Been a long time since I posted. Busy Busy Busy.
Click on the titles for more information, buy links and an excerpt.
I finally got my thriller, Mapping the Glades, out. E-book only until I can get the &%^($@ formatting right for the print edition. Available at most e-book stores.
The sequel, Programed for Love, is now available, also.
Down Home, a 29,000 word sci-fi vampire mystery is now available. It’s related to the contemporary vampire thrillers – Blood Justice and Blood on the Water – as well as the historical (1650 France) Simone Gireaux origin stories – An Accidental Vampire, New Blood and Young Blood.
A couple nonsense poems in lieu of anything clever.
For Readers —
The Cave or Damsel in Distress Cleans the Mess
A cave in an asteroid, so dark and so deep.
Perhaps an alien’s own private keep?
What sort of secrets would it have down below?
Could it be something, we don’t want to know?
Maybe a woman snatched from a ship,
While the alien snacked on the crew, smacking it’s lip.
She could be waiting, we know not where,
Floating around lonely, in that space monster’s lair.
She might be wishing that we’d stay away.
Maybe it’s only waiting, for an entree.
Then it would eat her for a great new dessert.
So much better than, dirty old dirt.
Who’s to say how it might like to behave
Down in that deep dark terrible cave.
Cold and damp with green slimy walls
And nasty little creatures that slither the halls.
Mud that babbles and bubbles and burps,
That sucks you down slow, so that it hurts.
The air is so thin that you just cannot think,
Especially because, it really does stink.
There are big rocks and little rocks and rocks and more rocks
The rocks that aren’t round are rocks that are blocks.
The plants are all scraggly and ooze yellow pus.
If we were to visit, they’d try to eat us.
The bugs are hairy and hungry and swarm in a bunch,
Just flying around waiting for somebody for lunch.
All the creatures are ugly as ugly can be
And whenever possible have blood for their tea.
There are vapors and mists and dark yellow fogs
That would make someone think of storybook bogs.
The cave is so nasty and dismal and damp,
Not even Boy Scouts would think there to camp.
If help takes to long, to the damsel’s distress.
To break the monotony, she might clean up the mess.
It would take a long time, a century or two,
By that time she’d probably be too tough stew.
It could be so nice that she’d say to her friend,
“I think my dear alien, I’ll stay till end.”
And she and her alien could cruise on through space
And together they might raise, a whole brand new race.
they might raise, a whole brand new race.
Ode to a Manuscript
If I should die before the return of my manuscript,
Please bring those faded pages down to my crypt.
There I’ll hold them in my cold boney fingers
And inspect the red ink that still there lingers.
Then my ghost will slip the paper so light,
Onto a publishers desk late some night.
They’ll take those crumbling pages so late
And make a million for my great grandaughter’s estate.