Writing with N. D. Hansen-Hill...
On writing SFF & horror novels, publishers & publishing...and the writing life... Watch for book excerpts!
Name: N. D. Hansen-Hill
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AUTHOR: N. D. Hansen-Hill
GENRE: Fantasy/Time Travel
PUBLISHER: Cerridwen Press
ISBN: 978-1-60202-061-0
RATING: PG
BLURB: Shawn Walsh's problems don't arise from his own troubled past but from someone else's. Fires, floods, battles, bone-rattling quakes — he's frequently an unwilling and horrified participant in events long gone. For when The Hollowing claims him, his present dissolves.
Unfortunately, his problems have everything to do with family and his rather questionable heritage — with a birthright he'd rather know nothing about. Lost and tossed about by destiny, trapped and extorted by those long deceased, he's tired of playing a victim.
And he refuses to give up hope. There is still a chance he'll be able to resolve his issues without dying, given the right place… And enough time.
BOOK LINK:>>http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=9781419916465<<
AUTHOR WEBSITES: N. D. Hansen-Hill | Melody Knight
EXCERPT:
Open the door.
But he couldn’t. His arm was rigid, his fingers clenched.
And he couldn’t make himself touch the knob.
Safe. Stay where you’re safe…
There was something waiting for him on the stairs. His impression of darkness—of The Hollowing—hadn’t been exaggerated. He stood there, shaking, and listened. Beyond the wooden partition the thick silence was giving way.
Breaking down the barriers.
Little whispers, small thuds, soft rustling cascades of movement.
Rats. Only rats.
Thuds and thunks. Rattles and clatters. And then a sound Shawn couldn’t attribute to anything else—the squeak and echo of a heavy tread on wood.
Someone was ascending the stairs.
Shawn was holding his breath so he could listen. He didn’t even realize it until his heart started throbbing in his ears. He stood there stiffly and listened to it coming.
The door’s unlocked. An invitation if ever there was one.
The knob was ice-cold beneath his fingers. The chill spread up his arm but he didn’t let it sway him. He squinted his eyes and yanked open the door.
The noise swept through him, carrying with it a rancid stink and a flurry of movement. He couldn’t see anything but darkness and there was noise all around him.
It was a fire. The crackling flames leapt up, roaring, popping, hissing. Screaming sizzles, mini explosions, whines of venting gas.
And then it was merely screams. Shouts that escalated to howls and shrieks. Terror. That’s what this was—terror. Old emotions, dredged up and waiting. The stink of must mingled with the rancid odor of burning hair. Shawn dropped to his knees, sick and sweating.
He fell down the stairs, hitting the landing with a gigantic crash. He couldn’t hear it though—couldn’t hear anything over the cacophony in his ears. In a half roll, half dive he splatted to the bottom floor and crawled, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered for the outer door.
It was closed. Locked. He yanked on the knob, fumbled with the lock but it wouldn’t give. He couldn’t get the hinges loose on the door. The pins were as tight as the lock. No way out.
He ran to the window and slammed the glass with a chair. Glass gave, bars didn’t. He rattled and shook and pounded.
Phone.
He yanked out his cell phone. It was dead.
Like me.
Around him the air seethed. It was transmitting itself to the furnishings. Chairs scraped, dust spiraled, papers flew.
Shawn barely noticed over the smoke pouring into his eyes.
There was only one way out. The upstairs room with its cool moonlight and empty spaces. Shawn flattened his hands over his ears, squinted his eyes and headed for the steps. His flesh was burning as he crawled, clambered and wriggled up the stairs.
At the top he slammed back the door and dove…
Onto a pyre of flame.
News & Networking
It's been a busy week as usual. Of Dragons was released by Red Rose last Thursday, and it's been full on ever since. I have to admit I've learned a fair bit about promotion this week, and networking with other authors and author sites. Some of the romance sites, like Simply Romance , are extremely generous with both their time and their space. I finished the first round of edits on Gray Beginnings, and will be hastily contriving a suitable blurb. The edits for GlassWorks should be in the Inbox shortly, too. In a few minutes I'll be posting on Tales of the Trade. My blog post is due there today.
WIP & Other Things: Only a thousand words added this week to my "Nocturne Bites" effort, but I did submit a blurb for Art & Soul to the open call at Nocturne. This is a quick in effort, with decisions being made by April 16th. I love these mini subs and competitions because they spur me on either to try new genres or venues or to finish what I began months ago. The Nocturne "call" only lasts until the 8th, I believe, so it's time for a quick decision if you're a paranormal pennist.
A new, and quite exciting, Yahoo loop opened this week called "Paranormal Monday". Enthusiasm by authors, with excerpts being greeted enthusiastically by readers.
Oh, wrote an interesting poem this week entitled, "Fragile". I'm in the finals for the Poetry.com Editors' Choice competition, and to qualify, I needed another poem. It was the second poem for the week—the first being the one for Gray Beginnings. I was waxing poetic all over the place, LOL!
Authors of Note: Today's Author of Note/Publishing-Promotional Guru of Note is Jean Lauzier. Jean introduces us to an anthology entitled, Return of the Sword. About the book—"Return of the Sword is a brand new anthology of blood-pounding, spine-tingling stories by some of fantasy's most critically acclaimed Sword and Sorcery authors.
Stacey Berg, Bill Ward, Phil Emery, Jeff Draper, Nicholas Ian Hawkins, David Pitchford, Ty Johnston, Jeff Stewart, Angeline Hawkes, Robert Rhodes, E.E. Knight, James Enge, Michael Ehart, Thomas M. MacKay, Christopher Heath, Nathan Meyer, S.C. Bryce, Allen B. Lloyd, William Clunie, Steve Goble, Bruce Durham, and Harold Lamb present you with enough fast paced adventure to keep you reading for hours.
A hand painted, wrap around cover by fantasy artist Johnney Perkins ensures that Return of the Sword will not only be enjoyable to read, but also look good on your coffee table or bookshelf.
Too long have the halls of fantasy been dominated by packs of weak-kneed elves hunting goblins and doughty dwarves mining for gold. Return now to the days of true adventure. Unsheath your sword and enter if you dare!"
And, an excerpt, of course—this one from from “The Red Worm’s Way: A Tale of Morlock Ambrosius”—by James Enge
Morlock's interest in gold was slight indeed; he made it by the boxful whenever he needed some, which was not often. But, as a maker of things, he had once had some interest in coins. He glanced instinctively at the discs in her hands.
They were of a type new to him. Each design was different, and some were horrible – he could see headless corpses and hanged men on a few of the gold cartwheels she held out to him. The coins might be solid and perhaps they were gold, but he doubted they were good in any generally accepted meaning of the word. They stank of evil magic.
He was about to say as much when one of the coins, showing what appeared to be a crow or raven wearing a crown, winked at him. It could have been a trick of the light, but he didn't think so.
"What will you take for that one?" he asked, pointing at the crow-coin.
Guile entered the eyes of the grieving woman. "That is an especially valuable one, sir. They say the Crow King will do any service for the person who holds this coin."
Morlock grunted skeptically and said, "How much for it?"
"I am not selling these coins, sir. I'm offering them to pay for a service. You cannot buy this coin; you may earn it."
"By keeping the Strigae from chewing up your husband's corpse tonight."
"Please do not speak so disrespectfully of the Sisters of the Red Worm (I summon them not!). But that is the general idea."
Morlock thought idly about knocking her down, taking the coin and running away with it. But his conversation with the woman had drawn a crowd of interested listeners; he doubted he would get away clean. Besides, stealing magical gold often had unintended consequences. On the other hand, he could just say, "No," and walk away. But it occurred to him that he wasn't going to do that.
"All right," he said. "Keep the others; I just want that coin with the crow."
"I will give it to you tomorrow morning."
"If I keep your husband's corpse intact."
"Oh no. Not at all. If you stay on watch through the night I will give you the coin, even if the Unnamed Ones violate poor Thelyphron. But . . ."
"But?"
"Our law says that whatever parts are missing from a dead body after a vigil must be made up by the watcher."
"So if poor Thelyphron's nose is missing in the morning, he will be buried with mine? Likewise liver or testicles?"
"Yes. That is only fair, wouldn't you say?"
Morlock considered the question briefly. "No. Where do I stand, or sit, this wake?"
Teasers (interesting facts that might stir a story some day soon): Those shiny and reflective fish which so draw our eyes, and frequently take a starring role in our aquariums? A new study has determined that the unique shape of the skin's guanine crystals is what provides that intense reflectivity. This is an anti-predator camouflage response, for fish which swim near the water's surface. There's no point denying that these are flashy fish! I went to the zoo last weekend, and in the penguin enclosure, where wee penguins were swooping after their food, it was the food—flashy fish—which kept catching my eye! It should have been birds that fly underwater, instead! For more information, visit http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/01/080114100008.htm.
Save Your World: Free rice (learn new words and donate rice as you do it! Always a favorite!) http://www.freerice.com/index.php
Excerpts: From Gilded Folly
It was no longer dark, but Dacey was beginning to wish it were. A subsonic hum vibrated her eardrums and her teeth, the resonance rising into audible range, where it shook her body.
Like a microwave. The cooked scenario entered her head, but she wouldn’t let herself think it. It was enough of a prod, though, to get her moving. Her unseen adversaries weren’t entirely stationary. She would like to believe that was more mechanical action, too, like the hum, but the sounds were far too restless"like a multitude of boots grinding and crunching on gravel.
Alive. No inanimate pistons or gears. Claws and teeth, restlessly gnawing away at rock...
Stop it! Dacey swore right then that no matter what, she wouldn’t give up without a fight.
She ran for the steps"for where she hoped they’d be. You fell down them"landed on your knees.
Get it right, Girl...last chance...
The light was so startling she tripped over her feet and went sprawling. It wasn’t coming from the walls or the ceiling. It was coming from her skin.
Her own body was brightening the room, like a white shirt under black light.
The sight was so shocking Dacey froze. All kinds of thoughts were running through her head. She was so caught up in confusion, that she almost missed the movement.
The walls were losing integrity, as man-size pieces detached and dropped limply to the stone floor. Rustle-thud, rustle-thunk. Now, the pieces shivered and shook, then arose, finding their whole within the fallen tangle of limbs. Skeletally thin beings, with a near-human cast...
...arising out of rock.
Dacey backed away, and headed once more for the steps"only to find they’d beat her there.
They’ve been in the dark so long...
It was almost as though she could read their thoughts. Her light was a lure, to draw them in. They wanted light...and heat.
...but mostly, they wanted food.
Dacey opened her mouth and began to scream.
www.NDHansen-Hill.com
www.MelodyKnight.com
www.myspace.com/ndmanuscripts
Thanks to www.mikesfreegifs.com and www.wilsoninfo.com for the use of the animated gifs!
AUTHOR: Melody Knight
GENRE: Mainstream Romance Sci-Fi/Fantasy
PUBLISHER: Red Rose Publishing
ISBN: 978--1-60435-077-7
RATING: Explicit sexual content
BLURB: Ryon Colley can't understand what's happening to his life. This morning, he was a policeman investigating a potential hazard: a sparking, flashing, rainbow-spitting light show in the sky overhead. The source of the odd light appeared to be an unruly-haired blonde hellion, who couldn't figure out what normal was. Her radiant display scared him, but his physical reaction to it scares him more. By lunchtime he's gone from having coarse brown hair, to sporting a head full of blond locks—and from facing felons, to fending off thousands of voracious dragonflies.
Glynt has been sent to Earth to guard the dimensional gateways, but her arrival spawns nothing but trouble. Quite accidentally, she's summoned swarms of dragonflies, and lured in captors determined to return her—clearly a mischief maker—to her own world. Only Ryon—her gilded hero and the object of her newfound dreams—can rescue her from certain death.
AUTHOR WEBSITES: N. D. Hansen-Hill | Melody Knight
EXCERPT: She was nearly dressed when she heard them. The vibration rattled the shiny Christmas ornaments on her dressing table, making the glass ping harshly against the table top.
No!
Her fingers clasped the adamantine dragonfly encircling her neck, as terror quickened her heartbeat. Chills raced down her limbs in spiky little arrays. That sound—that horrifying, buzzing thunder—was one she recognized, deep inside. The fear of them—and their appetites—had been bred into her through a hundred generations.
Glynt ran. Panicked, she fled the bedroom with its flimsy-looking glass and raced for the balcony doors. They were thick fire doors—surely, they could resist the impact?
Ten thousand dragonfly wings…
The daylight went. The thickness of the horde—the sheer mass—was blotting out the sun. Desperate, near-petrified, she yanked the curtains closed.
The ramming slam of ten thousand exoskeletonned bodies splintered the glass, but it didn’t stop the beating—that horrific, mechanical swish of their wings. They were driving themselves at the doors, at the glass, frenzied. Day sounds were lost in the ceaseless roar of overlying wing beats.
In the bedroom, the glass imploded. Shatters of refracted light caught her eye, as they showered the door jamb.
As they blasted through, onto the carpet.
I didn’t close the door.
Her eyes widened in horror, and she raced for the exit. She was nearly to the front door when it began vibrating. They were in the hall, in hunting mode, and desperate to get to her.
Hide.
Where?! Frantic, she ran back to the curtained windows, in hopes of fooling Them. She was out of her element, and hidey holes were nowhere to be found. She cowered down, wrapped herself in curtain fabric, and scrunched into her smallest form. Already, she knew it wouldn’t help—couldn’t help. They were lured. Starving. Driven. Those multifaceted eyes would find her.
Ever hungry, they’d hunt her…on the wing.
News & Networking
I finished my haunted house story, A Spirited Encounter, on Tuesday, then on Wednesday wrapped up a novella I want to sub to Nocturne. I don't know if it'll make the grade (I wrote it in 4 days), but they have a submissions call at the moment, and I don't want to miss out.
Cut & Polish, my short story for All Romance eBooks, was released in their newsletter this week, so if you get it, please take a look! I was really thrilled to see it there! Oh, also finished the second edits for The Hollowing last week, and now have the release date: April 17th. Yay!
For those of you interested in writing for Nocturne, check out Nocturne Bites. You might just get the chance! http://community.eharlequin.com/forums/write-stuff/guidelines-new-nocturne-bites
WIP: just my archaeology manuscript and a Lotus Circle WIP left unfinished at this point. Halfway finished with both!
Other things: Shelley Munro was kind enough to request an interview with me this week on her blog. Now, Shelley is not only multipublished, but extremely versatile. She is also a Kiwi, and I sometimes see her at our monthly writers' meetings. Being on her blog makes me feel as if I've "arrived". Her books are very popular!
I have a newspaper interview next week. I don't get nervous at interviews, but want to do my best. I'll have to remind myself to think before I speak, rather than blurt. My last interviewer even included some of my "uh"s and "what I meant to say"s <G>. It's sometimes a little embarrassing to see how your words come across when you don't write them yourself <cheesy grin>. I'm a romance writer now, too, who sometimes dabbles in erotica, and that's a whole different kettle of fish...so to speak!
***
Tempter (I may want to stick this in a book some time): From Rapunzel's hair to eliminating sound waves, this article discusses how many of the magical aspects of fairy tales may actually be true. Carpets can be carried aloft by vibrations, and steered via pulse beats. For fantasy writers like me, who like to base their stories on facts, this really supplies a fascinating jumping off point. To read more, visit http://www.livescience.com/strangenews/080211-fairytales-science.html
Save Your World: Disaster Relief Volunteer Match (need a hands-on solution to disaster? find one close to home here) http://www.volunteermatch.org/opportunities/disaster_relief.jsp
Now, an excerpt from one of my books - enjoy!
From Trees, by N. D. Hansen-Hill, published by Fictionwise
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/eBook3063.htm
Unfleshed, he drifted through the trees—dark and massive against the skeletal whiteness of the cold bark. His ragged contours shifted, subject to the fickle breeze, while his dripping remnants fed the Earthen soil.
He had little strength here. His substance was no more than a gelid parody. Still, the sight of him—of his skull-like visage and dangling tissues—was enough to chill the spirit of his would-be prey.
His empty eyeholes stared in uncaring disdain at the glitter of this world. Unseeing of the dew-drenched leaves, or the moonbright pastures, he had vision only for that which would satisfy his needs.
The most important of these was hunger. An insatiable hunger, which made no distinction between domination and dining. For was not consumption the ultimate form of dominance?
A hiss of satisfaction curved his gaping mouth in a caricature of a grin, that was somehow far more frightening than its death-head stillness. The creature’s cravings took him drifting up a slope, to peer in the windows of an empty house. A snarl sliced the night as sharply as his claws could sometimes rend flesh. His purpose had been thwarted by time and distance—a taunting of memory on the breeze, or perhaps, an enigmatic taste of what was to come.
He floated away from the white dwelling, to seek better feeding grounds. Another place where he would have solidity, and mass, and the ability to consume that which he most craved.
But, as he melted into the forest darkness, the black eyeholes cast a backwards glance—a glitter of awareness momentarily brightening them with a silvered-purple glint. The white house, the trees, the promise of future success—all were lodged in the wisps of his memory. And the formidable retentive abilities of his kind were legend. Offend him once, and he would never forget. He would come again, at another time, in another place, to claim you as his own.
Somewhere in this place lay the promise of a rare delicacy. The flavour of a prize that was as difficult to catch, as it was pleasurable to consume.
The creature’s salivation fed the dripping residue of his already leaking tissues. The taint of his brightly-aura’d prize lay on the breeze, on the old wood of the dwelling, on the grass heads that shivered beneath his feet. If its prey had visited here so frequently as to leave its imprint upon this place, then it would come again.
It would come, but it would not leave.
Trees http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/eBook3063.htm
Cheers,
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/eBook3063.htm
Unfleshed, he drifted through the trees—dark and massive against the skeletal whiteness of the cold bark. His ragged contours shifted, subject to the fickle breeze, while his dripping remnants fed the Earthen soil.
He had little strength here. His substance was no more than a gelid parody. Still, the sight of him—of his skull-like visage and dangling tissues—was enough to chill the spirit of his would-be prey.
His empty eyeholes stared in uncaring disdain at the glitter of this world. Unseeing of the dew-drenched leaves, or the moonbright pastures, he had vision only for that which would satisfy his needs.
The most important of these was hunger. An insatiable hunger, which made no distinction between domination and dining. For was not consumption the ultimate form of dominance?
A hiss of satisfaction curved his gaping mouth in a caricature of a grin, that was somehow far more frightening than its death-head stillness. The creature’s cravings took him drifting up a slope, to peer in the windows of an empty house. A snarl sliced the night as sharply as his claws could sometimes rend flesh. His purpose had been thwarted by time and distance—a taunting of memory on the breeze, or perhaps, an enigmatic taste of what was to come.
He floated away from the white dwelling, to seek better feeding grounds. Another place where he would have solidity, and mass, and the ability to consume that which he most craved.
But, as he melted into the forest darkness, the black eyeholes cast a backwards glance—a glitter of awareness momentarily brightening them with a silvered-purple glint. The white house, the trees, the promise of future success—all were lodged in the wisps of his memory. And the formidable retentive abilities of his kind were legend. Offend him once, and he would never forget. He would come again, at another time, in another place, to claim you as his own.
Somewhere in this place lay the promise of a rare delicacy. The flavour of a prize that was as difficult to catch, as it was pleasurable to consume.
The creature’s salivation fed the dripping residue of his already leaking tissues. The taint of his brightly-aura’d prize lay on the breeze, on the old wood of the dwelling, on the grass heads that shivered beneath his feet. If its prey had visited here so frequently as to leave its imprint upon this place, then it would come again.
It would come, but it would not leave.
Trees http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/eBook3063.htm
Cheers,
News & Networking
Phew!
Only BloodWorks is waiting in the works. If I have any time left, I'd like to get Art & Soul, Artifact, and Sqweams rewritten and out to publishers this month, but the month is going quickly...
WIP: my haunted house story is sitting at 38,400 words, and I only plan on bringing it up to just over 50K. You'd think I'd be able to just whip that out, wouldn't ya? It's going veeeerrry slowly.
Other things: I have interviews this week on both Crystal Adkins' new interview site, and the Fallen Angels Review Blog (scroll down until you find my work). The FAR blog has numerous excerpts from my books, so if you'd like a sample of my writing, please pop over there in thanks to Cindy for doing such a nice job. Crystal is also working hard to develop her two sites (interview and review), so please consider paying her a visit. 
Friends of Note: Shiela Stewart is quickly developing a following for her romantic suspense novels! A bit about her, and her most recent release, Escape in Passion (in Shiela's own words): "Escape in Passion takes place several months after the end of Discovery in Passion. Victor Davis came to Passion to help out his friend, Thomas Healy, and his then girlfriend now wife, Cassie Evans, investigate a supposed murder suicide case. After helping to bring the true killers to justice, Vic decided to stick around and take up the vacant job as Staff Sergeant of the R.C.M.P. F-Division. The instant Vic entered book one, I knew he needed his own story. He is one of those secondary characters that just demand to be told. There was a mystery behind his sudden need to uproot himself from his home in Mississauga to move to a small town. And since Vic was a ladies man, of course the mystery had to involve a lady. I had barely finished writing Discovery in Passion when the need to tell Vic’s story simply poured from my finger tips. Victor Davis is quite the character and those that have read his story have instantly fallen in love with him. My hope is that every person that reads his story falls just as hard. Mercy in Passion, book three, will be out in March." Author: Shiela Stewart www.shielasbooks.ca Publisher: Linden Bay Romance For sale at: www.lindenbayromance.com
And, an excerpt:
There was a crisp chill in the air, and pulling up the collar of his regulation jacket, Vic strolled along the quiet streets he now called home. There were still some houses that were lit with Christmas lights, even though the holiday had been over for weeks now. Nineteen eighty-four had come in without much enthusiasm on Vic’s behalf. He hadn’t even bothered putting up a tree, much less lighting his house. There really wasn’t much point when you were alone.
Tom and Cassie, his two best friends, had gone off to spend the holidays with her family in the city, then off to their honeymoon in some hot resort in Mexico. Lucky bastard, his friend was. Not only had he met the woman of his dreams, but that very woman was every man’s, and boy’s, wet dream. She was blonde, stacked, and had curves in all the right places. And on top of it, she was knocked up, which only made her even sexier. Who knew watching a woman blossom with child could be sexy? Yet it was for Vic.
Not that he lusted after his best friend’s wife; he knew his boundaries, and he would never do anything to hurt his oldest and closest friend. But he could admit, at least to himself, that he was jealous of his friend. Tom had caught himself a real winner.
“Officer, oh, officer. I need your help.”
Turning his attention to the high pitched voice, Vic saw the elderly woman running towards him. Instinct kicked in; he prepared himself for the worst. “Is there a problem, Mrs. Dunbar?”
“Yes, yes, oh, dear, dear me.”
“Just relax, Mrs. Dunbar. Take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s Mr. Jingles, oh, Lord, he’s stuck under the tree.”
“Did you call for help?” Vic asked, rushing along with the woman as she led him to her house.
“I was just about to go into the house and call, but then
I saw you. Thank God. You have to help him.”
“Okay, just relax. Was he conscious when you left him?”
“Oh yes, and yelling his head off.”
“Okay, that’s good. What part of him is under the tree?”
Vic pulled out his radio and was about to call in for backup when she spoke.
“His tail.”
He paused not just in step, but thought as well. “Come again?”
“His tail. I heard him crying, so I went out to see where he’d gotten to, and I found him stuck under the tree.”
“His tail?”
“Yes,” she said with exasperation, leading him to the back of the house. “See.”
One look and Vic wanted to curse out loud. “That’s a cat.” And like she’d said, it was screaming its head off.
“It’s Mr. Jingles. I don’t know how he got himself stuck to the base of the tree. You have to help him, please, officer.”
Letting out a deep breath, Vic walked up to the tree.
Yep, she was right, the cat was stuck and apparently not just his tail, but it looked like his butt as well. Vic couldn’t help but laugh.
“This is no laughing matter, officer.”
He didn’t bother to correct her in regards to his rank but did stop laughing. Or at least he did his best not to laugh.
“Okay, let’s see what I can do.”
Biting his tongue, Vic knelt down to the cat, who looked like he was ready to shred anything that came near him. Thank God for the regulation work gloves Vic wore.
He pushed some snow away from the cat to get a better look. “Well, looks like I solved this one quickly.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Looks like Mr. Tinkles—”
“Jingles,” she corrected.
“Jingles, sorry, has gotten his butt stuck on his own urine.” Vic looked down at the panicked cat. “Don’t you know that when it’s this cold out, you shouldn’t put your butt down when you’re taking a leak?” he chastised the cat while he hissed and swiped his front paws at Vic.
“Can you help him?”
“I think I can. What I need you to do is go inside, run some hot water into a bucket and bring it out to me.” The instant she hurried to the house, Vic let the laughter roll.
How could he not find humor in the situation when the damn cat’s ass was frozen to the snow because of his own piss? “See, that’s where dogs are smarter. They lift their legs to pee and, therefore, prevent having their balls and ass stick to the snow.”
“Here we go.”
Biting his lip, Vic took the bucket of hot water from Mrs. Dunbar and knelt back down to the cat. “Now, be a good kitty and don’t claw my eyes out when I free you.”
“Don’t hurt my baby,” Mrs. Dunbar pleaded.
Nodding to her, Vic just hoped he wasn’t the one that got hurt. “Here we go.” Tilting the bucket, Vic began to pour the water beside the cat, in hopes it would melt the snow and release Mr. Jingles.
The cat hissed, began to claw wildly, kicking up snow in his fight to free himself.
“Mr. Jingles!” Mrs. Dunbar cried out.
Because he worried the cat would rip its balls off, Vic placed one hand on top of his back while he poured the rest of the water. It wasn’t easy holding Mr. Jingles down; the cat was large, fat but strong, and put up a good struggle.
The water melted the snow which released him from the spot he was frozen to, and Vic managed to scoop up the cat with both hands before it managed to run away.
“Hold up there, big guy. Let’s check you out.”
“Is he alright?”
The cat fought like it was being murdered and managed to dig his claws right through the thick leather gloves Vic wore. He cursed under his breath, shifting the wiggling cat to check out his backside.
That had been a major mistake.
Mr. Jingles wiggled, Vic lost his grip and the cat lunged at him, clinging to his jacket. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Mr. Jingles took one carefully aimed swipe at Vic’s face and scratched him right across his left cheek.
“Son of a bitch!” He dropped Mr. Jingles, and the cat instantly ran for the house.
“Mr. Jingles,” Mrs. Dunbar cried, racing to the house.
“You’re welcome,” Vic called out, dabbing at the fire on his cheek. “Brutal bastard,” he muttered under his breath, trudging his way through the alley and away from Satan’s spawn. Damn cat.
With his gloved hand, Vic covered the wound as he marched his way home. Do someone a favor and look what you end up with. What had his life come to? He’d resorted to freeing cats frozen to the snow because the feline was too stupid to take a piss inside when it was cold. Six months ago he’d been investigating major crimes, and now he was freeing stupid cats from the snow.
Lord, what had he been thinking?
“Well, hello, handsome.”
Glancing over, Vic smiled at the beautiful blonde with big, blue eyes and replied in a sexy growl, “Well, hello yourself.”
Finally, things were looking up.
Tempter (I may want to stick this in a book some time): functional Magnetic Resonance Imaging scans indicate that culture has a physiological impact on the brain, that can be seen in brain activity patterns. Culture has long been thought to affect development in terms of eating patterns, environmental influences, and tastes, but it can now be seen to affect perspective and judgment. Alterations to brain activity occur in exposure to other cultures for as little as six months. Read more. Sounds like an excellent reason to travel, and definitely contradicts the "old dogs can't learn new tricks". It may never be too late to change our outlook!
Save Your World: learn and donate at the same time. Free rice is donated for every correct word. I LOVE this charity! 
Now, an excerpt from one of my books - Trolls (paperback), methinks. Enjoy! A dust devil whirled lazily in the heat, spinning in aimless gyrations. Cheers,
Devils without...devils within? He scuffed the dirt, watching the dust motes drift across the cave mouth—bright bits of sunlight curtaining the darkness...
Idly, he scuffed his way inside. Only a few steps, from there to here, and his mother would never know. The dirt he’d stirred swirled around him, and he blinked to clear his eyes.
He heard it before he saw it. Behind him, there came a whisper in the dirt, and the first of the incessant rattles began. The dried husk rasp was joined by another, and another.
The boy twisted slowly, his limbs unnaturally stiff. The day was so hot...yet he’d never felt so frozen in his life. His heart started pounding in racing thuds within his chest.
He wasn’t the only one who’d come inside to escape the heat. Gooseflesh danced across his skin as the rattling tempo increased.
Snakes, and more snakes. He’d scuffed his way into a nest...
The biggest snake was in the entrance now, blocking his way. Two smaller ones slithered toward him, and one slid over his shoe. He stood there, trying not to move...trying not to do anything. Outside, beyond the snake guardian, another dust devil rose, swirled and died.
Like me. Eleven-year-old immortality vanished in an instant, as death rattled at his feet.
One was coiled up near his toes now. When he twitched, its coils tightened, and the head lifted into strike position...
Reason fled. He leapt for a dark gap in the rock, slid in a rain of snakes and dirt and ran for his life. Faster and faster, finding his way by feel alone, panic nipping at his heels with the sharp-fanged tension of a serpent’s bite.
Down, through the dark, away...
He was moving far too fast, and he should have anticipated obstacles. But he was only a child, trying to outrun his monsters. When he tripped over the lamp, he never expected to fall...and keep on falling.
There are things far worse than a serpent’s bite...
ND | Melody Thanks, www.mikesfreegifs.com and www.wilsoninfo.com, for the animations!
Publishing News: I'm running along at a fast clip now, with 3 book contract offers this first week! Of Dragons has joined GlassWorks at Red Rose Publishing, and I've had an offer I've accepted for both Relic and BoneSong! I am absolutely thrilled by this, and can't believe it's been such a productive first week of 2008!
Other things: I have an add-venture running at Protagonize, called Hunter.
Tempter (something I may use in a book some time): Cosmic Blue Blobs
These are orphaned star clusters sitting in intergalactic space, stretched between 3 colliding galaxies. Definitely worth a look - the pics are fantastic. These stars appear to be the result of 200 million year old disaster
Save Your World Stuff: VolunteerMatch offers a map, so if 2008 brings new resolutions to help others, visit their map page, to find who desperately needs help near you!
Author to Watch: Raven Starr, author of 
Fan-Tasy and Her Smile. In Raven's own words - "I have a steamy hot new ebook called Going Home Again. I can't wait till that comes out.
I love chatting with my friends and readers find me at www.myspace.com/dkraven
www.freewebs.com/ravenstarr".
And, about Her Smile: "My latest book released is called Her Smile. I wrote it because I know many folks in the situation Mark Storm found himself in. When you have everything in life but love your life can seem lifeless. Love is a very powerful emotion, it can move mountains and change people, and that's what happened in Her Smile. I loved writing this story and I hope it shows through in this book."
And, of course, an excerpt:
Now, for an excerpt from one of my books, Elf (paperback).
Book news: The Hollowing has been contracted! I'll let you know where it's gone as soon as I receive official word that they've received the contract back in the mail. Then...
I finished Of Dragons two weeks ago, and am halfway through Glass Works. In Flames, the sequel to In Trysts, is under consideration, plus I've had word that BloodWorks and Relic are under consideration by one of the Giants. Wouldn't that be great?!
My goals: to finish these 3 books I'm working on, to get my uncontracted books (BloodWorks, Relic, BoneSong, Gray Beginnings, In Flames, Of Dragons) contracted! Next, I want to work on a book for TLC (The Lotus Circle) and one for a continuity series at EC/CP. Plus, get The Trees Series resubmitted as they become available, and write the last 2 to 4 books in that series, and the last in The Grave Images Series, to finish them up.
Phew!
I'll leave you with an excerpt.
From The Hollowing, soon to be published by ...
Prologue
It was a Christmas present—quite the best present he’d ever had. He’d opened it with shaking hands, and for the first time in two years, was able to tune out his stepdad’s berating voice.
Merv Wilkins thought the camera was a stupid idea. Cameras used film which cost money. Stupid to give a kid gifts which needed “refuelling”. Stupider still to give a kid a gift which needed developing before it was any use.
And now, Merv and his mom were yelling again. When the boy came reluctantly downstairs, his first sight was something he would carry with him always: a look of abhorrence, almost of horror, in his mother’s eyes. He’d never thought she could look at him that way, and for a moment, the unshakeable structure of his kid’s world crumbled.
It was surprising that the thing which gave it back was the harshness of his stepfather’s voice. “No more than I expected,” he was saying grimly.
Meeting Wilkins’ dire expectations was something Shawn seemed to do regularly. Whatever he’d done this time couldn’t be any worse than usual.
He was wrong.
Merv tossed a photograph onto the table, then another, and another.
In front of Shawn’s face. Where he couldn’t avoid looking.
Where he couldn’t avoid seeing...
Gooseflesh tightened on his arms and legs, then danced down his back. “They’re not mine,” he said.
But they were. This room. This house.
