

Bastina's Necklace - New Release

2009-04-15T13:37:00.002-05:00

The plan was simple. Evacuate the entire population of a planet orbiting around a dying sun to a terraformed world created just for them by the Galactic League of Planets. At least it was simple until Princess Anleen of Bastina decided the biggest and fastest space vessel ever built could be put to better use. She needed to recover the key to the ancient map. It didn’t matter that the most important relic of the Bastinan people was the good luck charm of an earthling who fancied himself a pirate on the high seas of space and traded in only two things--gold and women. Fair maidens when possible.

When Captain Dirk Roberts, ex-Corporate Space Fleet colonel, now independent space freight hauler--a man who doesn’t always have his papers or his life in order--seeks safe haven at the doomed planet Aznate, he’s only looking for a hot shower, a drink or three at the last spacer bar on the edge of known civilization, and repairs for his ship. What he finds instead is more intriguing than any tale of Blackbeard’s adventures and more beguiling than the fair maiden Guinevere of Arthurian legend.

From a hijacked ark to a plundered heart to the writing of the final Chapter in the ancient children’s fairytale of the legend of Bastina, only Haark, the god of the Bastinan people, knows how the story will end... But that doesn’t stop Princess Anleen from trying to rewrite it.M

Learn More

Roscoe James Books Now Available

2008-09-24T13:31:00.003-05:00

The Madame Ambassador, Princess Peenzan Fanston of the planet Meline, is on a serious and grave mission. Her planet is under attack by the deadliest and most feared fighters in the galaxy – Zandill death warriors – and she’s come to plead her case before the wealthiest and strongest world of all, The United Corporation of Earth. Well, that was the plan.

Sergeant Hillsborough, known simply as “Hill” by his fellow troops in the United Corporation Marine Corps, has been given the lowliest assignment a member of the elite corps fighting force could receive: diplomatic protection in one of the safest places in the galaxy, the flagship of the Director of the United Corporation of Earth. Or so he thought.

Bast, goddess of all Meline, has other ideas. Aside from saving Meline from a Machiavellian plot hatched in the hallowed halls of the very United Corporation of Earth Princess Peenzan hopes to appeal to, they both must face the unknown abyss of undeniable predestined love.

In a time when light speed is measured by multiples of hundreds, and venturing to a faraway planet is as easy and quick as stepping into a transporter, the dangers of saving an entire race of people pales in comparison to understanding the who and why of finding love in all the wrong places.

Nash Fross, shipping magnate and dreamer, takes more satisfaction from the tomes of Mark Twain than from quarterly reports and bottom lines. His greatest joy in life is the White Swan – the biggest riverboat ever built – and he has a secret.

Teresa Holloway, freelance reporter and Pulitzer anointed, has set off on the White Swan for the cruise of her life in pursuit of the story of her career. A story of pirate’s booty and a modern day shipping magnate with more than just skeletons in his closet.

The bloodline of Nash Fross proves even more dangerous than the eddies and currents of the wide Mississippi, and Teresa Holloway’s piloting skills are put to the test. But charting a course through the black waters of her own heart proves even more dangerous. These two are caught up in a pirate’s tale where something more valuable than gold is at stake. The ocean where the battle takes place is a past well hidden and neither gives quarter in their quest for the prize… Love.

John O'Bannon, ex-Chicago homicide detective, moved to the sultry riverfront of Vicksburg, Mississippi dreaming of a slow paced life in semi-retirement. He figured his days as a private eye taking pictures of cheating spouses for divorce lawyers and recovering lost family jewels would both pay the bills and allow time to enjoy life in the slow lane of southern country comfort. He thought it was business as usual when he agreed to meet the mysterious Southern belle Jeri Lynn Lee at a local eatery.
He was wrong, on all counts

At the behest of one of the local gentry, Judge Horatio Robert Lee, and with the help of Hushi Humma, a sexy and fascinating half Choctaw Indian woman, John is forced to confront past failures and unlock the secrets of Deer Run Falls. He must choose one, dangerous lust or the promise of love, no matter how deadly the consequences.

Buy them here.

Five Star Review!

2008-09-23T10:56:00.002-05:00

Brought to you by Romance Studio

The White Swan

Roscoe James

Contemporary erotic romance

Available from Liquid Silver Books

ISBN: 978-1-59578-458-2

July 2008

Nash Fross, owner of a modified paddle wheel boat is mistaken for a steward by Teresa Holloway, a reporter. Too bad he falls in love and never finds a time to tell her the truth. To make matters more interesting Jean Lafitte and the two loves of his life are detailed in a side story. What could these people almost two hundred years apart have in common?

Roscoe James does his usual fantastic job in this Mississippi River Tales book. I grew up near the Mississippi and appreciate the rich history, awesome vistas and great background information woven into the telling of the tale. The story of Nash and his heritage as direct descendant of Lafitte is done well. Teresa's story of her childhood and travels in war torn worlds as an independent reporter are heartbreaking but give us a better idea of where she's at in her life. The two together are magic, erotic and sizzle with the hot romance.

Even though the author takes a smidgeon of leeway with the timing and history of Jean Lafitte, what he does is even more interesting than reality. We get a whole other sizzling romance with Jean, Catherine and Elizabeth.

The two stories overlap with Nash being a direct descendent of the pirate. Besides that, Teresa is interested in the story of Lafitte's treasure. As is usual when money is involved we get suspense, intrigue and some nasty villains.

This is great romance full of feisty, sexy and interesting characters. The dialogue can be hot, sexy, fun, funny, loving and the good things that make a story feel like reality. The whole book is woven so well this is darned good entertainment.

Overall rating: Five Hearts

Sensuality rating: Explicit
Reviewer: Dee DaileySeptember 16, 2008

A Book of a Different Stripe

2008-09-23T10:08:00.003-05:00

Read a good book lately? You know – you find them on bookshelves in libraries and bookstores, on the nightstand beside your bed, in the back of the closet taking up space, stacked in a corner of the garage (read those, now what do I do with them?), in your carryon while traveling, in the beach bag, beside your favorite chair, on the kitchen counter, on the coffee table, and just about anyplace else you can put something down.

Books. We love them. One of the defining characteristics of an advanced civilization. The Egyptians and Mayans had them. As a society we buy them by the truckload. Literally. Millions and millions of them every year. We read em and… well, then we’re through with them. From tree to paper to print to read to…

Did you know there are other types of books? Books with pages that never yellow, covers that never get torn off, corners that never get dog eared? As a matter of fact I have 382 books right here on my desk. How much do 382 books weigh? How big is my desk? How do I keep track of them all? Here’s a better one for you. Every time I travel I take them with me. Yep. All 382 make whatever pilgrimage I happen to embark on.

And what authors are in my library? A lot. From Shakespeare to Clancy, James (as in Roscoe) to Coots. A little Twain, a lot of Dickens, a touch of Verne, and even Emily Bronte just to name a few.

Nope, I don’t have a small army of Sherpas following me around. No big steamer trunks that cost all that extra freight. My brother doesn’t have to rent a U-Haul every time I stop in to say hi.

They’re a book of a different stripe. A book that can’t be weighed, a book that is just as new and complete twenty years from now as it was the day I bought it. I would guess that considering my son, your daughter, maybe even you carry around a thousand plus songs at any given time none of this should come as a surprise. That’s right – the book has gone the way of the iPod. Well, not exactly the iPod but you can read them on any manner of handheld electronic equipment. Even your PDA.

E-books. Electronic books. A book that you don’t have to go to a bookstore to buy. A collection of books that are measured and weighed in terms of bits and bites of space on storage media. A book that weighs as much as whatever you happen to be reading it on. If I wanted I could buy a hundred books today and never leave my office. And guess what… free delivery is included and immediate.

This is the book of the future. I’ve included a few pictures here of what’s available in the market as dedicated e-book readers. As an author I sell books not e-book readers so I'm not giving brand names or blurbs. I just wanted you to get a look at the latest in reading. Some really neat stuff. Of course we’re all waiting for the price to come down. But that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy an e-book today – no special reader needed. Just download to your PC and you’re all set.

So, why would you want an ebook? As you discover this still young, but growing industry while surfing the Internet, you will discover ePublishers and eBookstores gradually growing in numbers.

Excellent, talented authors take their books to the Net, market/promote and sell those books. As you journey through the ePublishing world you will find outstanding, spell-binding reads all at the tip of your finger.

What are you waiting for? Just search e-books and get started today. Of course, you could always stop over at one of my publishers (http://www.liquidsilverbooks.com/) and pick up one of my favorite authors – me. Okay, a shameless plug but I do hope you check out the exciting world of electron books. Have fun and tell ‘em Roscoe sent ya.

Thanks for dropping by.

Roscoe James

Let the Games Begin

2008-08-09T12:34:00.003-05:00

We interrupt our normally scheduled programming to bring you….

By the way. Everyone probably knows The White Swan is now available at www.liquidsilverbooks.com. What you don't know is that edits are finishing up on Forever's Not Enough and release date will be announced soon. Bastina's Necklace author draft will be completed this weekend. And Orion - a story of love, lust, and submission - is up next. If you haven't experienced Orion (something completely new for me) you can find the first 5,000 words at my MySpace page. Link at my webpage. We have to be friends for you to have access so just send me a request.

Thanks. Enjoy the games.

Roscoe James
Author

The White Swan - Goes Live Today

2008-07-21T09:39:00.002-05:00

Nash Fross, shipping magnate and dreamer, takes more satisfaction from the tomes of Mark Twain than from quarterly reports and bottom lines. His greatest joy in life is the White Swan – the biggest riverboat ever built – and he has a secret.

Teresa Holloway, freelance reporter and Pulitzer anointed, has set off on the White Swan for the cruise of her life in pursuit of the story of her career. A story of pirate’s booty and a modern day shipping magnate with more than just skeletons in his closet.

The bloodline of Nash Fross proves even more dangerous than the eddies and currents of the wide Mississippi, and Teresa Holloway’s piloting skills are put to the test. But charting a course through the black waters of her own heart proves even more dangerous.

These two are caught up in a pirate’s tale where something more valuable than gold is at stake. The ocean where the battle takes place is a past well hidden and neither gives quarter in their quest for the prize… Love

My second book - The White Swan - goes live this evening at www.liquidsilverbooks.com.

The White Swan - Release Date

2008-07-13T18:16:00.002-05:00

Two things. I have a release date for The White Swan (blurb in sidebar). July 21st The White Swan, second in the Mississippi River Tales series, will be released at Liquid Silver Books. You'll find it live after 6 PM.

I also wanted to let everyone know I'll be gone for a week. Back on the 19th - in time to set up the release party.

Thanks,

Have fun.

Roscoe James
www.roscoejames.com

Forever's Not Enough - Coming Soon

2008-06-19T00:37:00.004-05:00

The debut book in the new series – Galactic League of Planets – by Roscoe James. Look for it soon at Liquid Silver Books. Learn more at Roscoe James’ web site or his MySpace page.

The Madame Ambassador, Princess Peenzan Fanston of the planet
Meline, is on a serious and grave mission. Her planet is under attack by the deadliest and most feared fighters in the galaxy – Zandill death warriors – and she’s come to plead her case before the wealthiest and strongest world of all, The United Corporation of Earth. Well, that was the plan.

Sergeant Hillsborough, known simply as Hill by his fellow troops in the United Corporation Marine Corps, has been given the lowliest assignment a member of the elite corps fighting force could receive, diplomatic protection in one of the safest places in the galaxy: the flagship of the Director of the United Corporation of Earth. Or so he thought.

Bast, goddess of all Meline, has other ideas. Aside from saving Meline from a Machiavellian plot hatched in the hallowed halls of the very United Corporation of Earth Princess Peenzan hopes to appeal to, they both must face the unknown abyss of undeniable predestined love.

In a time when light speed is measured by multiples of hundreds, and venturing to a faraway planet is as easy and quick as stepping into a transporter, the dangers of saving an entire race of people pales in comparison to understanding the who and why of finding love in all the wrong places.

You'll find a excerpt further down the page.

Under Construction

2008-06-05T15:18:00.002-05:00

Finally got the mess from the party cleaned up. If you missed it you can still drop down and sign the guest book. My web site is under construction. Concept stage right now. Give it a look and you can leave a comment here.

Roscoe James

The juke has some new tunes. Feel free to pop it out and give a listen. A few bottles left over from the party. Kick back and enjoy yourself.

Book Release Party

2008-06-02T17:09:00.006-05:00

Okay. Testing – 1 – 2 – 3. Is this thing working? Right, well, I want to welcome everyone to my little get-together tonight. As you may or may not know my first novel has gone live over at Liquid Silver Books. You’ll find a blurb around here somewhere and be sure to pop-out the juke box and get it going. Take a look at the excerpts from The White Swan, Forever’s Not Enough, and Bastina’s Necklace while you’re here.

And let me say thanks to a few people. Let’s see. My pedicurist. My barber. My maid (not now dear, we’ll check out the new French number a little later). My tailor (right, three more kilts. I’ll need em later tonight). Oh yea, and all the great people at Liquid Silver. Thanks a lot for everything. Couldn’t have done it without you. The checks in the mai…. Oh, sorry, wrong side of the card.

So, we got eats, drinks, music, great reads, a bar for the Coyotes in the crowd, and even Chip n’ Dale for your entertainment! Have a blast. If ya don’t it’s your own fault!

Cheers!

Have a look at the trailer too. And make me your friend at MySpace.

Party Prep

2008-06-02T17:00:00.000-05:00

Right. Stack the boxes of champagne in the walk-in. Put the case of Masters behind the bar along with the tequila. Yeah, two bottles of Maker’s at the head of the long table. Clear the bar…

What?

Dancing. Boots. Don’t worry about the top of the bar until someone decides to set their tequila on fire.

Go talk to Gertrude. Tell her I want five pounds of buffalo wings, couple of pales of nachos with that really hot sauce I stashed back there last week, and about fifty pounds of baby backs. What?

No, doesn’t matter. I know their fingers will be sticky. Let’s just say it wouldn’t be a party without sticky fingers.

Oh, and when Chip n’ Dale get here send em around back.

Roscoe James Bio

2008-06-02T14:02:00.001-05:00

I thought I'd stick this here for the evening.

Indulge yourself in a sumptuous taste of mystery with a dash of heart pounding thriller. Perhaps a sprinkling of science fiction will be what teases your palate as you feast on Roscoe James' brand of romance. And don't forget the spicy wickedness that makes his stories Hot with a capital "H". Roscoe James (RJ to his adoring fans) writes romance with a delicious twist.

Born along the dusky red banks of the Ohio River, RJ grew up in a sleepy little town in southern Indiana where the sounds of cicadas and whippoorwills marked the arrival of summer and cruising the town square on a Friday night was a rite of passage. From law enforcement to the hallowed corporate halls of two Fortune 500s he draws from a deep well of life experience. With Spanish as his second language and the day-to-day of living in one of the largest cities of culture in the world, RJ infuses his stories with a raw reality that makes the characters memorable forever.

Most days you’ll find RJ sitting at his desk overlooking one of the concrete jungle’s lush city parks trying to dream up new ways to captivate and titillate your imagination ... in the most wicked way possible, of course.

Tonight

2008-06-02T10:26:00.000-05:00

Today is the day! New release day at Liquid Silver Books. My first book will go on sale around 7:30 this evening. I’m having a release party and I hope everyone stops in. It will be a new post above this one. Live for an hour or so. Jukebox is loaded, bar is stocked, and Coyote dancing is the price of admission. Come on by and say hi.

Bastina's Necklace - Excerpt

2008-05-30T09:14:00.003-05:00

copyright Roscoe James

Bastina's Necklace is another story from the Galactic League of Planets. A series not focused on any particular set of characters but rather on a time and place when galactic travel is the norm and nine planets (other than earth) have been discovered which have intelligent life living on them. Earth has become a Corporation and the UN has been replaced by the Galactic League of Planets which governs our galaxy.

The Telling of the Tale of Bastina
Ancient legend from the planet Azanate

“Mommy! Please, mommy? Tell me mommy. Tell me the story of Bastina and the knight that saves them”

Tucking in her son she turned his bedside light down and settled on the edge of his mattress.

“Okay. Just a little. But you have to get to sleep.”

“I will, mommy. I promise.”

She smiled, pinched his cheek, and rubbed the top of his head. Taking his hand in hers she found as much joy in her son’s rapt attention, wonder, and fright, as he found in hearing the ancient tale.

“It was long, long ago on a planet named Odan that a Princess…”

Chapter 1

“I implore you, father, you must reconsider. We can do it tonight, after the christening. We can steal the Ark and find our world and our people,” Princess Anleen of Bastina pleaded, “We can finally save them!”

The air, as always, was heavy with soot and the smell of vanstar oil burning in big brass wall sconces that struggled to keep at bay the suffocating gloom that clung to the great cavern much like the shroud of oppression the planet Aznate had become for the Bastina people.

Somewhere in the dark recesses of the maze of caves the Bastina people called home, the relentless sound of dripping water was a constant reminder of just how urgent the situation had become. The experts of both peoples agreed that within the next twenty years the sun’s decline into the death rattle of a newborn nebula would ravage the planet melting all the surface ice, flooding the tunnels, caverns and caves, forcing them all to the surface where ultraviolet levels would kill them almost as quickly as drowning below ground.

Her father, the current king of Bastina, a kingdom neither one of them had seen or set foot on, as was the case with the last 174 Bastina kings and queens, was adamant, “It has been decided. Bastina is gone, lost forever. No one even knows where to look. We have only stories and fairytales of where we came from. It is time to accept the Aznate’s invitation and join our two great people as one. It is the only way to insure our passage to the new world.”

“You forsake them! You are nothing more than a traitor! And,” she stepped closer to her father’s throne and sneered, “I refuse to marry that stinking Aznate, Druuk!”

Her father was not a man to be denied and was on his feet before she could take a breath, his face pressed inches from his daughter’s and stated in a flat, menacing tone, “You, daughter, will do exactly what I say with exactly who I say exactly when I say. And I curse the memory of your fool grandmother for putting those stupid ideas into your head! It is nothing more than a fairytale. Now,” and he continued to challenge her stare, “I believe you have a wedding to prepare for. I am the King and it is my order!”

Her gaze steady, her nostrils flaring with each breath, she matched his tone, “And I am your daughter, a free woman of Bastina, not this Haark forsaken rock, and,” she mocked, “how can you claim to be the King of a place you say is nothing more than a fairytale? I would rather be a virgin sacrifice than marry that piece of Aznate slime!”

“Careful what you wish for, my daughter. Married or not I will chain you to Druuk’s bed and let him have his way with you. Better a royal consort than a dead virgin!”

She had expected as much. Her grandmother, the King’s mother, had told her once. My son does not believe these things; he will only laugh in your face. If he actually gave credence to these so-called fairytales he’d have to admit that he and all the rest of our family have failed the Bastina people miserably.

Yes, she knew the fairytale well. Every child of Bastina had fallen asleep to the stories. Far, far away in another galaxy, circling a star not unlike earth’s sol, a glimmering collection of six planets, all traveling in the same orbital path and plane, all seemingly connected to each other by a thick band of asteroids that, from a distance, seemed to form an elegant necklace circling a smiling golden sun goddess.

The asteroids, an eclectic mix of white shimmering frozen carbon dioxide and water, gleaming nickel and iron chunks with rough jagged edges and black monoliths of silicates and space debris, tumbled lazily as they all bumped and cajoled their neighbors in perpetual territorial fights.

Touching her own necklace she steeled herself to advance the attack. When her father saw where her fingers landed he bellowed, “And get that thing off your neck!”
When his hand shot out to jerk it off she jumped back.
“Don’t you dare!” she shot back, “While you may be a fairytale King, this,” and she lifted the heaviest stone and stretched the necklace out below her chin, “Is the oldest known relic of my people! Of the lost system of Bastina!”

This was not the first time they’d had this argument however, this time, she feared, it would be the last.

He mocked her. “Ha! Lost system of Bastina! Your people! A fairytale! Nothing more!”

She could feel it happening. It always did no matter how hard she tried to stop it. Her eyes burned and the first tear slid slowly down her cheek. She determined not to blink before spinning on her heel leaving him to gloat.

She hated it most when he would no longer argue. When he suddenly realized his arguing only fueled the fire more. When he passed it all off as completely insignificant with a wave of his hand and a few sarcastic barbs.

I will show him.

“Oh, and Princess.”

She kept walking and ignored him.

“Don’t forget about your wedding plans. There is still much to do.”

Once she was sure she’d been swallowed completely by the shadows at the far end of the great royal hall she let her emotions boil to the surface and stood sobbing uncontrollably, shoulders heaving, and let resolve harden her heart.

Anleen lifted the biggest stone again, brought it to her lips, kissed it, and whispered the words of the old language, the Bastina tongue, words her grandmother had taught her, “Hi-ek tan da ko leet. Ny-ka da ko lilt.”

****

Dirk Roberts punched a button on the overhead silencing the vicinity alarm, checked his heading, and hit the COM link to request emergency docking clearance.

He tried to recall the last time he’d put into port, any port, for more time than was needed to take on provisions, drop off a load, and pick up another. Enough time to come out of his light speed tin can, asses the current state of humanity and alien-anity and crawl back in.

A full bird colonel in the Corporate Space Fleet by the time he was 28, in line for his first admiral’s star before 30, he found the politics of military command much more demanding than any enemy confrontation.

Seen as a natural leader, a man not to be overlooked or ignored in any crowd, his natural wit and strict sense of justice and fairness, had taken him a long way.

It had been a simple thing that had changed his outlook as well as his look forever. A natural occurrence between two beings no matter what planet they happened to hang their hat on. A naturally fulfilling moment in his life ravaged by the unnatural hate of other world racism.

But that was then. This was another time in another place with a decidedly unfulfilling purpose.

Then he saw it peeking around the edge of the mottled white planet. He’d heard about it. Everyone in the galaxy had heard about the Aznate ark. More than a hundred miles long with a girth at its widest point of twenty, a height of five and light-beam bells at each end that could swallow small moons whole. It was the biggest machine of any kind, to date, anywhere.

“Ah, right Aznate control, Q-class 33265, captain Dirk Roberts, requests docking for emergency repairs. No cargo, no crew, technical assistance required.”

He punched the coordinates into the NAV unit and sat back to take in the sights while Aznate control took care of docking.

He’d been limping along in deep space at LS – 2 for over six months, a trip that should have taken less than a week, after dropping a load of machine parts at Meline and setting off for Handrac on a deadhead to snag a load of yandaw crystals when his light-compression unit had blown. Sniffing the stale cabin air, he wondered if the entire ship was as dank as he was.

Limited to light speed 2 he’d had to run for the nearest port he could find. In spite of Galactic League Space Regulations that required all inter-galactic-transport to carry one years provisions during any light-beam jump, just like compliance with light-compression unit maintenance schedules, his operating budget wasn’t quite up to GLS standards and he’d been rationing everything, including water, for the past six weeks.

He didn’t care. He’d survived worse.

He smiled at the skull and crossbones, a genuine pirates flag he’d bartered away from a slag hauler just outside earth’s asteroid belt, stuck to a bare patch of wall beside the front observation window. He decided the story might not be as good as a pirate’s tale, but it might get him a free drink or two in the port bars.

As his ship got closer he studied the Ark closely, especially the small silver glimmers along side. With a start he realized the glimmers were actually galactic class star cruisers, the latest in Corporation bullet ships that could hit LS – 200. Huge ships in comparison to his freight hauler. The dimensions of the Ark dwarfing the bullet ships put the true bulk of the Ark into perspective. He whistled in admiration.

Grabbing his black long coat and three cornered hat he got ready to leave the stinking tin can he called home. At least long enough to take a shower and get a drink. Or three.

Patting the bulkhead affectionately he promised to put his mistress right again.

****

“But, mother. How can you expect this of me?”

“You are the only heir to the Bastina royal line…”

“How can we claim royal blood rights to a place my father doesn’t even believe exists?”

“That’s beside the point. The Aznate believe and it’s the Aznate that are offering passage off this Haark forsaken melting snowball and safe haven on their new planet. There’s even talk with the League of Planets of getting our own world some day.”

Petulant and rebellious, Anleen insisted, “But we mustn’t! Safe haven is four hundred light years in the wrong direction! Further from true certainty for the Bastina people! Even the ones on Bastina!”

Her mother grew weary of her protests and it showed. “You will listen here, young lady, if you really do believe in Bastina and your people you will do this thing and be glad. This marriage has been arranged since your birth as payment to the Aznate people for all they’ve done for us, the real people of Bastina. You should feel flattered and overjoyed that such a debt can be paid by only you.”

“You! You! You! That’s all I hear from everyone! You do this! You do that! I’m sick and tired of it! I’m the only twenty-six year old virgin on the whole Haark forsaken planet and all because my father wanted to make sure the Aznate didn’t back out on the deal.”

“Yes, you. And we all thank Haark for you every night in our chants,” her mother sniffed in the elitist fashion most royals used when discarding other people’s feelings before continuing. “Druuk isn’t all that bad, dear. Really…”

“My Haark, mother, the man… No, the thing doesn’t even have a cock! He’s going to lick his way into me and spit! Spit, mother! Spit into his virgin bride until she writhes in blissful joy and happiness! Then, in six months, a… a… purple thing will come out!”

Her mother’s face clouded at the image but with a stiff upper lip and jutting jaw she was undeterred, “Now, Anleen, I will have no more of that kind of talk in my chambers. The experiments have been done, everything has been proven viable and one of our young women has even spoken very highly of the whole experience.”

Anleen grabbed her overfur and threw one more gallon of vanstar oil on the fire, “Yeah, but have you really looked at the results?” She leaned close, “Just remember, mother, when my firstborn, a purple thing with scales and stubby little antenna sticking up that stinks and has no cock, calls you grandma, be sure to smile.”

Throwing the overfur around her shoulders she stormed out slamming the door behind her.

***

Anleen carefully pulled the half-mask in place over her eyes, the one all Bastina were required to wear in public during the day because they were considered too ugly to be looked upon by the Aznate young, pulled her overfur tight around her shoulders and trudged down the dark dank hallway being jostled mercilessly by passing Asnates and other masked Bastina.

She knew what she needed and she knew exactly where to find it. Maybe there’d be some Marjing or Meline in the place. Anything nice to look at. Even a Zandill would be better than what awaited her on her wedding night.

She smiled at the soft tinkle of the bell above the door as she pushed into the only exclusively off-world pub on the planet and headed for the bar. A place the Aznates would never enter. Her only refuge from the stinking Aznates. Her parents would kill her if they knew. Ha, a fate worse than marriage! Or not!

After her first thimble full of jank death-blood, her preferred libation, she had an idea and giggled at the absurdity of it.

After her second she stopped giggling.

With the third she had no idea how she was going to do it but she had decided. Reaching inside her overfur she found the heavy ball that hung lowest on her necklace and, without looking, counted right two balls to the smallest, the planet Odan, the royal planet, and recalled her grandmother’s words.

“This, Lee,” her grandmother had explained invoking the nickname she’d given her, “this one is the royal planet. Odan. The land where all Bastina royals were born and raised. A snow world of beautiful blue ice, lush green trees and lichens, a permanent blanket of clean white snow and birds and animals that are the most beautiful in all the galaxy.”

“But tell me about the sky, grandmamma, please. The sky!”

“Oh, the sky. You always want to know about the sky, don’t you? Well, the sky is a deep azure and as the world spins, ever so slow, night or day, you can glimpse the rest of our systems planets lumbering along, all of them holding hands.”

She ordered another drink and scanned the mirror behind the bar looking at the off-worlders, imagining another life in another place at another time. Any place and time other than the one she was stuck in.

The first thing she noticed was the hat. How odd, she thought. She’d seen something like it before in D’s but she couldn’t place it. And a feather sticking up! Is it a real one? From a real bird? Having never seen a real bird she had no idea.

She watched the being push its way between chairs, its back to her, and she could guess nothing else about the shrouded figure. She did see two legs and funny looking boots.

When it turned and spoke with one of the waitresses she still couldn’t tell. With that much hair on its face it could be an Andrine female. The hands looked like a Rangdon’s or Meline’s but much bigger. And black.
And what’s that around its neck?

Anleen’s mouth fell open and she grabbed her drink.

When she looked back it was gone. Dropping some coins on the bar she found the waitress, a Meline, and inquired. Staring at the door at the back of the pub she wondered if she dared.

Slipping her necklace off and letting it drop into a pocket on her overfur, she dared.

Deer Run Falls - Release June 2, 2008

2008-05-29T08:20:00.002-05:00

Just received my first release date! Monday June 2nd Deer Run Falls, a romance/mystery will be available at Liquid Silver books. I’m looking forward to hearing from my readers and hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks to everyone that’s been hangin’ out with me here at my blog. You should also stop by my MySpace page and join the crowd.

The bar is definitely open Monday night.

Thanks,

Roscoe James

Forever's Not Enough

2008-04-20T14:34:00.002-05:00

I’m way behind here. Lot of announcements to make. Let me get one out of the way. My first SciFi (future world) that is framed in the Galactic League of Planets has been submitted, accepted, and contract signed. That one happened so fast it made my head spin. More announcements but I need to get back to writing. I’ll try and catch-up later in the week.

Coming soon to Liquid Silver Books - Forever's Not Enough by Roscoe James.

The bar is open!

Deer Run Falls - art

2008-03-23T13:33:00.004-06:00

Yes, my first cover. No release date yet but I am in edits. So, coming soon from Liquid Silver Books - Deer Run Falls by Roscoe James.

And now we take a break for our sponsors!

2008-03-18T17:59:00.001-06:00

Gone for a week. R and R. See ya all Sunday or Monday. Thanks and have fun.

Other Worlds - Something new for me.

2008-03-18T12:34:00.002-06:00

As the result of a Flash Sunday I recently participated in at http://www.liquidsilverbooks.com/blog/ I became interested in a different type of story. Here's a sample. Let me know what you think. This is a whole new genre for me and feedback would be helpful.

No working title yet - Copyright @ Roscoe James - 2008

Chapter 1

He’d seen her several times on the 3-D. But this was different. This was in person. The Ambassador from the oppressed Meline system was more humanoid than he’d expected and finding her standing in nothing more than a Champaign colored body veil and soft fur speaking with the United News Service reporter was a little disconcerting.

He’d been told she was Pyramese and her svelte build, small breasts and slightly crossed eyes confirmed that.

He understood immediately what his Lieutenant had explained. You couldn’t look at them without wanting to pet; an insult they didn’t take lightly.

Some assignments are hard, others just damned near impossible.

“Ooooooohhhh, aaaand youuuuu muuuuust beeee myyyyy escoooooorrrt.”

He jumped when he realized she was addressing him and stifled a smile when her hand covered her mouth as if she’d hiccupped.

Each word came out in a purr and he recalled something else his Lieutenant had told him, “Don’t get too close, son. Their purr is their deadliest weapon. If their chest is actually touching yours, they can resonate it to your heartbeat and stop it cold.”

He jerked his MR280 up as if the thing could block sound, found his voice, and answered, “Yes, Madame Ambassador, I am. Sergeant Hillsborough at your service, Ma’am.”

“Weeeeeelll, Seeeergeant Hillllllllsborough, youuuuuuu’lllll dooooo niiiiiicccely.”

He gulped.

Her hand came up again and her light blue eyes were as big as saucers.

When she continued to purr softly his eyes involuntarily dropped to her chest. This time he did chuckle. Her small breasts, the tips as white as the rest of her skin, looked completely innocuous. While inviting, he didn’t think they could kill.

When she reached out to hug, the traditional Meline greeting, he almost blew it. A UNS headline flashed in his brain – ‘No Hug Threatens Corporation Meline Peace – and he relented.

Her head nestled into his chest, her small breasts pressed into his hard stomach and he felt it for the first time. It was overpowering. His jaw felt heavy and he couldn’t believe it when his cock stirred.

In a move of self-preservation his free hand came up and pushed her away. He regretted it immediately when her retreating form seemed to suck the strength out of him.

“Oooooooohhh, Iiiii’mm sooooo soooorrry. Iiiiii diiiiiidddn’t meeeeaan toooooo,” and he watched, spellbound, when the white skin of her cheeks flushed … chocolate brown?

“Ah, that’s okay, Ma’am.” Well, he hoped it was okay. His stomach still felt weird.

Stepping away, her fingers graced his chin, the purring became louder and she was smiling, her slightly crossed eyes fixing him firmly.

“Iiii beeelieeeeve youuuu aaaaaaaarre toooo seeeeeee toooo myyyy saaaaafetyyy. Iiiisss thaaaat cooooooorrrrrect?”

She stepped away quickly and he immediately felt a wave of emptiness wash over him.

When Blake Crenshaw stepped into view banishing the haze she’d left his mind in he realized exactly how reckless he’d been. His job was to keep the ambassador safe and that included knowing who was getting close enough to do harm even if it was a corporation member. Less than five minutes and he’d already blown it.

“Madame Ambassador,” and Blake’s hand came out and he watched the Ambassador, countenance frosty, rest hers on top.

“Mr. Crenshaw.”

Hell you say. Where’d the purr go? Taking a step back he was immediately on guard.

“You do us great honor,” Blake’s words dripped with an undercurrent of sarcasm and he recalled why he thought the Diplomatic corpse was full of pantywaists.

“Oh, but not as great as the United Corporation shows the Meline,” her contempt palpable.

He tuned it out and scanned the arriving area. Then his eyes were drawn back to the Ambassador’s shimmering form.

Was it her skin? Her coat? Fur? He was having trouble wrapping his head around what to call it other than beautiful. An odd mix of bare milky white skin and small ridges of fur that begged to be touched. A shimmer each time she moved spoke of tipping. She was turned out in full diplomatic regalia.

“As you know, Madame Ambassador, the Director regrets he’s unable to receive you this afternoon. Especially given the urgent nature of the… ah, situation…”

She was already so mad her body trembled when she interrupted, “With all due respect, Mr. Crenshaw, your Director, and your people, have no idea just how serious the situation, as you call it, really is!”

Her anger did something to him. Something he could neither define nor control and, without thinking, the MR280 came up to ready-one and his finger curled lightly around the trigger.

He watched Blake raise his hand, palm flat in a sign of surrender offering it to the Ambassador and he had to stifle an urge to step between them.

“But, Madame Ambassador, let’s not exagera…”

When she leaned close, her nostrils flaring, he felt a pull in his chest and, without thinking, slid the MR280 along his chest to his side until the muzzle was pointing at Blake’s head. Realizing what he’d done, he jerked it back and tried to stifle his feelings.

It came out in a guttural sound, almost a growl, “And I bet you still believe in… Wait, what do you call him?”

Blake, mirroring her stance, face shoved close, was turning red.

“Oh, yes, I recall now,” her voice was lilting when she mocked, “Santa Clause! Yes, that’s it. Santa Clause, Mr. Crenshaw!”

Who is this woman? Wait, he corrected, this Meline? Such fire and spirit. Afraid of nothing and no one.

Suddenly frosty, Blake answered with, “Well, the Director will be sorry to hear of our inadequacy and, if it pleases the Madame Ambassador, let me offer my apologies.”

“What I’d really like, Mr. Crenshaw, is an immediate audience with the Director, which I’m sure could be arranged if he really put his mind to it.”

He almost laughed out loud when Blake’s Adams apple bobbed with discomfort. Damn, this lady is my hero.

“Well, I must apologize again, Madame Ambassador. That simply isn’t possible this evening. But I can assure you tomorrow’s meeting following the board meeting is firm.”

It resolved into a less than polite stare down which Blake lost when he rushed to add, “And I hope this small disagreement doesn’t hinder your presence this evening at the Corporate dinner. I mean, it is in your honor.”

Her response was frosty, “Why of course I’ll be there, Mr. Crenshaw. How on earth could I dare not show up and risk the wrath of the mighty Director and his people.”

He watched Blake’s smarmy smile fade and smiled himself as the twerps back receded in retreat.

“Asshole,” he mumbled.

And she was on the move. Such grace, he thought and, with a start, he realized she had a tail. No, not a tail. A fall of platinum colored hair that matched the mane on her head. It fell from the base of her spine and snapped around her ankles covering her… haunches? Her ass? He didn’t know but the soft swishing with each step was mesmerizing.

“Coooooome aaaaalllooooooonge,” she purred.

His mouth snapped shut and he fell in behind the Madame Ambassador from the Meline system and wanted to purr himself.

A steward pushing a cart of luggage fell in and he guessed they were going to the Ambassador’s suit. He knew she was here to plead for the United Corporation’s help in turning away escalating aggressions on her home planet from the Zandill.

He also knew that the UC putting her off until tomorrow was a diplomatic slap in the face. As a fighting man, he knew exactly how urgent matters of war could be and, at some level, shared her rage.

This time, when it drifted back, he hoped no one was looking while he breathed deep and reveled in it. It was dry and almost dusty; sweet and musky with something like a texture he thought he could touch. Her fragrance was driving him crazy. When his cock stirred and his palms started sweating, he let her get a few steps ahead hoping he could get control of himself.

When she paused at the door to her suit and raised her hand to press on the imprint plate to open it he stopped more than a respectful distance away and swallowed nervously.

The flash of her eyes and a smile drew him and he shifted nervously pressing back against the opposite wall of the corridor while the steward pushed past with her luggage.

“Iiiiiiiii woooooouuld liiiike toooo speeeeak wiiiiiith yoooou, seeeeeargeeaant.” He noticed her expression, disconcerted embarrassment, but her inviting smile held firm.

Her soft purr started at the base of his spine and crawled up to spread out across his back. It was really starting to piss him off.

He hadn’t wondered why he’d been given the assignment. He was a fuck up and he knew it. He not only knew it, he wore it like a badge and flaunted it in their faces every chance he got. And at twenty-eight, after ten years in the corps, diplomatic detail on a home station was about as far down as you could be knocked.

Everyone knew they were in one of the safest places in galaxy. The Chairman’s flagship – UC-1 was the last place in the galaxy anyone would try and start something. His presence was just for show. The fact a protection detail wasn’t assigned and it was just him said even more. Another slap in the face to the Meline people.

He’d made it to Lieutenant and started his tumble after that little incident. Well, he still thought punching a Corporation Section Chief in the nose on Handrec was a small incident. Even Radd, his lieutenant, liked to laugh about it.

And, he decided, he may be the platoon fuck up but he wasn’t stupid. Other world Ambassador’s didn’t speak with underlings like himself. They gave them orders. Normally barked through interpreters. He really didn’t think, given the way his body reacted every time she got close, he should be speaking with the Madame Ambassador.

He breathed a sigh of relief when she followed the steward through the door leaving him to stare at a blank wall.

When the steward came out and the Ambassador appeared behind him and purred, “Iiiiii saaaaaiid weeeee muuuusssstt speeeaak.”

He dry swallowed, cradled his assault rifle, and openly regarded her incredulously. She stared back, a faint smile on her lips, her powder blue irises closed in tight slits.

“Well, ma’am, I’m not…”

The smile disappeared, “No, I’m sure you’re not.”

What the hell did she mean by that? “Look, Madame…”

And she was gone, the door slid shut and he was left to count the five red stars on the door that signified diplomatic housing.

“What the fuck?”

With a grunt he turned on his heel and, as only a true fuck-up could, fucked up again by abandoning his post in a huff.

***

She was in a rage when her handmaiden came out of the cleaning room to find her pacing at the foot of the bed muttering in Meline.

“How could he? I mean,” and she looked at the poor confused handmaiden for confirmation, “I’m a princess, am I not?”

There was no opportunity to answer.

“I mean, it was only an invitation to speak! Who does this male, this human no less, think he is anyway?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Peenzan. What human would that be?”

Stopping in the middle of the room she raised her hand and pointed accusingly to some indiscernible point beyond the bedroom walls, “That… that… that…”

“Should I find your mother, the Queen?”

“Arghhhhh. No. Yes!”

When Pran pulled her communicator from a sleeve where her hands were hidden, Peenzan ran and grabbed it from her, “No! No! I can’t call her. It can’t be true. It’s just some… some… it’s the trip! That’s it! The trip,” and she started pacing again. “yes, Pran, it’s the troubles at home and the long voyage to get here!”

Pran crossed her arms on top of the billowy silk robe bearing the Meline royal crest she wore, cocked her head to one side, and, dripping sarcasm, said, “Oh yeah, I believe that.”

When her mistress kept pacing she added, “Let’s see, the beam to get us here lasted all of two seconds. You must mean all that time I spent with the servants gathering your things together and preparing for the trip. You know, while you were out with Mazzatt dancing the blue moon into the ground.”

Grabbing double hands full of silk royal robe, Peenzan, wild-eyed and agitated, practically groaned in pain screaming in Pran’s face, “But it can’t be! How, in the name of Bast could this be? How, in all the wicked fates served up, could she do this to me?”

Pran was becoming more than a little alarmed. What on Meline could the goddess Bast have done to her mistress?

“But…”

“How on Meline am I supposed to save our people if… if…”

“What?”

She watched her mistress, in a fit, tear the sheer vale off her shoulders and try to throw the wispy material to the floor. Her hand came to her mouth when she saw the ridge of silky fur standing along Peenzan’s spine.

“Call my mother! Now!” Peenzan growled and disappeared into the cleaning room.

***

Yes, grinning at the snifter of blue liquid, nothing like off world booze to get a man, a human he amended, high as a fucking kite. And this was his third.

What the hell happened? He still couldn’t figure it out. It must be the perfume. Yeah, that’s it. Some Meline something or other that puts humans in a state.

He could still see the fire in her eyes, the flare of her nostrils, the swish of her… shit, she has a tail!

“So, off duty early I see.”

He downed his snifter of blue liquid and shoved it toward the bartender. With a sideways glance at Radd, he grunted and went back to his thoughts.

Yeah, you couldn’t see them without wanting to pet them. And he sorely wanted to pet this one. Damn!

“Tough day at the office?”

Picking up the snifter he sort of pointed in the general direction of his lieutenant and ordered another. Looking around the dark lounge to make sure it was corps and diplomat free he tried to invite Radd to join him, “U otta ave un,” and he swayed dangerously, his finger poking at the air before finishing with a goofy grin, “…ieutenant!”

The lieutenant picked up his snifter and, with a sigh of resignation, tipped his sergeant’s glass.

“U know, …ieutenant, u was right!”

“How’s that, Hill?”

“’ell,” and he nearly fell off his barstool, “you, sure can’t ‘ook at em without ‘anting to, well, you know,” and he leaned close and whispered conspiratorially, “You know, ieutenant! Pet em! Yeah, that Ambassador lady sure is one fine pusssssssycat!”

This time, when he started laughing, he did fall off his stool.

***

He couldn’t figure out where he was at first. Then he got it and jumped up, his boots soggy and his uniform soaked.

“What the hell?”

Then it hit him. It was like a Marjing mind worm drilling through the middle of his brain. He thought it would split like an egg any second.

“So, sunshine, you back with us?”

He wanted to speak but every time he opened his mouth he had this overwhelming desire to spew his guts.

“That’s okay, this too shale pass.”

Shoving his head under the cold spray he seriously doubted the Lieutenant knew what the hell he was talking about.

“I gave you a sober-up.”

That explained that. How many damned drinks did I have?

“Oh, and one more thing, Hill.”

He looked out between his fingers.

“The next time I have to drag your sorry ass back from a bar when you’re on duty, I’ll post you so far out in the Blue system you’ll be sleeping with a light bulb just to keep your gonads from freezing off!”

When the lieutenant left he started pulling his wet uniform off and scowled when he dumped a cup of water out of each of his boots.

“Damn,” he muttered.

“What’s that?” the Lieutenant yelled from his office.

“Nothin’, Lieutenant.”

“Stop mumblin’ and report to duty, seargent!”

“Fuck,” he mumbled.

“What did you say?”

“Nothin’, Lieutenant! Double time, Lieutenant! I’ll be right there, Lieutenant!”

And to top it all off he could still smell her! And his damned cock just wouldn’t settle! What the hell has this she-cat done to me?

Grabbing a towel he wrapped it around his waist letting the tuck hang in front to try and hide the state of his cock and reported to the Lieutenant’s office.

“Sorry, Lieutenant. I can explain, Lieutenant. I just…”

When he ran out of the steam Radd prodded, “Well this ought’a be good. Great, explain away!”

“Well, Lieutenant. I reported for duty. The detail, I mean, and well, then I, well… and then we… I mean the Ambassador, well, then she wanted to… well…and she purred, well…”

“Right,” Radd boomed shutting him up. “Look, Hill, I don’t want to know what happened,” and, given the state of his stomach, Hill was sure he was going to spew right on top of Radd’s desk. “All I know is that the Ambassador has requested your presence for tonight’s Company dinner.”

That was the last thing he wanted, “But, Lieutenant…”

“Do I look like an asshole to you, sergeant?”

Damn, it had been a long time since he’d seen Radd so mad.

“Ah, no,” he said then rushed to add, “Sir!”

“Then don’t butt me, sergeant! Now, you got your orders. Report to the Ambassador’s suit at 2100!”

When he didn’t respond the Lieutenant bellowed, “I can’t hear you!”

“Sir, yes sir!” His hand came up in a sharp salute and he spun on the balls of his bare feet to leave.

He was contemplating the current climactic conditions in the Blue system when Radd barked, “Oh, and dress whites with full diplomatic sash!”

His mouth fell open and he nearly stumbled headfirst into the door frame making his exit.

***

“This is ridiculous!”

How could this be? It’s unheard of. It hasn’t happened for more than two millennium. How can you do this to me Bast?

Pran smiled wickedly, “Ah, but it is the Queen’s order. You must.”

Turning in a fit of rage she said, “She’s my mother! And I’m old enough to decide these things for myself. She told me so.”

“Then why are you doing so much preening for a Corporation dinner you don’t even want to go to with a man, as in hu--man, you have spent the entire afternoon cursing Bast for sending to you?”

She pulled the thin feather beneath her eye and, forgetting herself, smiled at the results. Just as quickly, she frowned and whined sarcastically, “Well, you’ve been a lot of help.”

With a petulant smirk she watched Pran sulk and went back to fixing her face.

She tried to remember. It had been over two thousand years ago. Somewhere in the family line. Or, more importantly, the royal line. It had been before the humans had even left their planet, much less their solar system. In some place they called Egypt. She couldn’t recall the whole story and made a note to ask her mother.

When Pran poked her in the side she jumped, “What was that for?”

Pran smiled sheepishly, “You were purring.”

“I was not!”

“I heard you, Princess!”

“You did not!” but she knew she had been.

They stared at each other until they both burst into giggles.

Bending back to the mirror, Peenzan admitted, “I was, wasn’t I?”

Her hand came up to her mouth and she nearly shouted, “I did it today too!”

“In public! No!”

“I couldn’t help it. As soon as I smelled him it just happened.”

“Oh my Bast! Did anyone hear you?”

Her face was blank for a beat then she burst into more giggling, “He did!”

Pran ran up and grabbed her arm, “No! He can’t have!”

She felt the blush, “And I leaned into him and...”

“No! In public? What did he do?”

Turning back to the mirror she whispered, “I think I scared him to death.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

She didn’t answer and cursed when she realized she was purring again.

And why now, she wondered, dusting her face with flecks of gold. And why couldn’t it have been Mazzatt? She felt unsettled when his name, one that had always sent a rush through her, no longer had a magic sound to it. Mazzatt. She whispered it out loud, “Mazzatt,” and felt sorry for him.

They’d all been so sure. Even her mother. It was just a matter of time, she’d said. It will happen soon.

Well, she said to herself wickedly, guess what mom, it happened.

When she stepped from the cleaning room she found a full length gown of translucent mijon silk from the Blue system with gold edging lying on her bed.

Pran carried gold slippers with heels high enough to give her a nose bleed in one hand and the Meline state sash in the other.

“Oh, I hate that thing,” pointing at the sash, “I don’t see why I have to wear it.”

“Try to keep in mind that this is a state dinner with the United Corporation and you are here to save our people, my princess.”

She sulked some more fingering the luscious edge of the gown.

When they both heard a light rap on the door she jumped and Pran ran to her side and whispered, “And not some first date with Mr. Right.”

“What?”

Pran ran back and whispered, “It’s your second.”

When she ran out giggling Peenzan scowled and started dressing.

***

Aside from feeling stupid he felt more than a little trepidation as he stood staring at the five red stars on her suit door.

What the hell is wrong with me? His palms felt wet in his white dress gloves and he had his dress saber pulled so far to the front of his black slacks to hide his half hard cock he was almost out of regulation.

At 6’8” and two-hundred-and-sixty pounds he was nothing more and nothing less than a finely tuned fighting machine trained to stare down the deadliest of threats no matter what solar system or planet they came from. It’s one of the reasons Diplomatic duty was such an insult to him. Running around in red silk sashes and sabers, tipping fine crystal with the pantywaists that ran the Corporation, was not what he’d had in mind when he’d signed up for the deadliest fighting force in the galaxy.

He cursed himself again as he stood, his thigh quivering beneath his slacks, waiting for someone to open the damn door. Just as he raised his knuckles a second time it slid open.

“Good evening. I’m sergeant Hillsborough, here for the Madame Ambassador.”

When the young woman stood, mouth open, and said nothing, he added, “I believe I’m expected.”

“Oh! Right, come in.”

He had no idea what had just been said. Must be her native tongue. You would think an Ambassador would have multilingual help. But given her step to the side and sweeping hand he decided it was an invitation and strode into the main reception room of the huge suit.

When, eyes as big as saucers, she spoke a second time in the same strange language and disappeared down a hallway still muttering he pulled on his starched collar and fell into parade rest staring at a lavish painting of a Meline that looked surprisingly like the Madame Ambassador.

***

“Oh my Bast! I forgot to speak his language! Twice!”

Peenzan inspected her nails and smiled wistfully.

Pran insisted, “You can’t!”

“What on Meline are you talking about, Pran?” Turning she pointed at her back and Pran pulled up the two wide falls of cloth from her side and, pulling them behind her princess, tied them into a six sided knot that represented the hallan flower on their home planet.

Fluffing the long strands out over Peenzan’s back fall that was still showing beneath her gown, Pran explained excitedly, “He’ll crush you! He’s huge! He’s a walking wall!”

She flushed at the thought and fanned her neck with her open palm. Yes, he is huge isn’t he?

“Don’t be silly, Pran.”

“I mean it, Princess; we must call your mother at once!”

Standing in front of the tall mirror she inspected the front of her dress noting the small line of soft champagne colored hair that ran delicately between her breasts in a ridge to stop at the nape of her neck. Turning to her side she inspected Pran’s work and smiled with satisfaction.

When she looked up she jumped to grab the communicator from Pran and threw it on the bed, “What are you doing?”

“I swear, Princess, it isn’t physically possible! We must stop this right now! He will kill you!”

She fixed her handmaiden with a benevolent smile and said, “Well, Pran, if that is how I am to die, if that is Bast’s will, then so be it.”

“Forgive me, Princess, but you are completely mad.”

“I know,” her inflection was gentle, a soft lilt, “mad in love. Now please, Pran, bring me the sash and send me out to meet my executioner.”

Pran swatted her princess on the shoulder, “And stop purring!”

She brought her hand to her chest and blushed.

“Stark raving mad,” and Pran shook her head as she complied.

***

Crenshaw sat waiting for the Chairman to speak first. He watched impassively as another leather bound document was signed, sealed, and carried away by the Chairman’s assistant.

“So, Blake. Is everything in place?”

“Yes, it is, Mr. Chairman.”

“And how will it happen?” and the Chairman picked up a cup of coffee before adding, “Or do I want to know?”

It was a task like any other. One of hundreds he’d performed for the current board of directors. There’d been a proposition, a vote and a resolution. And he was the go to man that would make sure that resolution was carried out. He had no idea why the Meline had been earmarked for eradication and, frankly, he didn’t care. His only concern was how to make it happen.

“Well, Mr. Chairman, without going into all the details I’ll give you the high points. You may recall Lieutenant Hillsborough.”

“Right. Some incident. Wasn’t he demoted?”

“Yes, he was. It’s now sergeant Hillsborough. Well, he’s been assigned as the Ambassador’s personal protector while on the station. That should give us credible deniability when the time comes. We’ll just blame it all on him.”

“That’s too bad. I knew his father. Good man.”

“Well, it’s a small sacrifice for the good of the Corporation. Or so I thought.”

He watched the Chairman take another sip of coffee and run his finger through the small silver plate of Rangdon spice, an officially illegal substance that, as always happened, meant it was actually reserved for the rich and powerful.

“Right you are, Blake,” the Chairman said smacking his lips, his eyes going blank for a beat.

“And I’ve arranged things for this evening at the Corporate dinner.”

“Very good, Blake. At least I won’t have to listen to her whining tomorrow.”

Blake watched the Chairman’s finger return for a second dip and wanted to leave. How on earth, or anyplace else in the galaxy, could such a disgusting man rise to such a great place of power?

Pushing up from his chair he asked, “I assume you don’t really want to know exactly how it will happen.”

The Chairman’s face was a blank, his eyes vacant, his finger still stuck in his mouth where he sucked like a babe in mother’s arms.

When no answer came Crenshaw retreated quietly from the Chairman’s office and pulled the door closed with a soft click. Turning to the Chairman’s assistant, he said, “He asked not to be disturbed for at least an hour.”

***

No matter how much resolve he’d mustered standing in the middle of the room staring at the painting, no matter how many times he’d reminded himself of his calling and the fact many men and creatures had died in his bare hands, his knees almost gave way when she swept into the room.

“Iiiiiiiiii’m sooooooo soooooorrrry, seeeergeaaant.”

He didn’t think to smile until the same young woman that had greeted him at the door stepped close to the Madame Ambassador and whispered something in her ear.

He almost laughed instead of smiling at the reaction the whispered words brought when the Madame Ambassador balled her fist, hit her chest and coughed.

He knew the protocol but, oddly, it wasn’t needed as the compliment rolled off his tongue, “Madame Ambassador, you are lovely this evening.”

“Iiiiiiiiii….” And he watched the fist come up again and listened to another cough.

His concern was real when he asked, “Are you all right? Did a doctor come with you? Should I call one?”

She blushed.

His knees trembled.

She smiled.

He cursed himself.

“Noooo…,” one last cough and she finally said something, “Thank you for your concern, sergeant. How nice of you. I think it may be the air. I keep getting something caught in my chest, ah, throat. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

She was a vision. Her body shimmered softly beneath her white gown and her pale blue eyes smiled. Noting how hard his heart was pounding he cleared his own throat, stepped forward and raised his arm, saying, “Yes, you may be right. My chest has felt funny all day.”

As they left he noticed the young woman had started giggling and wondered if there was a rip in the back of his trousers somewhere.

***

She tried it again. Yes, the purring subsided. Swallowing definitely seemed to help. Why didn’t her mother explain these things to her?

His arm is so big. It feels like a tree. Her thoughts immediately went to another part of his anatomy and she squelched another purring fit. Oh my, what if he really does kill me?

“This is the entrance. I believe you’re supposed to enter alone as the representative of your world.”

She clutched his arm and hesitated. His voice was soft and gentle, not at all what one might expect from such a big being. And she didn’t want to let go. It felt so good. She felt so good. And safe.

Then another voice invaded, one she’d just as soon forget.

“That’s alright, sergeant, I believe that as the senior diplomatic officer present, the Madame Ambassador would enter on my arm. You will enter through that door there,” and she watched Mr. Crenshaw raise his hand and point, “and find your place and be seated.”

She felt dizzy as the tree she’d been clinging to disappeared and was replaced by a mere branch. Looking around quickly, she managed to catch his eye and smiled. She felt her purring start again when he smiled back crookedly. Swallowing hard she looked ahead and stepped into the room on Crenshaw’s arm.

A small fanfare from an orchestra at the front of the room, talking stopped, and she was announced by an odd looking man with a long gold staff that he beat repeatedly against the floor.

“The Madame Ambassador Princess Peenzan Fanston of the planet Meline!”

As Crenshaw dragged her to the center of the room she searched the crowd on her right for her tree. She finally found him walking along the wall, his head well above everyone else, and she felt her chest flutter when she saw him smile yet again.

More swallowing and she smiled at the crowd of onlookers when Crenshaw abandoned her in the center of the room under a spotlight so she could present her formal greeting.

***

He wanted someone to punch him in the nose and wake him up. He was sure this was a bad dream and all he had to do was take a cold shower and it would all go away. Of course, he thought, I’ve already done that and it didn’t work.

It has to be something in her perfume and he made a mental note to check with germ warfare in R&D the next day and see what they could tell him about the Meline.

Her gentle fragrance persisted as, never taking his eyes off her; he found her place card and took up station behind her chair.

Like a guilty child he visibly cringed when he recalled his real duty and quickly scanned the crowd, the waiters and the perimeter of the room for any visible threat to the Madame Ambassador. No. Peenzan. And he whispered it, “Peenzan.”

He huffed when he realized his mind had locked up again.

The light made her dress completely transparent and he cursed his cock as his scan of the room was interrupted once more while he stared.

Her legs were beautiful and, he noted with a man’s eye, very very long. Her shoulders were as broad as her hips and her oval face intelligent and noble. Well, except for the little wisps of Champaign colored fur that outlined her cheeks and faded into sideburns that disappeared into platinum hair that was pulled up tightly on top of her head where it fell down her back in silky ringlets. A true vision of beauty.

When he caught himself reaching for her he pulled his hand back to his side and looked quickly at the people standing around him to see if he’d been caught. Dammit all to hell! What has she done to me?

The crowded room burst into applause and he tugged at the collar of his dress shirt once more. What the hell happened to the air-conditioning in this place? It’s hot as hell in here.

And there she was. Smiling. His chest puffed when he realized her eyes were searching for him.

And then Crenshaw appeared at her side and he had a sudden urge to pull his dress saber from its sheath and see how sharp it was.

Pulling her chair away from the ornately set table, he smiled and marveled as the Madame Ambassador sat, her shoulder brushing his fingers as he pushed forward.

“Thank you, sergeant. How thoughtful.”

Sitting on her right he pulled the linen napkin into his lap and cursed himself again when he saw his hand shake.

“So, Madame Ambassador, I hope your stay has been pleasant,” Crenshaw managed to make even small talk sound like a sarcastic barb.

He caught a flash of anger in the Ambassador’s eyes before she looked away to answer.

Something’s wrong. He was sure of it. His hands shook, his knees trembled like an old woman’s, he felt flushed and he was sure his brow was sweating. As much as the thought bothered him, which bothered him even more, he was going to have to leave and report to the infirmary.

Resolve set in and, pushing on his knees to stand, he leaned toward the Ambassador, a mistake in itself, and whispered, “I must apologize, Madame Ambassador, but I’m not feeling quite myself. I think I should go find a doctor.”

It was overwhelming and he thought he’d pass out. The warm musky smell behind her ear nearly did him in.

Her smile and concern were both genuine when she disengaged Crenshaw and turned on him to whisper urgently, “Please, sergeant. I think I can explain if you’ll please sit back down.”

Her hand fell gently, soothingly, on his and it wasn’t a question of willingness. It was a question of not breaking the finely carved piece of wooden furniture when he fell back with a grunt into his chair.

He felt dizzy and tried to clear the cobwebs while, her hand still resting on his, she turned back to Crenshaw and continued to speak. The chatter in the room had turned to an annoying roar and he noted something green had been put into his soup dish.

He was unable to follow the conversation and had no idea why. He could only discern that the Madame Ambassador was not only angry, she was pissed as hell.

Music began and he slumped back into his chair and tried to stop the spinning. The word poison floated to the top of what little consciousness he still clung to and he struggled to sit up straight.

Her face appeared in the haze the room had become and he heard, “Be still, my darling. I will make it well soon.”

My darling? She will make it well? A part of him struggled to gain his freedom from the small delicate hand that, still resting on his, seemed to have penned him to his chair.

Another part smiled and felt comforted.

His last coherent thought was, “Death by she-cat,” and he engaged in a very uncorpsly and unmanly activity. He tried to stop it. The struggle became the center of his universe but no matter how hard he tried he could not stop giggling.

***

“Praaaannnnnnn!”

What am I to do with you? She looked at her tree propped in the doorway of her suit, his black dress uniform askew, a crooked grin on his face and his cock raging in his slacks. Oh, my Bast!

“Praaaaaaaannnnnnn!”

She couldn’t help it. There was no way to stop the purring and it was entirely too pleasant to worry about anyway.

“Princess!”

“You have to help me. Be quick. We must get him inside before Crenshaw discovers I’ve left the dinner.”

“But what have you done, Peenzan? What are we to…” Pran stopped and stared.

“Yeeeeeessss,” she purred contentedly, “Isn’t it amazing?”

The entire time Pran pulled and prodded the giant she protested, “But, Princess, it will kill you! It isn’t physically possible!”

She swallowed several times and shot back, “Nonsense, Pran. We’re all made the same. I’m not made any different,” and she rethought that, “well, much different from the women of his own planet.”

They both watched the sergeant stagger along mumbling.

She pulled on his big hand while Pran went back to close and lock the suit door.

“Oh,” and he smiled. “there you are.”

“Yes, my darling. I’m right here. But you must follow me. You must keep walking.”

When one of his hands came up to trap her she ducked and giggled, “Praaaaaannnnn!”

“You must stop purring! It only makes it worse!”

She swallowed and managed, “I know. You’re right. Let me go prepare and you bring him to me.”

Poetry Train Monday

2008-03-17T09:32:00.002-06:00

Okay, not a finished work. Something I'm working on for a project. Thought I throw it out there.

Copyright @ Roscoe James 2008

A little bit you
A little bit me
A little bit love
A little bit we

A little bit time
A little bit place
A little bit us
A little bit space

Like a river we will run
Like a song we will be sung
Like a bell that must be rung
Like a morning in the sun

A kiss on my lips
A touch on my cheek
A sigh in my ear
I hope it’s for keeps

A little bit you
A little bit me
A little bit love
A little bit we

A little bit time
A little bit place
A little bit us
A little bit space

More Great News!

2008-03-13T17:36:00.001-06:00

The White Swan - second in the Mississippi River Tales series - has been picked up by LSB. Just thought I'd let everyone know. More later.

Volcano Watch

2008-03-02T17:39:00.003-06:00

A sunrise from my balcony a few weeks back. This is an active volcano about 30 miles (as the crow flies) south and east of Mexico City.

White Swan - the other story - Flash Fiction

2008-02-15T09:01:00.006-06:00

In White Swan two stories are told simultaneously. One is a contemporary story of love and intrigue that takes place on the White Swan (see previous post below) – the biggest riverboat never built. The second is the story of Jean Lafitte, the gentleman pirate, who plied his trade in the Gulf and Caribbean and, for a while, called New Orleans his home. This is Lafitte’s first appearance in the book. What happens after he pulls the trigger is left hanging until the next chapter.

copyright Roscoe James - 2008

Louisiana Territory – 1811

The moss covered cypress that lined the canal bank were stately and majestic and imparted a quiet Sunday feeling on the faded gray dawn. Dew slicked grass along the knoll of the canal fell lazily to the side and its water ran slow, almost stagnant, its surface flat and undisturbed.

The cheerful twitter of morning birds, much like the two gentlemen speaking quietly beneath the tallest of the cypress, was in sharp contrast to the somber nature of the occasion.

“But did you see her, Pierre?”

“That I did, Jean. That I did. But really, she can’t be worth risking your life over.”

Jean Lafitte ignored the comment and pulled a gold pocket watch from his blue silk waistcoat to check the time. “I believe you have little reason to worry. It would appear the braggart has decided not to show.”

Jean Lafitte’s brother, Pierre, pulled his brightly plumed hat off his head and wiped his brow with a blue silk handkerchief, “The sun has yet to top the trees and the heat is unbearable.”

“I think you’ve been sitting in your office too long, brother. This is a fine morning. Give the sun an hour and the sails in the gulf will be as full as my heart is.”

“You’re being daft, Jean! And over a woman! I never thought I’d see the day!”

Jean Lafitte, the gentleman pirate, late of New Orleans, cocked his head and chuckled. With a sly smile he said, “I see the coward has decided to show his face after all. What say you, Pierre? Do I let him live?”

“You’re a fool, Jean.”

Shrugging out of his coat, he handed it to Pierre and countered with, “Better a foolish man than an unmanly fool, Pierre.”

Taking Jean’s coat, Pierre shook his head, and muttered, “And now you’re a philosopher. God rot this dark skinned Venus!”

“Never, Pierre!” With that Jean Lafitte turned on his adversary, planted his feet a shoulder’s width apart, balled his fists and glued them firmly on his hips and watched Francisco De La Madrid climb the steep slope of the canal bank followed by a short round gentleman, dressed from head to toe in white, that huffed and puffed in his tracks carrying a brass bound wooden box.

“The question, I fear, is whether he will see fit to let you live.”

“Nonsense, Pierre. I hear his aim is superb but, as with all Spaniards, his knees tremble when between the thighs of his mistress. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t faint before I shoot him.”

“But the saber is your weapon of choice. You are unbeatable when making your point, so to speak. Knowing that, our friend, Señor De La Madrid, chose pistols.”

Jean smiled a smile that Pierre knew all too well. One he’d seen on the foredeck of a three master many a times just before canons were fired and grappling ropes thrown.
“Dash that. Where will we breakfast? I have arrangements to make,” Jean said with a chuckle before slapping Pierre on the shoulder and striding toward De La Madrid.

“Good morning, Lafitte.” De La Madrid sounded somber and his face was drawn.

“De La Madrid,” Jean took a brigands stance and nodded with a lecherous scowl.

“I see you’ve brought your brother to second.”

“That I have, De La Madrid.”

The posturing was as important as the duel itself and both men stood a few feet apart regarding one another.

Jean noted, as any warrior would when sizing up his enemy, that while his opponent seemed not to have slept, he did appear determined and there was no noticeable tremble or quake to his hands.

“And I see you’ve brought a snowball. You should put him in the shade before he melts,” Lafitte sneered.

They both heard Pierre stifle a laugh.

“And to think I was going to give you a chance to withdraw your challenge. I know the pistol is not your weapon, Lafitte. Best to end the day a coward than to end it cold in a wooden box,” De La Madrid parried in a low steady voice.

Jean’s laugh was hearty and he replied with zest, “I think it best I give you a chance to withdraw your comment and apologize to me publicly tonight at Madame Bernadette’s.”

“You are still just a pirate, Lafitte,” De La Madrid snarled, “and that strumpet you were eying last night is just another folly for your stable of whores!”

Jean’s strongest feeling was one of pity. He really didn’t hate De La Madrid; he was just growing weary of how the general population of New Orleans had treated him of late. It would seem that even fighting shoulder to shoulder with General Andrew “Old Hickory” Jackson and receiving a letter of commendation and pardon was not enough to convince New Orleans, or his adopted country, of his loyalty and patriotism.

His sneer gone, his face fixed in deadly determination, he leaned to within an inch of De La Madrid’s face and stated flatly, “I will see your wife whore for me before the sun sets, De La Madrid. And before the week is out your mistress will know what it is to make love to a real man.”

His stare never wavered as he watched De La Madrid turn abruptly and motion to the snowball that, whether for the stifling heat or the situation, indeed appeared to be melting as he stepped forward with the ornate box and lifted the lid to reveal two William Parker .69 caliber dueling pistols that had been hand made in London.

Picking one up, Jean hefted the knurled maple grip and inspected the flint and cocking mechanism. Then he eyed the snowball until De La Madrid had retrieved the second pistol.

“Do both gentlemen understand the rules of engagement?” Pierre stepped forward and waited for an answer.

“Yes,” replied De La Madrid with no particular inflection.

The snowball, mouth agape, retreated when Lafitte barked, “Of course. Just get on with it.”

“Very well. You will both stand back to back and walk ten paces, turn, and fire at will. Only one shot will be taken and the man left standing will do so by the grace of God, his right to honor proven. The man that falls does so at the judgment of God and, if he should die, does so in disgrace.

“If neither man is killed nor, as well, if both men are killed, the matter will be considered settled.” Pierre retreated to the line of cypress, where the snowball was cowering, and waited.

Jean bent his arm and raised his pistol, pointing it at the heavens, and pulled the hammer back with a resounding click turning his back on De La Madrid. Another click was followed by a settling of warmth against his shoulders.

The sky was clear and blue and the sun was just coming over the St. Louis Cathedral spire at Place D’Armes. Jean noted the birds had quieted and felt a gentle breeze on his brow. His smile was one of satisfaction when he noted De La Madrid shift his shoulders twice against his as if trying to get comfortable.

“Begin gentlemen,” Pierre announced with authority.

He felt no fear as he took the first step. His thoughts were not on death’s dark gaping maw when his left foot came forward and carried him another pace away from De La Madrid. Instead he heard her lilting laugh and stared deeply into her stunning azure eyes. With his third step he cleared his mind.

By the fourth step he was focused on defending his enchantresses honor with his life.
The haunting call of an osprey marked his eighth step and his breathing was steady and his heart beat slow.

When he planted his left foot for the fifth time he breathed deep and held it as his right foot came forward and swung in a tight arc around his left bringing De La Madrid into view.
He noted with a warrior’s pragmatic eye that De La Madrid was already in place and lowering his pistol to take aim.

It made no difference. He was much too disciplined to sacrifice accuracy to rush the attack.
His right foot came down firmly a foot in front of his left, his right shoulder facing De La Madrid, all of which minimized the target he presented to his opponent.

Head turned hard right to look past his upraised forearm he felt his opponent’s deadly projectile burn across his shoulder blades and saw the cloud of grey smoke leap from the end of De La Madrid’s gun just before he heard the loud boom his opponent’s weapon made.

With no thought of celebration at having survived the volly he slowly lowered his pistol and took, what Pierre would later call, an eternity, which in reality was only a few heartbeats, to take careful, almost casual aim, at a trembling De La Madrid and squeezed the trigger.

Deer Run Falls - Roscoe James - Liquid Silver Books

2008-01-23T18:19:00.001-06:00

I have a little announcement to make. First let me appologize for my absence the last few weeks. They’ve had me chained to my desk in the dungeon. Well, then they stuck me in a studio for a few days. But not to worry. I’ve had all the bread and water I want for the time being.

So, the announcement. Right, well, it seems that Deer Run Falls (working title Mississippi Mud) will be published by Liquid Silver Books this year. It is the first in a series of romance/mysteries that take place in the south. I won't bore you with details of the book - I think the book trailer says plenty.

No word on production date or availability. I invite everyone to drop into youtube.com and search – Roscoe James – and vote and comment on my book trailer. This is a first draft. I’m making a few changes and should have the new one up by next week.

So, thanks. Champagne for everyone!

That Party is Over ...

2008-01-12T17:56:00.000-06:00

Next party will be next week. I'll provide a date in a few days. Hope everyone shows up. There will be an announcement made.

Ya don't wanna miss it.

Roscoe James - Author

OPEN BAR FOR A FEW HOURS! LET'S PARTY!

2008-01-09T18:39:00.000-06:00

A small celebration tonight. I enjoyed a personal victory today. It doesn’t really matter what it was. Just a small step in the right direct. And no, I won’t tell ya… right now. Besides, if I know my crowd, you don’t need a reason. However, open bar for the next couple of hours. Buffalo wings with some really hot hot sauce. And Kentucky straight is the drink of the night. For the ladies we have Mint Juleps if ya like. So come on in, take a load off, and maybe we can talk Jill into a little Coyote dancing.

Let’s Par-Tay!

Here's some Chippendale dancers for you ladies. Watch out for the elephant.

Zacatecas, Mexico - Where I've been for the last two weeks

2008-01-07T13:23:00.001-06:00

Mery Christmas to all - and Poetry train!

2007-12-24T10:10:00.000-06:00

A Christmas Story

Copyright Roscoe James 2007

Twas the night before Christmas
And Santa was drunk
Down through the chimney
He fell in a funk.

He wandered around
First farted then belched
Tossed up his cookies
And felt pretty squelched

That’s when he saw her
She looked so sublime
Her legs all akimbo
On velvet reclined.

My Dear what’s your name
He asked with a smile
Virginia she answered
And blushed all the while

Oh my, he exclaimed
As he ogled her wares
You might catch a cold
Just running round bare

She giggled and wiggled
And wanted to know
What does it mean
To go… Ho Ho Ho

My dear not to worry
With time I will show
Just what it takes
For you to go Ho

Come sit on my lap
And whisper to me
What you want for Christmas
And I’ll make it be

My goodness dear Santa
Do you carry a gun
Or are you happy to see me
And thinking of fun

Don’t worry Virginia
You mustn’t think twice
Santa will show you
How not to be nice

Her eyes all a twinkle
Her nipples a glow
Her thighs all aquiver
She let Santa know

I’ve been such a good girl
It’s all such a drag
I think what I need
Is as night with a stag

A whole hour later
The jolly old man
Sprang up the chimney
And said, Yum Yum Yum

So on through the night
Dear Santa did ride
With a shivering Virginia
Close by his side.

Mery Christmas to all....
Virginia is tight!

AMP Flash Fiction - White Swan

2007-12-13T10:03:00.000-06:00

Standing on the blacktop apron, the sun at his back, he studied the lines and sounds of the White Swan and realized that, unlike most dreams come to life, this one didn’t disappoint.

His mind wandered back to his grandfather’s study. To dusty tomes arranged on dark-wood shelves that clung to plaster and lathe walls. Hours of sitting in a barrister’s chair that swallowed him whole behind an ornate desk that instilled an importance and sobriety seldom experienced by a seven-year-old spellbound by the wanderings of Huck Finn, the life and times of Tiny Tim and the swashbuckling ways of Long John Silver.

A collection of hand carved pipes standing in a carrousel beside a heavy crystal tobacco humidor still filled his mind with the smell of cherry and Prince Albert and recollections of the leather blotter on the imposing desk brought to mind Mr. Santini’s shoe shop.

The black-walnut grandfather clock off in a corner that set a cadence as words on the fragile yellowed pages flowed from paper to eye to mind setting his imagination free but capturing his soul forever still echoed in his mind.

The seed dropped in his heart while reading Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi, the harrowing tale of a boy from a small river town that aspired to be a riverboat captain, floated in the muddy waters of the Mississippi at the base of the Gateway to the West.

Unlike her boxy predecessors she was graceful and majestic even when moored to the floating jetty twenty feet from shore. Five decks of white enamel hand carved woodwork with highlights of shiny brass and blood-red trim.

Her paddlewheels were intricate latticeworks of white and red aluminum cast to mirror the shipwright’s work that adorned the decks above and at four-hundred-and-fifty-feet long with a beam of ninety-seven-feet; the biggest steamboat never built had been brought to life in living, almost breathing, color.

The calliope provided a carnival atmosphere for the last few passengers as they left their luggage with the shore stewards and crossed the red-carpeted gangway to the main deck.

***

“Hey! Be careful with that you klutz!”

He nearly burst out laughing when he turned and saw a taxi driver struggling to pull a Louis Vuitton wardrobe steamer trunk from the back of his cab. Running over he grabbed a side and helped the poor man set it on the sidewalk before it crushed him while its owner admonished them both with a not so polite critique of their progress.

“You must be one of the stewards,” she proclaimed still clutching a promotional brochure between finely manicured finger tips.

“I…”

“Look, it says right here, dock side stewards to receive your luggage. That’s you, right?”

In sharp contrast to her brusque manner she was willowy and graceful. Her almond shaped face, china skin with a smattering of freckles and intelligent green eyes, captivated. Fiery red hair cascaded in lush ringlets across her shoulders and halfway down her back and did much more than captivate; it took no prisoners.

“Why, sure am, ma’am,” he finally said with a chuckle while he watched the taxi driver stack a matching suitcase and makeup bag on top of the imposing piece of luggage. After receiving his fare the driver pulled out a puffy garment bag to add to the small mountain of luggage that had grown on the sidewalk, got in his cab and left.

And just as quickly she was gone. Looking back over her shoulder she said in an impatient pissed-off sort of way, “Well, come on. I don’t want my luggage left on the dock.”

He rushed to tuck the small suitcase under his arm, dangle the makeup bag from his fingers, tilt the trunk back on wheels set into the bottom and balance the garment bag across the top as he fell in step behind her.

“You’d think they could put a jet way and terminal up here. I mean, this is the twenty-first century, right?”

“I’ll be sure to tell the owner, ma’am.”

He smiled while she carried on about everything and nothing on their walk to the gangway. It was too humid, too hot, too sunny and too windy. The airport had been a mess, her taxi driver rude and she’d had to endure some one’s ten-year-old in first class. The boat was pretty though and that made him smile.

When one of the stewards saw them and cringed, dropping what he was doing, and started their way, he shook his head admonishing him not to bother, and followed her up the gangway where a smiling Mr. Blackburn, waxed handlebar mustache shining in the late afternoon sun, took her ticket and almost jumped overboard when he saw who was pushing her luggage. “Let me get you…”

“Sorry about that, Mr. Blackburn. I got here late. It won’t happen again, sir.”

With overblown bluster that belied his surprise Mr. Blackburn fixed him with a scrutinizing stare and finally replied, “Right. Well, make sure it doesn’t. And Miss Holloway will be staying in the Director’s suit on deck four.”

That explains it. So this is Teresa Holloway, intrepid freelance journalist and member of the very elite club all journalists worth a tinker’s damn aspired to, a Pulitzer-prize winner, here to write an in-depth article about - how had she put it - that idiot with more money than sense that wants us all living in the nineteenth century. She’d never confirmed, and neither he nor his staff was sure, she was going to show up.

Pushing her luggage toward mid-ship he listened to the click of her heels on the teakwood planking and wondered if he should tell her now or wait for the gala later in the evening.

“Do you know the owner? What’s his name? Nash Floss?”

“Fross,” he corrected while he waited at open double doors for her to precede him into the main atrium area.

“Right, that’s it. Nash Fross. You know him?”

He didn’t get to answer.

“Damn,” her voice was one of amazement and awe. Finally she added, “Well, when you see him, tell him the atrium impressed the hell out of me.”

Five stories of twin open curved staircases, satin finished mahogany, two replica scissor-gate elevators, plush wool carpet, all capped off with stained glass was intended to impress and he was glad it had.

There was hardly room for the two of them and her luggage in the elevator but they managed. When they stopped on deck four he followed her out and was rewarded again when she stopped to peer over the banister muttering ‘damn’ once more.

As they neared her suit he explained, “The original designs of the White Swan were found in a desk sold at auction in the 50’s. They were drawn up in 1926 by Ward engineering for the Reid Steamboat company just before the rails took over the riverboat trade.

“Originally designed to house 526 passengers in three classes, along with freight, the interior has been redesigned with twelve luxury suits and eighty-eight junior suits…”

“No longer carries freight,” she interrupted, “has five restaurants, all highly rated on the Michelin list, one cinema that will seat three-hundred, a top deck swimming pool, two workout rooms, one cabaret, ten bars, twenty-six stores, crew of ninety-seven and is propelled by two paddle-wheels powered by twin turbo-diesel electric plants. Need I go on?”

Pushing her door open he handed her a key card and laughed, “You sure know a lot about the White Swan, ma’am. And here’s your suit.”

“It’s my job to know a lot about a lot of things. Would you like gross weights, range and how much Mr. Floss paid for this little dalliance of his?”

Wheeling the trunk through the main sitting room, past the bathroom and leaving it at the foot of the king-sized bed the fun had evaporated when she referred to the White Swan, his White Swan, as a dalliance.

His smile was strained when he turned to leave and said, “That’s okay, ma’am. I’m sure Mr. FROSS has his reasons.”

When she shoved a twenty in his palm and said, “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” he wanted to poke her in the nose but found the act of receiving a tip entirely too distracting. Pulling the suit’s door shut behind him he scowled, saw another steward rush by, shoved the bill in his hand, and said, “Journalists!”

“Thanks, Mr. Fross. I think we’re ready to leave. The captain was looking for you.”

Billy Joel - live and in concert

2007-12-13T09:26:00.001-06:00

Billy Joel! Yes, there is still magic in a Billy Joel concert. I caught him live, up-close and in person last night at Foro Sol in Mexico City. I had heard that his voice is shot. I’ll get to that in a minute.

The concert lasted two-and-a-half hours and was, literally, non-stop. And I was surprised to learn Billy Joel had enough rudimentary Spanish to ad-lib with the audience.

After the second song he said hi to Mexico and introduced some of the musicians in the band. Then, with a sly smile, he added (in Spanish) – I’m not really Billy Joel, I’m Billy Joel’s dad. Yes, the hair, what little is left, is gray. The stomach is heavy and, well, he looks every one of his 57 years. But he’s still Billy Joel and he can still belt out his songs and bring an audience to life.

But, as I’d heard, his voice isn’t what it used to be. And I’ve given this some thought. When was the last time you saw a 57 year old Star NFL quarterback take to the field and play a full-on, no-holds-barred exhibition game? How old was Wilt the Stilt when he played his last exhibition game? Has anyone seen Julia Roberts recently (well, that wasn’t a rerun)?

No, if you’re looking for an exact reproduction of the 52nd Street CD (made in 1978), you won’t find it at a Billy Joel concert. But if you’re looking for the magic and spirit that created that album (back when albums were still black discs the size of pie pans) you won’t be disappointed.

Billy Joel rocks! My sixteen-year-old son said so.

Overwhelming Evidence

2007-12-10T09:39:00.000-06:00

Copyright Roscoe James 2007

The shadows were long across the pavement when he stopped in front of Creolla’s house. The engine idled while he contemplated. It was about why. Why she hadn’t looked for him, asked for his help.

His thoughts stepped off the trolley at his own feelings. He hadn’t thought about Creolla in years. Almost a decade and yet a glimpse, a touch, a sigh, a word, and he was consumed by a need be near her. Not just for a moment or a night. But for… For what?

He slammed his car door in disgust and rubbed his sweaty palms together trying to recall the last time he’d felt this perturbed about a woman.

“Landon! Come in!” Her surprise was genuine and her smile grateful.

In the foyer he stalled looking at dried flowers, a colorful print, an umbrella stand – anything but her.

“When I woke up you were gone,” she sounded hurt and he felt bad. Her fingers raked his chin and she grinned, “But here you are. Landon.” Her voice became dreamy her comment not directed at him, just a statement, “With me. My rock.”

He noticed the way her hair came up in curls from her hairline and wanted to touch.

“Are you hungry? Where did you go?”

Laugh lines around her eyes made him want to smile and he felt selfish for not giving in.

Taking his hand in hers she pulled toward the living room, “The sheriff called today. And I spoke with my lawyer.”

He watched their hands rise between them when she stepped away urging him to follow, stretching their arms out until she had to stop or let go.

“I’m so glad…” and she paused standing with her bare feet in a spot of sun on the hardwood floor.

He tried to resolve the smiling creature in blue jeans and loose knit top with bands that circled her body making him think of rainbows and sunlight with the wonton plaything that had stepped into Ethan’s arms at Mason’s.

She came close again and rested her fingers on his chin. He could feel her warm exhalations on his neck. Her blue eyes were gentle, imploring him to speak, to be with her. To step into her world.

When she leaned the softness of her breasts on his chest highlighted the stiffness of his own body. When her hands intruded beneath his arms and circled his body he relented.
Breathing deep the fragrance of her hair he pulled her to him and searched for her ear in a fall of mahogany locks and nuzzled.

“Oh, Landon,” she moaned.

His words were gentle, “I’m sorry, Creolla. I think I’m lost.”

She kissed the small of his neck, “No, Landon. You’re here. With me.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

Her lips were warm on the side of his neck. “Yes,” she sighed in return.

His hands moved down her back hugging and exploring. His fingers found the edge of her jeans and slid in.

She leaned into him in a swoon and he kissed the top of her head. In one swift move he swept her into his arms and carried her to her bedroom where he threw her on the bed. Standing over her he pulled on his belt, jerked at his zipper, pulled his shirt over his head, and watched her pull her top off and struggle frantically with her jeans.

Toeing his shoes off he hooked his thumbs in his slacks and boxers and shoved them past his knees. When he stood his cock bobbed and waved. An angry baton set to direct the next movement of the Rhapsody they’d become.

Knees at her chest still struggling with her jeans he fell on her. Fingers digging between her upturned thighs he grabbed the crotch of her panties and pulled. They came away wet which only drove him madder with desire.

She whimpered when the lacy material broke. Shoving her arms back he trapped her jean covered knees with his chest, shifted until the head of his cock found her wet spot, braced with both hands on the mattress and pushed all the way in.

Her eyes closed, her breath caught and her tongue found her lips.

The back of her thighs were soft and hot against his hard stomach as he rode her, took her. Her head rocked on the pillow and she mumbled her breathing finding cadence in his thrusts.
He was lost in the feeling, the soft wet grip that held him, massaged him, urged him to release.
When that grip tightened and she fixed him in a wide eyed stare he hurried to catch up, to take her hand and plunge headfirst into the ether with her.

Her grunt was unladylike, his growl harsh and menacing. He felt her shiver turn to quakes, her knees pushing up as she strained to stretch her body and ride the wave.

He exploded with the fury of a god and felt just as empowered as Creolla writhed beneath her stuttering moans his only council.

***
The room was dark as they lay panting, a tangle of half removed clothes and sweaty bodies. Her fingers played lazily in his hair and his ran across the inside of her thigh.

“Where are you,” she finally asked dreamily.

“Lost,” he said for the second time that afternoon.

“Lost?” she sounded concerned.

Pushing her knees off his chest he rolled and licked the inside of her thigh.
Her hand found the top of his head and twirled a curl.

With a swipe of his tongue he stroked her still swollen clitoris.
She moaned distractedly.

With a nudge to her hand he kissed his way to her naval and licked.
“Lost?” she sounded uncertain.

He kissed the soft skin of her belly and licked his way to the center clasp on her bra.
“Lost?” she giggled.

His hand snaked between their bodies and released the clasp and his head nudged the flimsy material aside so he could capture a nipple and suck it into his mouth.

“Lost,” she moaned her hands coming to the back of his head trapping him there.

He found her other breast with his hand, his warm palm pressing, her other nipple trapped between his fingers.

Her fingers raked lazily through his hair.

With another nudge to her hand he was on top of her, his eyes level with hers, his lips a hairs breadth away from hers.

“Lost?” she whispered.

“In you,” he said and kissed the words he dared not speak.

This time he was gentle and loving. He wandered her body with attentive care and marveled in renewed discovery.

Something I'm Personally Passionate About - Flamenco (Music and Dancing)

2007-12-05T21:46:00.000-06:00

This guy is superb.

The Bar is Open

2007-12-05T21:17:00.000-06:00

Right. I recognize this place. Yeah, I’ve been here before.

Just wanted to say I’m sort of back. Finished my rewrite and have it back with the publisher. Right now I’m trying to decide if I continue a book I started or abandon it and start a new one.

I have something special in the works for Poetry Train Monday and something finished for Friday Flash.

So, without further ado – let’s get this show on the road!

Sorry About That

2007-12-01T08:18:00.000-06:00

I'm in the middle of a re-write and will be back the first of next week. Well, or you can believe I like the pizza-girl and don't want to take her down. Or maybe the guy with the eyeliner over at Jill's place gave me a nervous breakdown. Maybe the Princess and BB have kidnapped me and are slowly torturing me to death with matches and Star Trck reruns.

Send a rescue party!!!!!! Send food!!!!!! Send Booze!!!!! Send women!!!!!!

Help!!!!!!!!

Titillating on Tuesday (Recipe)

2007-11-28T14:03:00.001-06:00

Thought you could leave me out! Well, as a guy, here's my recipe - Stop at convenience store and purchase 24 pack of favorite beer (cold). Rush home, put in fridge. Serve cold (forget that chilled shit).

Pull pizza place magnat off fridge and carefully dial number (best done before cracking first of 24). Order deep-dish with extra-cheese (very important EXTRA CHEESE).

Specifically ask for the blonde with the slight overbite (that used to work for Hooter's) to do the delivery (may require extra tip).

Put magnat back (you will need it again).

Remove all clothing but dirty white t-shirt and 'I'm a Stud' boxers (dirty white athletic socks optional).

Crack first beer, grab remote, surf to suitably certified T and A channel and wait.

When pizza arrives be sure to leave the money on the coffee table hidden under dirty laundry and/or pizza boxes from previous purchases. This creates atmosphere and provides an opportunity to invite the pizza girl in.

Best served hot (the pizza too).

Sway Me .... Oh yeah!

2007-11-27T08:40:00.000-06:00

A little Latin today. No Christmas music. A dance classic. If I consider talent and true artistic ability I'd have to go with Dean Martin’s rendition. Well, a quick search and my own artistic integrity went out the window. Not sure why. Must have to do with the… ah… way they never blink.

Gives whole new meaning to puss'n boots. Now, where the hell are the boots?

So, anyone up for a dance?

I DON'T WANT ANYONE LOOKING BUT JILL

2007-11-26T07:14:00.000-06:00

And I can assure you Jill, this would not be here if you hadn't had a need.

BTW - what's with the singing snowman? And does that make her a Snowman's helper?

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. I think I need new search words for finding French Christmas Carols. Didn't come up with much.

Monday Poetry Train

2007-11-25T16:55:00.000-06:00

Not much of an effort but at least I showed up. I think I'm still recovering from the blogaversary.

The Essence of You

Your sigh is enough
To calm my heart
To lift my soul
… the essence of you.

I’ll take you with me
A touch on my fingers
A promise on my lips
… the essence of you.

Wrapped safe and warm
I’ll wander my day
Ponder my night
In the essence of you

A Seasonal Thought

2007-11-24T11:24:00.000-06:00

After Bob I thought it was time for some more Yule tide cheer. And this one has words. Enjoy Jill.

The Entity - AMP Flash Fiction Friday

2007-11-23T09:49:00.000-06:00

Something from the darker side. An excerpt from The Entity. Not for the faint of heart.

Copyright 2007 Roscoe James

Scanner Bob was also walking arm in arm with evil that night.

No rest for the weary he thought. The twins had been very entertaining. As promised, they’d kept him up all night. The sun was just beginning to permeate the dilapidated motel room as he gathered his tools, stuffed them in his duffle bag and headed out the door.

He’d made many trips to the old rusty dumpster during the night. He could see that more dogs had materialized and were sniffing around the wheels and licking something red that dripped steadily through rusty holes along the front.

Both bound and gagged, they'd still thought it was all part of the game when he'd pulled out the knives and started cutting clothing away from their bodies. He'd even smiled and played along and whispered a constant litany of profanities and lustful promises in their ears.

Pauline had passed out when the first cut was made. Paula hadn’t. Considering it was Paula that first received Bob’s undivided attention, the pain kept her eyes open wide as Pauline came and went, opening her eyes long enough to see the changes Bob was making in her sister before straining against the duct tape and passing out again.

Feeling a need for praise from his Mistress, Bob flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial.

The male voice that answered surprised him sending a small shiver of jealousy up his spine; his immediate thought was that his mistress was breaking in a new one. Someone to take his place.

“This is the FBI. Who’s calling this number?” promptly Bob folded his phone shut, dropped it in the dusty gravel and stomped it several times with the heel of his bloody shoe until he was sure it was unsalvageable by anyone that might happen by and pick it up.

Resolve was quick to settle in. No important, he decided. No matter what, he would carry out the wish of his mistress.

Dropping the duffle bag behind the driver’s seat, Bob slid behind the steering wheel, started the engine and headed west.

He felt a rush of exhilaration. With no leash pulling, he felt changed. He felt he was moving up. He’d learned so much from the twins. He’d peeled away so many layers to find their sensitive spots. Maybe it was time for him to become the master.

With a chuckle, he thought just how much he’d learned about bending Tammy to his will. About peeling back her layers one cut at a time.

THAT'S RIGHT - CHRISTMAS - SO WHAT?

2007-11-21T11:16:00.000-06:00

Okay all you Scrooges out there gather round. Marley here. Just thought I’d get the season started. No, I am not one of those bah humbug Christmas pessi-skeptics. I’m also not one of those plastic Santas climbing a ladder into oblivion guys… well, maybe you get it. I just enjoy the change of pace. A time to reflect. A time to charge batteries and get centered again. And an excuse to give someone special something special just ‘cause I want to.

So let’s get the music started.

WHAT A PARTY!

2007-11-20T07:20:00.001-06:00

This is a take from one of the local parties for Rhian's Blogoversary. As you can see, they thought 1,175 was a great number. Stop in a take a look today.

Who knows, maybe you won one of the great prizes! Stop on over and check it out.

Blogoversary!

Monday Poetry Train

2007-11-15T07:49:00.000-06:00

Again, an aside for me. I'm off to NY with Amanda Ramrod so I thought I'd post early in case I'm, ah, all tied up on Monday. Nothing new - reposts from the Party.

Happy Annie-Verse-Airy Rhian!

Copyright 2007 Roscoe James

What Need

We tried to climb the mountain high
To touch the stars, the moon, the sky
A gentle touch, a muffled sigh
We tried to climb the mountain high

We tried to still celestial cries
To touch our souls with open eyes
A soft caress we did not try
… to still celestial cries.

What need to climb the mountain high
To touch the moon, the stars, the sky
What need to still celestial cries
To touch our souls with open eyes

What need a gentle lovers sigh
… when climbing mountains high

Will the Darkness Keep a Secret

Will the darkness keep a secret
If I hold you close and sigh
Lean in and whisper softly
Will the darkness turn away

Will the darkness keep a secret
If our eyes meet and we cry
If our hands touch oh so gently
Will the darkness turn away

Will the darkness keep a secret
If our lips touch and we fly
If our hearts sing in the twilight
Will the darkness turn away

Would Time Not Wait

Would time not wait
For lovers arms
To find the silence
Of the night

Would time not wait
For a gentle kiss
To heal the hurt
Of times apart

Would time not wait
For mornings’ dawn
To find our hearts
In quiet bliss

Poetry Monday - Week Long Warmup Party Starts Here!

2007-11-12T09:29:00.000-06:00

The PARTY moves here. Have fun!

The only thing I can say is if you missed the first three days of the Week-Long-Rhian-Poetry-Annie-Verse-airy-Party - You missed out. The party moves on from here. I've been called to NY by Amanda Ramrod. Something about a board meeting. She asked me to bring Y's paddle with me. No idea what she wants. It was fun and thanks to all. Quips in a while.

RJ

A parting shot - have no idea why but Y seems to love Coyote Ugly dancin. Be sure the bar is wide enough for everyone. So here's Y's last dance...

Okay - here's one for everyone else. Got a beat and you can dance to it!

So, thanks again. No quips today but the entire party has been recorded. You can find it in the comments section.

One last thing. I found this guy this morning in the ladies room. Not sure what you ladies did to him. I have no idea who he belongs to. Rhian! Hey, drum ho', is he yours?

An Aside for Me - Monday Poetry Train

2007-11-11T21:58:00.000-06:00

Certainly not my forte – I do like trying new things. So here you find a few regurgitations for the Goddess’ Poetry Train. One thing though – DO NOT READ UNTIL MONDAY. That said, let me get on with my literary suicide.

Copyright Roscoe James 2007

Celestial Embrace

With moonbeam love,
And starlight sighs,
Comets burn as lovers eyes.
Venus traps us with her guise
Mars our passion, no reprise.

Mercury’s spin is
Full of lust.
Uranus winks and we just blush.
Terra cool and blue will rush
Beneath old Sol to warm our touch.

Dreams of Neptune
In our head
Pluto’s cold will soon be shed.
On Jupiter we make our bed.
With Saturn’s ring…

…I thee wed.

Not over yet... I go for slow agonizing deaths.

Office Angel

A smile, an aside
Coffee in hand
A pout and a giggle
A bright red hair band.

A shoe strap, a button
Glasses in place
The sound of you typing
A soft, gentle grace.

White silk, peeks of lace
A call you must take
Chanel number five
Your bust gently quakes.

A stretch, a soft sigh
Lips red with gloss
Crossing your legs
Blond hair with a toss.

A zipper, high heels
Nails with a shine
Bright emerald eyes
Send chills up my spine.

I think that's enough for the moment.

Excerpt from - The Sentinel - Flash

2007-11-09T14:18:00.000-06:00

As a newbie to AMP’s Flash Friday I thought I’d take the low-keyed, cautious route and write about my dog. Or maybe my cup collection. Hey, or watching Kudzu grow. After a little consideration – this is what I came up with:

All rights reserved - Roscoe James - 2007

Who is this strange man, she thought, as she sucked his fingers gently. Obviously a strong and powerful man, yet so tender and giving. Pulling his hand away from her mouth, she guided it to her breast, her fingers gently closed around his as they pinched her swollen nipple together.

Her head tilted and she found the shallow valley of his chest hidden in the V of his shirt where she kissed, her tongue coming out to play as she felt his hand find its own initiative, pulling and teasing.

Looking up, she was startled by his stare as his eyes found hers. She could see the conflict, yet felt overwhelmed by the desire that lurked behind his half closed eyelids.

“Take me,” she whispered huskily.

His hands were warm. Gentle insistence pulled her shoulders until she moved up his body. Opening her thighs, she straddled his hips; her mouth hovered over his, their breath mingled, as his hands slid around her shoulders and down her back.

Sitting on his lap, the hard bulge of his pants made her moan, “Yes.”

Looking between them, she found his belt buckle and brought a hand down, pulling on the thick leather end, extracting it from a pants loop. Her eyes came up and watched his, as the belt finally fell free, exposing the button above his zipper.

Her lips fell gently on his as the button came free. Finding the zipper, she pushed it down as his tongue danced across her lips.

She wasn’t sure, but she thought he said, “Yes,” into her mouth as her hand pushed down the waistband of his white briefs, her fingernails raking across the dark matt of hair, digging until they found the skin beneath.

He pushed her back, leaned away from the headboard and quickly pulled his shirt up, over his head throwing it off the bed. It happened quickly. For a few seconds she was scared as he grabbed her shoulders and rolled her to the side. She found herself on her back, his head below her chin, kissing between her breasts.

Her hands fell on his broad back and she marveled at how hard his entire body was. His thighs forced her to open as he found a nipple with his mouth, and looked up at her as he sucked. Her body responded as her other nipple swelled, her fingers curled and her nails dug into his back enough to elicit a moan around her red swollen nub.

Suddenly her wet nipple felt cold and abandoned. His head receded, his tongue dancing across her skin as he scooted down her body, his hands danced down her thighs and found her knees. His wet tongue probed the depths of her navel as his hands tugged her knees, urging them up and out.

God, she thought, I’m so wet, I can feel it, as she felt it run between the cheeks of her ass. It quickly became more intimate than she’d imagined as he started moving down again, shifting his broad shoulders as they passed between her thighs.

Closing her eyes, she focused on the wet trail of his tongue as it played in her neatly trimmed pubic patch. Then it was gone. She felt the mattress shift and sag, her hands searched blindly for the top of his head and she panted in anticipation.

Then she felt it. His tongue was pressed flat, broad across her wet slit, pushing, probing, in search of something. Her eyes opened wide when he found his goal and sucked. She could feel a finger tracing, pressing, just below his chin, and her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling slightly, his tongue finally parting her lips, licking deep, pulling her thick nectar out where he pushed it hard against her clit.

“Ummmm,” her toes curled and waved in the air, the muscles in her thighs tightened as she felt a finger press in, opening her, pressing deep.

Closing her eyes, she pulled on his hair as he sucked hard before sending his tongue on another fervent mission of discovery.

A second finger joined the first and she writhed slightly as she was opened more.

Her breath caught as he sucked and nibbled. He’d found a slow, steady rhythm that was shoving her, ever closer, to the edge.

She was lost. There was no killer to catch, no office to run, no fake Lisa, and certainly, no stranger in her bed doing these things to her. This man, this complex animal that knew her better than she knew herself. At that moment, she knew she’d do anything he asked. Anything he demanded. And she hoped he would.

Then he was gone. The bed shifted, she heard a grunt and the rustle of clothing as her thighs started to relax, her feet coming down slowly to find the mattress, and a small whimper pushed forth.

His mouth was wet with her essence as he pressed it against her mouth. His tongue tasted different as he forced it in. His broad chest trapped her breasts between them; her swollen nipples sent small jolts through her body as his weight pressed down.

She thought she knew what she was saying when she invited him to take her. She had wanted him then, as she’d used her naked body as an enticement. She thought she’d known what want was. But now, with his body pressing, penning her to the bed, his small moans as he sucked the end of her tongue, now she knew what want really was.

Her body ached with need. Her hands pushed and urged, unable to budge or change the course of events. Then he pushed up on both arms, planted them firmly, penning her arms at her side. Opening her eyes she found him looking down at her. Her mouth was slick, waiting for his to return. His hips shifted, pressing her thighs apart, her eyes widened and her mouth snapped shut as her want was quenched.

His eyes never wavered as he pressed in, parting her, finding that most intimate of touches as he did as she’d asked, and took her.

“Yes,” she said, her voice low and husky.

Once buried, he dipped his head and kissed her passionately. Raising his head, he found his rhythm. Bringing her legs up, she wrapped them around his waist as they melded, becoming one.

She pulled and clung to him as he continued to push away from the bed with his powerful arms, his hips penning her bottom to the bed.

Her mouth opened as she struggled to breath. She could feel it happening, radiating. Starting below her stomach, it spread steadily up like a flush.

“Now,” she urged again, as she noted the determined look on his face, his jaw set, his eyes burning as he continued to invade her.

“Fuck,” he replied, as he finally let his chest drop on hers, pressing hard into her breasts, his feet clawing for traction, his head buried beside hers on the pillow.

Then her world, her being, exploded as she writhed and convulsed beneath him.

“God!” he yelled and she felt a sudden rush of wetness as he filled her, his body still driving, pushing, pressing.

2007-11-08T08:58:00.000-06:00

Let’s talk romance. One of the things I love about Mexico (LatAm in general) is the music. They truly do have a corner on the market of romantic music. For $100 dollars you can hire the services of a trio (three guitars and three male voices) to perform at your house, an office party, a celebration, whatever, and their forte is romance songs.

One of my personal favorites is ‘Contigo Aprendi’ (With You I Learned). The all-time-best performance is by Louis Miguel on his Romance CD. I highly recommend both of them (there’s a second Romance). I picked up Alejandro Fernandez for you ladies because this guy could easily be the next hero in one of your books.

With you I learned
There are new and better emotions
With you I learned
To know a world of new hope
I learned the week has more than seven days
… to focus on my happiness
… I’ve already said I learned with you

Not the whole thing but it will give you an idea.

Due Diligence - Amanda Ramrod

2007-11-08T07:45:00.000-06:00

Hi, y’all. I’m a friend of Roscoe. I knew him way back when. We won’t go into that. Well, not right now. Anyway, he said I could post out here so, from time to time, you’ll see a little blurb, flash or story about my life. Given the, ah, position (well, several positions) I occupy I really can't risk my own blog.

My name’s Amanda Ramrod. A lot of people, people that don’t really know me, call me Amanda or Ms Ramrod. Of course, as you can imagine, Ms Ramrod garners its fair share of snickers around the corporate office. I don’t really care, but you don’t know that, because you don’t really know me. Yet.

I’m thirty-four-years old, look twenty-four, and flirt like a sixteen-year old on Redbull. My only boyfriend used to call me Hotrod. He married the head cheerleader (what a cliché). I was never sure if head or cheerleader most described her particular talents. That’s when I stopped having boyfriends.

Now a days, my girlfriends around the water cooler, call me Ramjet. They say I’m like a stealth bomber swooping in to drop a four thousand pounder on some unsuspecting target.

No, I haven’t married. Yet. I’m sure it will happen. And when it does, it will happen on my terms.

You might say I’m shopping around. Well, you can say whatever you want. But let me be perfectly honest, here. I like sex. I mean, I really like it. Of course, I don’t believe I’ve cornered the market on that one. Probably one of the best kept secrets on planet Venus is that women like sex. Just as much, just as often, and sometimes, just as hard as the Martians do.

I’m not about to fall in the, ‘I love you, too,’ trap. You know the one. The one where we’re always saying little things like, ‘I love you, honey,’ just to get a response out of him. And then it always comes with that word attached. The, ‘too,’ word. Like, oh, right, yeah, I hear ya, me too.

And, of course, then we have to practically beg for it. I mean, what’s that all about? What happened to the bionic man? The one with a steel rod implanted between his thighs? The one that could punch holes quicker and deeper than Exxon (and make as big a mess, I might add). The one who’s hands did more exploration than National Geographic?

So it was right out of a liberal arts college (I really don’t want to say which one. Reputations must be protected here) with a BA in communications, on one of those recruitment Saturday’s that I found my niche, the peg for my round hole, you might say.

No! Don’t be silly, not a guy! I mean, why settle for a hotdog, when you can own the hotdog stand? I found a Fortune 500 corporate head (no, not that kind of head, that’s water cooler jargon for headquarters) with offices around the world, a nice location in midtown Manhattan, a very nice health plan, and lots and lots of hotdogs.

I was a good student. Well, not a 4.0, but I believe a 3.9 still falls on the good side of the scale. One thing I learned in college was, ‘take notes.’ So I did. And, thanks to that, this is my story. Names have been changed, adjectives multiplied and adverbs exaggerated.

I’ll start at recruitment day and, well, work (because I did work for it) my way all the way to the top. Where you’ll find me most days flogging away with the best of the corporate Dicks trying to meat a deadline. No, those weren’t Freudian slips.

... That's it for today. I have a board meeting to, ah, how can I put this delicately - prepare for. This will be a serial post so come (and I hope you do) on back now, ya here? Well, until next time. AR

Southern Belle

2007-11-08T06:17:00.001-06:00

Cover illustration of Harper's Weekly, September 7, 1861 showing a stereotypical "Southern belle"

A southern belle (derived from the French belle, 'beautiful') is an archetype for a young woman of the American Old South's antebellum upper class. During the period, Kentuckian Sallie Ward of Louisville was the most noted belle in the South, and her portrait, which hangs in the Speed Museum in Louisville, Kentucky, is often called "The Southern Belle." A Southern Belle epitomized southern hospitality, cultivation of beauty and a flirtatious yet chaste demeanor. The stereotype continues to have a powerful aspirational draw for many people, and books like We're Just Like You, Only Prettier, The Southern Belle Primer, and The Southern Belle Handbook are plentiful. Other current terms in popular culture related to "southern belles" include "Ya Ya Sisters," "GRITS (Girls Raised In The South)," "Sweet Potato Queens," and "Bulldozers disguised as powder-puffs."

To detractors, the southern belle stereotype is a symbol of repressed, "corseted" young women nostalgic for a bygone era.

GRITS - Well, I must say, that gives a whole new meaning to GETA (Good Enough To Eat).

I'm still doing investigation - thought I'd share

2007-11-07T16:24:00.000-06:00

According to the Kinsey Institute, the biggest erect penis on record measures 13 inches. The smallest tops off at 1 3/4 inches.

The Caramoja tribe of northern Uganda tie a weight on the end of their penises to elongate them--sometimes to such a degree that the men literally have to knot them up--while the Mambas of New Hebrides wrap theirs in yards and yards of cloth, making them look up to 17 inches long.

The most common fantasy is oral sex.

8% of us have regular anal sex.

60% of men and 54% of women have had a 1-night stand.

Women buy 4 out of every 10 condoms sold.

In 1609, a doctor named Wecker found a corpse in Bologna with two penises. Since then, there have been eighty documented cases of men similarly endowed.

Men say the average erect penis is 10". Women say it's 4".

A female orgasm is a powerful painkiller (because of the release of endorphins), so headaches are in fact a bad excuse not to have sex.

56% of men have had sex at work.

Among the Mangaians of Polynesia, 18-year-old couples make love an average of three times a night, every night, until their thirties, when the weekly average drops to a mere 14.

1 in 3 of us have had an extramarital affair.

62% think there is nothing wrong with affairs.

The maximum speed at which erotic sensations travel from skin to brain has been clocked at 156 miles per hour.

A honeymooning couple are suing Holiday Inn for ten thousand dollars, claiming their sex life is now dysfunction because an employee mistakenly walked in on them on their wedding night.

At least 500 Americans die each year from asphyxia in an attempt to lessen oxygen flow to the brain in order to induce a more powerful orgasm.

England's King Edward VII, a man of considerable heft, had a special table built so that he could comfortably engage in sexual intercourse.

Mississippi Mud - Completed

2007-11-04T20:34:00.000-06:00

This is a small excerpt from Mississippi Mud – a completed Novella.

Chapter 1

It had been one of those days. One of those days only found in Tennessee William’s stories and along the banks of the wide Mississippi. One of those days when the muddy water of the wandering old man ran flat like molasses, the lethargic turn of a bass, or something less interesting, the only sign that life did exist below its flat brown surface.

The August sun had been relentless, the oppressive heat stifling and the humidity smothering.

And days like today always preclude nights like tonight in the Mississippi Delta. A night not unlike the one that Robert Johnson, standing at an isolated crossroads in the Mississippi Delta, handed more than just his guitar to the Devil.
Flipping his Zippo open he ran his thumb across the flint wheel and lit his cigarette. Snapping it shut he placed it on the scratched Formica and gave it a spin.

Pulling a napkin out of the matt black dispenser he unfolded it and wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead.

Broad ceiling fans, small tufts of lint and dust clinging to the patina of grease that covered their wooden paddles, looped lethargically.
Glancing at an old Seth school clock above the front entrance John O’Bannon wondered if Miss Lee would be a no-show.

Snippets of chatter drifted up from the four old men sitting at the back of the Cat Bucket, a Vicksburg eatery that specialized in fresh-caught catfish and was frequented by the locals. He watched idly while an apron-wrapped busboy cleared tables.

Sitting on a small knoll overlooking the Mississippi, the Cat Bucket had been around since the war. No need to ask which war, there was only one when it came to the south.

He’d followed Warrenton road, the main blacktop that followed the river south of Vicksburg, right on an old gravel road by the cider stand, west to the ‘old hangin’ tree where he’d turned left and parked his car in a dusty gravel lot that filled the expanse between the restaurant and the muddy bank of the river.

“Hell no, son,” the wrinkled old gas station attendant had explained, “That’s the tree where we hanged all them there Yanks in the war.” Deciding that might not explain it completely, he spit on the broken concrete apron for emphasis and added, “That there’s sacred ground.”

Left to his thoughts in the ratty booth swimming in the heavy night air of the old clapboard restaurant, he took a drag of his smoke and sorted through the strange string of events that found him sweating in a catfish restaurant in the Deep South on a hot August night like tonight.

***

John O’Bannon, ex-Chicago-homicide-detective, stats like most cops, was a divorced father of two, a house in the burbs he never visited but still made payments on, and an ex-wife that despised him in an oddly mutual sort of way. Married too young, loved too little, his children already in college, he’d decided to throw in the towel and take early retirement.
From hell raising teen, to blissful newlywed, to proud father - twice, to woeful domestic kidnap victim, to giddy hostage survivor in twenty-five years. A lifetime, he was sure. And he had the scars to prove it.

On the street at forty-five with no real skills other than filling out police reports, solving the occasional murder mystery and shooting a handgun with uncanny accuracy, he’d drifted a few months before accepting an offer from Don Brakin, the Detective that broke him in many years before.

Retired ten years now, Don’s offer sounded as good as any and he’d taken it. Providing security for visiting dignitaries, politicians, the occasional rock star, and anyone else that felt that venturing into the public venue unprotected was dangerous, it was a puff job that paid a little better than his old one and he’d started getting comfortable with life again when, as is often the case, things changed.

At first he’d thought his wife wanted to squeeze the turnip some more when a lawyer showed up at Don’s office, briefcase in hand, and asked for a little private time with one John O’Bannon.

“My name is Nigel White of White, White and Jackson, a small law office in Vicksburg, Mississippi.”

Can’t be the ex he’d decided and invited the seersucker clad gentleman and his good ol’ boy accent into the small coffee room just off Don’s office.

“Nice to meet you,” John shook his hand and added, “I guess. What can I do you for, Mr. White?” Mr. White didn’t smile much and John was sure his pasty white face would crack if he did. Instead, he popped the latches on his briefcase while explaining, “It’s about your Uncle, Mr. O’Bannon.” Pulling out some stapled papers, he’d shoved them across the sticky tabletop and waited.

John picked them up and read as far as ‘…last will and testament of Robert Lee Sneed’ before looking up.

“I guess you didn’t hear,” Mr. White said.

“That’s an understatement. Who the hell is Robert Lee Sneed?”

“Actually, he’s your great-Uncle on your mother’s side. He married the sister of your mother’s mother, Lorry Sue.”

“You still got me, buddy. Sounds like a lot of mothers to me.” He decided Mr. White probably didn’t have a mother of his own when the hard ass façade stayed the course.

Leafing through papers, Mr. White looked up and asked, “You ARE the only son of Patrick and Deborah O’Bannon?”

“I sure ARE,” John said and got up, dropped some coins in the old coffee machine, slapped it twice on the dirty worn spot on the front, and watched a cup fill.

“Did you know your grandmother had a sister?”

“Sure didn’t.”

From Mr. White’s demeanor it would seem not knowing you had a great-aunt that had lived and died without crossing your doorstep was a deadly sin. And as far as John knew, in the south, it was.

“Do you have some kind of identification, Mr. O’Bannon?”

The guy was starting to tick John off. “Sure do,” he’d said, crossing his arms across his chest and asked in his best bad-cop voice, “Do you, Mr. White?”

“Mr. O’Bannon, this has been in probate for nine months. If you are, in fact, the only son of Patrick and Deborah O’Bannon, then you are the last living heir to the estate of Robert Lee Sneed.”

Few things left John O’Bannon speechless and he wasn’t about to let this prick ruin his track record. Setting his paper coffee cup on the table he’d quipped, “I guess the buck stops here then.”

It was no great surprise when Mr. White hadn’t seen the humor in that one either as he slid an officious looking piece of paper, check attached with a paperclip, across the table.

It had taken a month to tie up loose ends. He’d paid off the mortgage on his ex-house leaving his ex-wife very happy. He’d sent both his children some of the money along with his new address, sold his old car, got on a plane, and set off to discover Vicksburg, Mississippi and the late and great Uncle Robert Lee Sneed.

***

Yes, he thought, here I am.

Just before eleven Flora came around with a scorched Silex pot and said, “Last call, Sweetie, we’re gonna close in a few more minutes.”

They called it Mississippi Mud on the menu. An acquired taste he thought. And after a month in Vicksburg hanging with the locals and watching the kudzu grow, the thick brew was starting to annoy the hell out of him. He still shoved his china mug toward the edge of the table and smiled as Flora tipped her pot.

“And here’s your check, Hon,” she said sliding a pink counter check with ‘Thank You’ on the back, through the sugar that had slipped off his spoon.

A few gritty sips later and a last look around the mostly empty restaurant and he started to push out of the booth when the rusty spring on the dilapidated screen door announced a new arrival. Settling back in the rickety booth he waited to see who it was.

He’d never met her so he really couldn’t say but watched, mesmerized, as a true southern bell walked through the door.

Her honey-blond hair was shoulder length and brought to mind the 60’s with a broad white band holding it off her ears. The straight-cut bangs that hid her eyebrows and her small chest gave her a girlish look. He guessed she was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five.

“How ya’all doin’ there, Flora May?”

He watched Flora May look up from swatting a fly and say in a smartass sort of way, “We’re doin’ just fine, Jeri Lynn.”

Her dress was a sleeveless A-line in red linen with a turned down collar and a handful of quarter size white buttons from just between her small breasts to six inches above her knee-length hem.

He noticed the gab club at the back of the restaurant stopped mid gab and wondered if they were staring as openly as he was.

You couldn’t call it showing up late. Jeri Lynn Lee, at least he guessed this beautiful creature was Miss Lee, completed her grand entrance by walking along the counter, white handbag clutched under her arm, her free hand running along the edge of the chipped Formica counter, and stopped just short of mid-way.

Spinning on a white three-inch heel, she leaned against the counter, cocked her hip, and struck a pose between two gaudy, red-vinyl covered, counter stools looking directly at him just long enough to make him feel uncomfortable.

He was surprised when she pushed off the counter and headed back toward the rusty screen door, a languid sway to her hips, saying in a southern sing-song, “Well, I guess I better get on home now, Flora May.”

Picking up her Silex, Flora dumped the last of her Mississippi Mud down the sink and replied, “You tell Mr. Lee we all said hey there, Jeri Lynn.”

He watched as her red summer dress disappeared with an annoying screech and wooden slap of the old screen door. Grabbing his check and his recently acquired seersucker jacket, required attire in the south, he stepped to the counter and threw a couple of bills down beside his check. Not bothering with the change he headed out the door and thumped across the old tongue-in-groove porch trying to find the woman.

“Damn,” he muttered and knocked a balled fist on one of the rough-cut porch posts.

Stepping into the dusty gravel parking lot he headed for his old pick-up truck, a faded 1947 Studebaker one-ton with a cracked windshield, something he’d found in the equipment shed on the farm he now called home, and wondered what the hell had just happened.
Just as he stepped on the sideboard of his old truck and pulled down on the door handle he saw the red glow of a cigarette coming from the passenger side of the cab. The door groaned in protest, the end dropping half an inch as he pulled it open, and there she was.

He couldn’t see her but he could certainly smell her. Sweet; smells of spring and jasmine. The musty old pick-up cab never smelled better.

Offering a hand, he said, “Miss Lee, I presume.”

Taking a drag from her cigarette, the butt glowing, she said, “Just get in and get going before Flora throws the Vicksburg four out.”

Looking back at the white clap-board building he saw the busboy sweeping the porch and noticed the red neon ‘OPEN’ sign had been turned off.

The old truck threw gravel as he made his getaway.

***

At the blacktop she pointed right and he headed south. His second attempt at conversation had gone unanswered so he worked the old truck through the gears and found a speed it seemed comfortable with and waited.

Just past an ornate white-brick entrance on the right she said, “Take the next road to the right. It’s right up there.” And she pointed, the glow of her burning fag a beacon that bobbed between her pointing fingers.

Slowing down he found an old gravel lane with twin ‘No Trespassing’ signs on the two fence posts and turned off.

After half a mile of potholed ruts and bushes and branches scraping the faded green paint of his old truck she pointed at a small pull off and said, “Park it there.”

She was out of the truck before he could shut the engine off and he watched as her red dress receded in the pale yellow glow of his headlights.

Finding the path she’d taken, he followed. On the phone she’d only confirmed that he was, in fact, John O’Bannon, and asked if it was true he did investigative work for hire. When he confirmed, she said, “Meet me at the Cat Bucket tonight at ten-thirty,” and hung up.

And here he was. Instincts told him something wasn’t quite right. Reaching under the back of his rumpled seersucker jacket, he pulled a small black handgun out and let it hang loosely at his side as he made his way along the path.

The air smelled earthy and damp and the stifling heat retreated as he followed the path down a mossy stone ledge that went off to the left. Water running, or falling, somewhere off to his right blanked the Mississippi night sounds.

When the path ended at a pebbled creek bed he looked back and could barely make out a drop off of about fifty-feet where the path had started down the stone ledge.

He could see a shimmer of white further up the creek and investigated. Set neatly on a large flat rock was a pair of white high-heels and a matching white purse, the white hair band stuffed in one of the shoes. Looking further up the small creek bed he saw a flash of color. Finding Miss Lee’s red dress neatly folded on a second flat bolder he picked up something wispy and discovered it was a silk stocking. The smooth material was still warm as it slid between his fingers. Leaving it with the dress he made his way further up the rocky creek bed and called out.

“Over here, Mr. O’Bannon.”

In the moonlight he could barely make out a dark line of water falling down a moss covered wall of rock from about the same height as the path he’d come down. Following the flow he could see the rock receded leaving the water in free-fall for about twenty feet before ending in a frothy white splash in a natural rock bowl about twenty-five-feet across at the base of the huge wall.

Miss Lee’s honey blond hair floated above the dark black pool. Stepping to the edge he said, “Well, Miss Lee, I think it’s time you explained what’s going on.”

She kicked around in the dark pool ignoring him completely.

Finally, turning in disgust, he stumbled on a few rounded creek stones and headed back the way he’d come.

“You need to start a fire. There’s wood over there,” he heard her splash some more before adding, “It gets really cold when you get out of the water.”

The southern drawl flowed like honey.

Turning back around he saw she’d moved to the far side of the pool and was climbing up on a heavy flat bolder at the edge of the waterfall.

Her skin was pale in the moonlight, her breasts small in contrast to her wide hips and long legs. Less hips and she’d look like a tomboy, he thought. As it was she looked ravishing as she ducked her head under the waterfall, hands covering her eyes, and disappeared through the curtain of water.

Overwhelming Evidence - Starting a new book

2007-11-04T20:20:00.002-06:00

Chapter 1

Unlike other more ordinary destinations across the south, Concordia parish did not suffer well the more common term for the purple haze of twilight. Nightfall would never do. In Concordia parish night would never aspire to something as clumsy or unrefined as falling. In Concordia parish the night arrived.

That arrival was often heralded with the melodic warble of cardinals settling in for the night, the occasional haunting calls of the osprey defending their nests and the sporadic delicate titter of the tufted titmouse providing a final evening melody.
A blanket of cicadas and crickets, along with the sonorous undulations of a variety of frogs, were harbinger to the majestic advent of this night’s arrival.

And as with all majestic advents, more than a modicum of intrigue and Machiavellian machinations clung to the purple cape of this particular day’s closing.

Michael Landon Marceaux sat in Hurley’s café, fingers wrapped around a heavy china mug of coffee, oblivious to such underhanded maneuverings. Instead intent on the wide polished oak door the other side of Ferriday, Louisiana’s main street, where he’d watched her disappear.

He tried to recall that last time he’d seen her. It had been his father’s death that had brought him home. Still in his last year of law at Tulane, he’d been surprised to find her standing among the knot of somber mourners that rainy day who’d come to say goodbye.

Their eye’s had met at the graveside and she’d been the first to look away. A small parade of polite hugs, brusque handshakes and hollow well wishes preceded her apparition. Restrained, though sincere, her expression of regret had been heartfelt.

“I was so sorry to hear, Landon. He was such a good man. Thank God you’re just like him. What can I say?”

His first thought had been, I’ve been a fool Landon, would be nice. Instead he’d let her slender fingers slip from his hand and had said, “You look different, Creolla. I don’t know what it is. But different.”

She’d blushed and he’d smiled.

“And you look the same, Landon. You’re still my rock. You’ll always be my rock.”

He’d found it difficult to resolve such words of possession and durability as my and rock when measured against the ethereal remains of what had been his first true love.
“You’ll forget me. I mean, you’re going to Tulane. To New Orleans. To college. You’ll be out in the world and I’ll just be here,” she’d said as they’d kissed the pure and sincere kiss only high school sweethearts are capable of the night before his leaving.

“Never,” he’d said with the fervent sincerity only a small-town boy on the cusp of manhood could muster.

And he hadn’t. She’d haunted his dreams for weeks after his father’s funeral. And now, Ten years later, just the sight of her walking into Mason’s had brought the tender touch of her lips back to his along with a burning anger that surprised him.

No, it had been Creolla that had let go. It had been her letter just before Christmas his first year at Tulane that had declared her continued love just before saying how impossible it had all become.

Landon, dear, you must always know how much I love you. Just as I know I must not hold you back. I know in my heart you must be free. I know my love is not enough and that we are an impossible dream.

She’d glanced his way unseeing as she’d accepted Ethan Tyler Billodeaux’s hand and stepped from the low slung sports car they’d arrived in.

Her lilting laugh had penetrated the glass front of the Hurley’s café just before she was swallowed up by the quiet elegance of Mason’s restaurant.

She’d filled out. Become a woman. The watercolor of beauty she’d been ten years ago had transformed. She’d become a masterpiece in deep rich strokes of oil that fairly glowed on the drab canvas that was Ferriday.

Landon scowled as he dropped a few bills on the table beside his empty coffee cup. He wondered if she’d be there tomorrow to bid farewell to his mother as well.

***

The candle flickered and caught. Her hands moved to the next, the match burning short as the wick sputtered to life.

She regarded him with hooded eyes before crawling around on the bed like a cat to find her spot. With a throaty moan she stretched into the satin sheets before assuming her pose. The one he wanted. The one that brought ardor to the brutal sport their lovemaking had become over the years. The frightened submissive that had been so real all those years ago.

Before the thought could fade she amended. No, there is no lovemaking here, just carnal self-indulgence and mutual self-fulfillment.

Pushing her head into the pillow, she raised her ass and spread her knees finding perch on the mattress and waited. When the mattress sagged, she moaned. The warm weight of his palm on her rump brought a whimper of anticipation to her throat.

“Yes,” she whispered pulling balls of satin sheet into her fists as he started his rutting.

His hard body draped over hers and he sneered into her ear, “You’re just a whore.”

“Yes,” She mewed and pushed back against him.

“Nothing but a fucking whore.”

Her throat felt dry and her eyes closed as she gulped.

He lifted off her back and arched his own leaning into her, plumbing her depths with his hard cock and then the yelling started.

“I know what a whore like you needs!”

Their sweating bodies slapped together as her smoldering need burst into flames.

“A whore like you never gets enough!”

“No,” she grunted in submissive agreement.

“A whore like you isn’t happy at home, waiting!”

Her hips rocked to accommodate when he slammed into her again.

“A whore like you isn’t happy with just one cock!”

She tightened around him and exhaled in a long sigh.

“A filthy rutting whore like you wants her cunt used!”

Her breath caught.

“A fucking bitch in heat like you has to have it in her all the time!”

With the force of a freight train it hit. Her whole body exploded in one big convulsion and her legs went numb. But he didn’t stop. She new he could last an eternity and she hoped he did.

“A fucking whore like you would do it on the courthouse lawn in broad daylight if I wanted you to!”

All control was gone as her body quivered and quaked, the last of her strength being fucked away by his unrelenting cock while he proved his stamina once again.

When he pulled her hair back and slammed into her harder, her jaw fell slack from the mind numbing pleasure.

“Yes,” he hissed, “You’d fuck anything. You’d have fucked our waitress tonight if I’d wanted you to!”

“Yes,” she mumbled. She knew she would. She already had. Right here in this bed. She knew she would always do anything he wanted. Anything he demanded.

“You would have eaten her pussy right there on the table,” he grunted.

“Fuck,” an explanation of overwhelming pleasure as her head lulled and he pulled her hair harder, her back swaying.

“You would have watched me fuck her first! Watched me fill her with come!”

“Yes. Yes,” her voice was a breathy wisp of concordance. She could hear the roar of the freight train in her head. She knew it was going to hit her again. Slam her body into blissful oblivion.

“Then you would have eaten her! Made her come!”

“Yes!” she yelled in response to his thundering narration of things she’d already done too many times to count.

“You need it!”

Her breathing became a hard pant, she felt limp and weak and spent but she could feel it lurking, feel the tracks vibrate. She knew it was waiting just out of sight from the tingle in her thighs and clenching of her stomach. She heard his breathing quicken with each hard slam into her sopping cunt.

“Yes,” she moaned as his body stiffened, his cock swelled, and he exploded filling her with his foul seed. And as unstoppable as a freight train, her freight train, she exploded a second time. She exploded only as he could make her and clung desperately to her rock.

“Anything,” she whimpered as they collapsed in a heap on the sheets.

And, once again, as always happened in the aftermath of their angry masochistic couplings; her mind flooded with disgust and revulsion.

It was not at Ethan Tyler Billodeaux or her father.

But with herself and what she’d become. The willing heartless whore he wanted. The same whore that couldn’t wait to have his hands on her body. The same whore that craved his bitter fruit and lived and breathed just for him.

With renewed resolve she watched him snore as she pulled her dress on.

Another Roscoe James Reader

2007-11-03T19:17:00.000-06:00

There is no greater reward as a writer than knowing your work is being enjoyed to the fullest.