Still working on CK

I think I'm about 80% done with Carli's Kills, and I'm keeping at it till the end. Right now I'm up to 52,290 words, and I know when I do the next draft I'll be adding more, so this will be a decent enough short novel.

Don't know how it will work out, once I get down to honing it, because right now it's all over the place in style. Starts in black humor, slips into a seduction that becomes horror, digs deeper into Carli's and Zeke's characters like a dramatic study, then becomes suspense, then action, then drama, then suspense, again...and I've now finished my first full-scale bit of M/F erotica. After this is straight suspense/thriller stuff.

Carli questions Chase, one of the gang's dealers, and she's beginning to see what she thought had happened with Lara isn't necessarily so. Dax knew what he was doing, setting the girl up, but the men she killed probably did not. This is where I finally describe the rape, in full. It was pretty tough and vicious, so I broke it into two parts...some presented as background, some where Chase tells Carli about it. So this is where she decides to bring Dax down, legally, instead of just kill him...then goes to find Zeke.

He's got a target set up behind his trailer and lets Carli shoot his M16. Then she comes on to him, gets him going, drags him into his trailer, all but throws him on the bed and has at him...almost like she's raping him. Difference is, he's neither drugged nor unwilling. It gets pretty raw, and I think I'm going to polish it up to where it's sexy, not lewd. Then she and Zeke share secrets...and it looks like they're connecting.

Thing is, while he's open and honest with her, she's lying to him about why she's in town. And her plan to get Dax busted for drugs does not work out, so all hell is going to break loose.

With Zeke is the one most in danger.

National Novel Writing Month Challenge achieved

Carli's Kills is now over 50K in words. It's not done, not by a long shot. I probably have another 8-10,000 words to go to finish the story, but it's met the threshold and I got my badge.

This is #13, and of those, I've published 7. Which I guess is good. I have some I want to return to and finish polishing up for publication. And in truth, this is the second time I've tried to do CK as the challenge; last time I didn't make it past 14K before things grew overwhelming. This time I didn't have any excuses.

I'm at the point in the story where Carli and Zeke finally go to bed. And she is not a passive partner. It's going to be raw and rough and fun for them both, because she's finally learned he was not part of what happened to her daughter and, in fact, is the only one who feels guilty about it because he didn't do anything to help Lara before she killed herself and thinks he should have.

The scene I'd made such a joke out of, in the script -- where Carli interrogates Chase, one of the drug dealers -- shifted and, instead, became a tough moment where Chase thinks Carli's going to kill him. I did a little play on the shower scene in Psycho as the lead-in...but it gets tight, after that.

I'm going to finish this draft then get back to work on APoS.

New edition of Blown Away

The reason I signed up with Netflix was to see the first season of Blown Away. It takes place at the Croning Glass Works, where several glass blowers compete for a prize and to be called the best in show. There were 2 seasons with 10 episodes each, and they just released one with a Christmas theme that brought back five of the glass blowers who'd almost made it on the previous series. They were all fun to watch and required a skill I do not possess...and not once has my favorite won. Dammit.

I went to actually visit the Corning Glass Museum twice, thanks to these shows. It's about 150 miles from me and you had to wear a mask thanks to Covid, but it was worth it to see not only the amazing history and beauty of glass, but also actually watch them make some items. I've posted about it, before, on Facebook, so no need to, again.

But that visit did help me figure out the sort of artwork my main character in Dair's Window is doing. Dair Llewellyn does portraits of people in layers of fused glass (AKA: Gemmail) on various plates of clear glass, with light behind them, to give them a 3-D feel...almost holographic, because their expressions change as you move around them. This piece is what showed me it can be done. It's Pont de Grenelle by Louis Gilis, which is cut glass layered and fused in a light box.

Dair's Window is the story I was working on for much of the first part of this year and it exploded on me. Dair is a stained glass artist, which is different from blown glass, but watching Blown Away got me into understanding how one can use glass to make more than just cups, saucers and Christmas decorations. I now know what it is going for and will eventually return to it.

FWIW, I'm almost done with CK's challenge. Just under 3600 words to go to hit 50K. It won't be finished at that point, and I will finish it...then it's back to APoS and then...onward and upward.

Here I go again...

I'll probably make the 50,000 word threshold for NaNoWriMo's challenge, this year, but Carli's Kills is going to be longer. Not sure what to do about that, because my plan was to start back in on APoS, December 1st. But I hate to leave something unfinished, like this...and I will be close to the end of a real first draft.

That's mainly because the story has taken on a life of its own, now. I've had two occasions where I'm following along with the original script and padding it out in narrative form...and suddenly I have to dump hours worth of work because it's taken off in a whole new direction. Changes make themselves into plot points and the whole Carli-Zeke dynamic is growing scarier, to me. She's fluctuating between wanting to love him and wanting to kill him.

But Loki is still standing guard. And he doesn't trust anybody with his guy...so maybe things will work out.

I think I know how it ends, and right now I hate it, but so far the story is leading to that. Wants that. Demands it. So I'm going to make it as gut-wrenching as possible. Meaning I'm probably killing it as a fun little read for summer. No simple erotica here for women to dream about.

But you do what the story wants or it comes out like crap, so...

Thanksgivng.

 Nothing serous to report, today...just too much turkey...and yams...and green beans...and...you get the drift. So here -- enjoy the truth about Thanksgiving.

Theme music for Carli's Kills...

Romance de Amour has always been Zeke's theme. In the script he's playing it on his guitar when he first meets Carli, unaware she might be planning to kill him. Only his dog, Loki, is at his side, protective and wary of her...and she cannot get close. It's the same in the book, now...but more intense. More dangerous. More meaningful, I think.

This is an extended version of the song that works beautifully into the theme of the story.

I first heard the melody when Charro played it on a late night talk show. She's always been such a character, but when she plays the guitar, it becomes an extension of her soul.

Typical...

I spent half the day working Zeke's back story into Carli's Kills...only for it to explode in my face. I wasn't paying enough attention and started adding in details that didn't belong there. Making Zeke half-Indigenous and half-Anglo and complicating his estrangement from his family in silly ways...so I hit a glorious bout of writer's block.

Took me a couple hours, a bit of depression, some serious banging of head against wall time before finally just removing everything I'd done to get to where I could hear him, again. Simplified the background, a lot. He's adopted. Doesn't know who his birth mother is. And the people who adopted him act more like his guardians than parents. A very strict Calvinist upbringing in central Minnesota by the Reverend and Mrs. Lindstrom...and that is what he calls them. Not mom and dad. It finally leads to an overwhelming sense of dislocation and he rebels. And things went downhill fast.

I've got just over 14,000 words left to write in seven days in order to make this month's challenge. Hopefully, there won't be any more days like this, because those put me way behind. I just have to keep listening to the characters...and staying true to them. It's when I work at making things cute that I fuck things up, but that's the screenwriter in me.

All the books I read on that style of writing emphasized character traits instead of human beings in scripts. The hero is a good man but flawed and has a personal tragedy in his background...and his dog or snake or parakeet loves him, anyway. She has a past filled with secrets and trauma but finding the right man will unlock them and help her heal. That kind of shit.

Small wonder I never made it as a screenwriter; I don't know how to make such nonsense work. But something I am proud of? Every actor who ever read one of my scripts loved them. I gave them people to work with, who weren't easily categorized.

Just trying to keep it real with CK, too.

Grady's last ride...

 Grady's heading for the woman's place for a night of fun...he thinks... 

-----

The midnight sky glistened with stars and only a hint of a moon as the Mercedes C class zipped down The 14, as silver and sleek and silent as death. Well, silent relative to Grady's Hog. He was having all sorts of fun playing tag with the car. Rushing ahead on the straight, narrow road. Pulling in front. Letting the car whip around him, the woman laughing as she flipped him off. They were joyous, together.

More than once, he would draw parallel to the driver’s door. And she would beckon him closer, smiling. And he would edge to within an inch of the speeding car. And she would reach over to caress his inner thigh...and tickle his crotch.

He almost lost control of the bike the first time, he was laughing so hard from the surprise of it. Hot DAMN, he wished he hadn't worn briefs. They kept his package from being as impressive as he thought it could be under a woman's touch. Instead, he'd shoot ahead, doing a wheelie in excitement...and they'd do it, again.

Until in the middle of another wheelie, she laughed and hit her brakes, then did a sliding turn to rush through a gate and race down a gravel road.

Grady realized, slammed the Hog into a skidding turn and raced back to the gate, snarling, "Shit, shit," at least a dozen times. He chased after her, roaring far too fast over dirt and rocks as he fought to catch up to the billowing dust. He could just make out the red glow of the Mercedes’ taillights through the muck...until they went bright and vanished.

A moment later, he drew up to an isolated house that looked as if it were hiding from the world. Beaten, dark, surrounded by nothing but scrub, even in the shadows you could tell it hadn't been painted in a good thirty years.

The Mercedes was parked by the front door, the woman leaning against it, watching him glide up. He stopped behind the car and got off the bike. Dust now covered his front, from head to toe. He beat most of it away, pulled off his helmet and removed his goggles to look around, not at all impressed.

"Didn’t know anybody lived in this shack," he said.

"It’s nicer inside," the woman said as she pushed away from the car and started for the door.

"Oh, fancy? Should I hose-off, first?"

She looked at him, seeming to chuckle. Even in the pale starlight her smile was lovely. "You could wash your face. Use some mouthwash, too. Or would you prefer another beer?"

"Shit. You gotta ask?"

She linked a finger in his belt and pulled him in through the side door. He giggled.

Inside, the furnishings were cheap-ass everything. Not even on the level of Ikea; more like 50s retro bargain basement. She led Grady in, and he grabbed at her, as best he could, pulling her close for a kiss. She broke away, saying. "Let me get those beers. You can use the kitchen sink, for your face. Wash your hands, too."

"What for? I wore gloves."

"Even more reason."

He giggled.

She backed into a kitchen. He yanked off his jacket, dropped it on the floor and followed her in.

The kitchen was as old and beat-up as everything else, including the linoleum floor. Reminded him of his grandmother's place, in Lytle, outside San Antonio. About to crumble into dust. He turned on the faucet. It grumbled and groaned but clean water soon poured out.

She pulled a couple of Dos Equis from the ancient fridge.

He grinned. "How'd you know?"

"Told you, Mexican beer's good."

"What’s your real name?" Grady asked as he ran soap up his arms.

"Call me Stasi," she said.

"Hmph. Knew another chick by that name. Bitch was crazy."

The woman grew still. "Aren't we all?"

He used a dishcloth to dry himself as she offered him an open beer. He took it, and barely held onto it. Gave her an embarrassed shrug then guzzled some.

"So...what do I call you?" she asked. "Asshole?"

He backed her against the counter and pressed against her, one hand groping a breast, saying, "Grady. Mmm..."

She chuckled. "Oooooh...Grady’s hungry."

"Been a long time since I ain’t had to pay for it."

He tried to kiss her, but she put her own bottle to her lips, teasing him. "Oh, it’s gonna cost you," she murmured. "Just not money." Then she set her beer down, reached around and grabbed his ass to purr. "Oooohhh...nice. Big. Round."

He giggled and almost got a kiss in before she leaned back, ran her hands up his sides and grabbed the throat of his shirt.

Now he gasped. "Careful, this is my saint shirt."

"Saint shirt?"

He giggled as he said, "All holey."

She laughed and tore it open to reveal an elaborate tattoo of geometric designs covered his chest.

"Oh, my," she whispered. She ran her fingers over it, tracing some the design before pinching at his tits.

He gasped, deep and shocked. "Oh, shit, shit, girls do that to guys?"

"Depends on the guy. Have you had a dude do this, to you?"

"Fuck no. I mean, one tried, but..."

"Don't you like it?" She twisted his nipples, soft. Almost erotic.

Every sensation he could think of rammed through every part of his body. "Fuck...love it...when you do it."

"Cool. Any more tatts to play with?"

He pulled her close. "Stasi sees...real soon."

She licked her lips and dribbled beer down her front. He gasped and dove down to lick it up. Which led to him nuzzling her breasts. Rubbing his nose in her cleavage. "Oh, fuck," was all he seemed able to say. "You in a corset?"

She nodded. "Adds to the moment, don't you think? I've got high-heeled boots, too...if you're up for that."

She ran a hand up the inside of his thigh to emphasize her intention, groping him, in full.

Oh, was he ever. He leaned back, a little and let out a long slow sigh of the deepest pleasure before guzzling more beer.

She unbuckled his belt. Undid the button on his jeans. Shifted them to his hips. Then she pinched his tits, again. Toyed with the hair on his chest. On his poochie little belly. Up his arms. He pulled her tight and ground against her, about ready to pop out of his briefs and...

He grunted, confused. He leaned on her, trying to keep his balance. His heart was going a mile a minute and his head spinning and nothing was making sense.

She pulled away from him, fake concern on face. "Oh, Grady...too much too soon?"

"Just feel weird," he muttered, "and...and...what the fuck? That beer..."

"Wow, Grady, have roofies been used on you, before?"

He stumbled back, just beginning to understand. "Roofies? Me?" He was able to make out she was grinning at him. Just standing there. He grabbed the kitchen counter and tried to move to the door. "Fuckin’ bitch...what you...what you doin’?"

She tripped him.

He collapsed to the cracked linoleum. Smacked his head, hard. Tried to talk but his words dribbled into nothingness. He rolled onto his back to see...

She towered over him. She pulled off her hair.

Grady gasped. Oh, fuck, it was a blond wig. She’s brunette.

Then she undid her shirt and opened it to reveal a bustier was pushing her breasts up. It also accentuated her curves. She shrugged it off. Now wore only jeans. She let out a long, slow sigh of relief as she stretched. She was still lovely, but now looked almost completely different.

She smiled down at Grady...and it was one of the scariest smiles he had ever seen...as he drifted closer and closer to some weird unfocused darkness...and the last words he heard were, "Now I’m naming names," before he passed out.

CK grows and builds...

This is a bit that comes just after Carli's killed Stasi. When I wrote this as a a screenplay, I had Stasi falling 25 floors to the ground then cut to Carli smacking the pool balls.

-------

Wednesdays and Thursdays were usually quiet and easy, which suited Zeke fine. Some regulars would come in. Some buddies. And sometimes they'd talk. And sometimes he'd join them in a beer. And life would be good, for a moment.

But this particular Wednesday night, that's not how things were going. There was an energy in the room that troubled him, and it emanated from the woman playing pool on the table closest to the bar. She was tall, well-done in every way, thick blond hair cascading down her back. She wore a tight pair of jeans that emphasized her glorious hips and rear, and a loose shirt unbuttoned just fare enough to show off a nice set of breasts. High-end cowboy boots finished off the near-perfect ensemble. She was playing alone in a way that showed her body off, and which made Zeke wary. She was up to something; after several years at this bar, picking up on trouble had become like a sixth sense...and she radiated trouble.

But no one else seemed to notice, though Rhonda, the Cantina's waitress, did act like she wasn't there. Poor Rhonda. Plain hair, plain face, probably twenty pounds underweight to pull off the jeans-mini-skirt, tie-dyed t-shirt tied at the waist in a way to give her a midriff, doll-like boots on her feet, and heavy emphasis on turquoise jewelry on her wrists and around her neck. If a woman came in who wasn't attached to a biker or a jock, she had to be forced to serve them. And it looked like that was how it bout be, tonight.

Except it didn't look like the blond woman was ready for a refill, yet. She'd been nursing that beer for an hour as she played game after game. Zeke had no problem with that, at first, but then a couple of his buddies, Grady and Spit, had arrived.

Grady was one of those linebacker types who used to be in top shape but now was gone to seed. He kept his head shaved, was never outside without his sunglasses, and seemed to have nothing but t-shirts and crappy Wranglers to wear, along with an ancient pair of Dingo boots. Only his bushy eyebrows gave away the fact that he was red-haired. An ex-marine, like Zeke, he had been in a chopper crash that burned his hands and arms. He could use them, thanks to the surgeons at Brooke Army Medical Center, in San Antonio, and rehabilitation crew at William Beaumont, in El Paso, but only with limited success. Elaborate tattoos covered the scarring, right down to his nails, with a fleur de lis also tattooed, above each ear.

"Those hurt and bled like a motherfucker," he'd told Zeke over a couple of Dos Equis at a cantina on Avenue Lerdo, just across the bridge in Juarez. He swore the beers tasted better over there.

"Why'd you do it?" Zeke had asked, eyeing them.

"For the fuck of it," Grady had sighed. "Remind me what pain is." He flexed his fingers as much as he could. "Remind me there's still so much fuckin' pain in the world."

It was at Beaumont that Zeke had met him, while learning to use his new leg. Grady had just taken him to get his first post-op tattoo, to hide some of the scarring.

"It hurt much?" he had asked as he took another swallow of beer.

Zeke had just shaken his head. "I had a tatt on my leg. My calf. Knew what to expect."

Grady had chuckled. "You're a good kid."

"You ain't so much older'n me."

"Ten years, motherfucker. An' two lifetimes." He had leaned back to gaze at the slow-moving ceiling fan. "Ten years an' two lifetimes."

They had watched over each other, ever since. He was the one who had gotten Zeke the job behind the bar; he knew the owner from basic. Helped him set up in the trailer behind the place. Helped him learn to ride a bike, even with one leg. Now Zeke had been here going on ten years. Ten years of solitude and peace.

And blessed loneliness.

Grady lived in an old ranch house with Spit, who might turn out to be attractive if he would lose half the weight he was carrying...and not carrying well. Clothes a size too small. Hair long and always looking like it needs to be washed. Tattoos on his arms but nowhere else that anyone knew about. Well, anyone but his Rubenesque biker girlfriend, Katty, whose outfit was also a size too small and whose hair was so bleached, you knew it was sanitized.

Neither of them had ever offered up their real names, and Zeke wasn't one to care, and so it was what it was. They both rode Harleys and sported leather wrist bands and jackets and belts with buckles the size of Texas on them. It was a wonder Spit's didn't cut into his gut.

The three of them had taken up residence in their usual booth near the pool table, and Rhonda had taken their usual order -- Coors for Katty, Michelob for Spit and a bottle of Dos Equis for Grady. Spit had maneuvered them into the booth so he could watch the blond woman do her thing around the table, and chuckle like a growly hyena at her every move. Katty noticed and was not in a good mood, thanks to it.

Another red flag to Zeke.

Then Spit got up, snarling, "Gonna take a piss." But as he walked past the woman, he grabbed her ass and chuckled, "Sweet cheeks."

Before either Zeke or Katty could react, the woman whipped her pool cue up between Spit's legs.

He cried out, grabbed his crotch and fell over...then howled in pain. "Aw, fuck...fuck...my back...fuck..."

"Oh, shit," sighed Zeke as Grady went to Spit and helped him up, with Rhonda's assistance.

The woman stood there, watching them, impassive, cue held in a way that she could use it as a weapon, if need be.

"Now you done it," Grady said to her. "You hurt Spit's back, and him havin' to work, tomorrow."

"His name fits," the woman said.

Grady helped Spit settle back into the booth, where Katty swatted him, angry.

"Ow!" he yelped. "Baby, my back..."

But she wasn't having it. "It's your own damn fault, asshole."

Grady sighed and looked at the woman. Saw violet eyes gazing back at him and lips caught in a half-smile. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman look at him, like that, especially one who was actually nice to look back at.

"Now you know his name," Grady said. "What name fits you?"

She gave him no response.

"O-kay," Grady sighed, "Let's pay that game. What name fits me?"

She looked him over, like a jackal would eye its meat, and chalked her cue. "How ‘bout a game?" she asked. "Winner names names."

He held up his hands. "Ain’t so good with pool."

She smiled, actually amused. "Let's say I spot you a couple balls." Then she blew chalk dust off the cue. 

O-KAY. Grady picked out a cue. Set his beer beside hers. Offered a drag on a joint...and she took it. And toked it. And held it for a nice long moment before letting the smoke drift through her pursed lips. 

Grady actually shifted under his tshirt and jeans in a way that was filled with expectation. "Stripes or solids?" he asked.

She shrugged.

He looked the table over. She had already dropped two of each, so he leaned across, struggled to set up his cue, shook a little but then smacked the white ball...and dropped a couple solids! That was a first. He looked over to ask if Zeke had seen it, but the guy was busy prepping an order for Rhonda. A couple of college jocks in designer slum-wear were seated at a table, focused on their phones. Texting twerps. 

Grady felt a twinge of jealousy at how easily their fingers moved over the tiny keyboards. Hell, he had trouble typing on a regular computer. But then he noticed Laila, a biker chick with boobs and curves in leather everything, hair the color of cotton candy, was circling in on them. He chuckled. Those boys were about to find themselves on the ride of their lives, and their daddies' credit cards would soon be maxed out. He hoped Laila would take pictures; she loved controlling the little twerps.

He turned back to the woman, saw she was eyeing him, waiting, her mouth slightly open, her tongue poised just under her upper lip. He gulped, felt more than a stir in his dick, lined up too quick and shot...and missed. He was getting flustered, and also a bit pissed he'd worn briefs, today. Harder to show off the equipment, and while the rest of him was kind of sloppy, Grady was proud of the most important thing he had to offer.

She let out a sigh, casually leaned over the table and dropped one. Then she rounded it, completely, eyeing the balls as she chalked her cue. She stopped next to Grady, nodding. Gave him a side glance. Grabbed hold of his beer and took a nice, long swallow, her eyes never leaving his.

"Mexican beer," she said. "Good taste."

Then she leaned over the table, her hips nudging his, making him hold his breath in fear he'd scare her off with his giggles...and deliberately missed her next shot. She rose, gave a little girl pout and said, "Oops."

O-KAY!

Draft 3 is done...

I finished draft 3 of APoS, and I decided to add the to be continued bit to make sure people will know the story does not end here. So far, it's 524 pages in Courier 12 point, double-spaced. 119,690 words. And I am emotionally exhausted. I always knew this story would be draining, and it has lived up to my expectations.

I'm still nervous about actually capturing the essence of Derry's society, at the time. How they spoke and acted with each other. Now that the story's set, I can concentrate on making that better. I have a few memoirs from the area to read through in more detail. We'll see how it goes.

I'm taking tomorrow off from writing, then I'll dig into CK on Monday. I have a lot left to do in that book, but it's going to be nice and light and fun, in comparison. A woman using men like sex objects. I know straight guys dream of this, but not in the way she does it. I don't think...

Not being a straight guy, I'm not sure.

I mean, I've got one scene where she ties a college guy to a chair, naked, and toys with him for information. He's the one who reveals Zeke was there when her daughter was raped, but it looks like he didn't know what was going on. I don't know how I'll handle that, yet. Zeke's not a goody-two-shoes, but neither is he a villain. He's a guy who is just...there...with no-place else to go. Almost tragic, really.

One chapter left in this rewrite...

I will have this draft of APoS done this weekend. It's closing in on 120,000 words, so it's a real novel. I just did the part where Brendan takes Joanna to see the circle fort, Grianan Aileach, atop a nearby Donegal hill, and he reveals he's planning to leave Derry. He knows his history and can see the place sliding into chaos, and wants no part of it.

At the fort, he feels free and open and can talk with Joanna like he talks with no one, not even his best mates. People are recognizing he's not one to spread tales, unlike his brother Eamonn...who doesn't do it deliberately. Things just slip out when Eamonn gets angry or excited. So it's hurting him now that he's part of PIRA. But Brendan can be trusted.

So far I haven't come across a book dealing with the catastrophic way in which British Forces set in motion the next 10 years with their heavy-handedness. Almost like it was deliberate, it was so stupid. I've read some who think it was just British arrogance that caused this to happen. Their certainty that if they worked the plans out just right, they would succeed.

But history shows that doesn't work. You can have the best plans ever, with each detail in just the right spot, but expecting hundreds of men to carry it out with precision and without anger or fear or any human emotion? It's always going to go wrong. And it did on Bloody Sunday. And the British being idiots, they assumed they could control the narrative with their press releases...but that didn't happen. Too many people in Northern Ireland had friends and relatives in the Republic, and word got around.

It's the same, today, albeit a lot faster. The people in power don't understand how pervasive the internet is and how there are always methods bloggers and hackers can use to get around even the most stringent safeguards and censorship. Right now, Chinese officials are trying to manage the disappearance of a tennis star who made allegations of sexual assault against a high-ranking politician, and they're finding it is impossible. One woman vanished...and the Chinese censors can't keep it quiet. They've lost but just cannot accept that reality.

The 60s brought about the beginning of the end for control of the information flow by those who would oppress others...and the Troubles exacerbated it.

APoS moving ahead so...

Here's a taste of Carli's Kills. Jake still thinks Carli's suffering from PTSD...and she might be...so after a second conversation where they learn a bit more about each other, he invites her on a midnight picnic to his favorite spot in the area.

---

The Harley thrummed to life, its deep growling engine ready to go, now, now, now. Zeke looked at Carli, waiting. Loki looked at her, wary...but also waiting in his dog seat. She slipped the helmet on and slung a leg over to sit behind Zeke and hold onto the back handles. Her knees were touching his hips and thighs. Shivers raced through her. Confusing shakes that made her catch her breath.

"You can hold my waist, if you want," he chuckled. "I promise not to take advantage if you don't."

She laughed. "Didn't want to seem too forward."

"You never rode a bike, before?"

"Ten-speed."

"Yeah...this is a little different."

She slipped her arms around him and he set the bike in motion. Smooth and easy. Nothing crass like the hogs, the night before. Just another light thrum...and in moments they were whispering down the road.

Carli almost gasped at the gentleness of the wind as they zipped along. The tenderness of it. The elegance. She looked to the left to watch dark scrub and even darker mountains in the distance almost appear to be pacing her in ways that seemed too real to be right. To her other side, the space was more open, the dark cacti and bushes extending all the way to the end of the world so they could meet the sky. Looking up revealed the deepest, blackest velvet gleaming with stars enough to put the overwhelming lights of the LA basin to shame. And with it all was the soft silence, punctuated only by the gentle engine as they sped along.

Without thinking, she lay her chin against Zeke's left shoulder. Strong and yet so welcoming. The leather of his jacket seemed to rejoice in her presence...and the smell of him...the casual masculinity of him...she felt close to drunk from just breathing him in.

He wasn't solid around the waist; she could feel a bit of a tummy, even through the jacket. She could also make out his belly button was a little innie...and feel the top of that buckle and wonder how he kept it from cutting onto him. On top of this, she noticed he did not cringe or tremble at her touch. No discomfort. Just him as anchor to keep her on the bike.

But the emotions running through her were intensifying. This moment...this pinpoint of time...she felt as if it were poetry. Like it was the world as it should be. One person connected to anther and surrounded by peace and understanding. Clear wind caressing them both. One pressed close to the other in a way that grew more and more sensual as the ride continued. It made her almost happy.

How long had it been since she was with a man? And not just one used to scratch an itch, but one she felt was worth being with? Liam? Her laughing Aussi, who'd been named after that Irish actor and had a lot of his look and attitude, but with dancing eyes and a perpetual grin instead of that sad sack aura. Probably came from being raised in Brisbane instead of Dublin.

She had joined his Aikido classes in LA, and watching him demonstrate his moves was like watching art come to life. She also knew from the start he was ten years her junior, and was seeking a career in Hollywood...but was finding that since Covid all doors were closed to newcomers unless they came with more than just a nice face. And Liam's was very, very, very nice.

Oh, was he ever nicely built. Trim and easy, walking like a panther instead of a lumbering ox. She had suffered a few too many of those. But Liam? Liam had been like a cat that loves to curl itself around your neck and shoulders, and just sit there, purring...especially after sex and just before sleep.

Initially, she had thought he would just be fun for a night, so had put out the hints of interest. He picked up on them and asked her to stay after class, one day...and three months later they were still an item. But then he'd got a part in one of the Marvel Universe films shooting in Australia because him being from there would help the production with its tax breaks, so had packed up and moved home.

Yes, there had been a number of bed partners since then, but she had missed Liam. His hands knew where to go to drive her wild. His lips had always done exactly the right thing. His body next to hers had felt real and alive instead of perfunctory. And drawing her fingers along his lightly tattooed back, and that ass with the perfect tan line from surfing, just the right amount of hair on him to caress and not tickle...no one had pleased her nearly as much, since...since...a year ago?

Jesus...had it been that long?

She looked at the back of Zeke's neck, what she could see between the helmet and jacket collar. Tattooed on one side but not the other. Skin clear and clean and smooth. Hair cropped close so you could even see the base of his skull. Liam's hair had been too long, and brushing it up or to the side only made that area look dirty and ill-kempt.

She wanted to touch Zeke's neck, but something told her this would not be viewed with a positive light, by him. True, he had invited her to hold him close, but he had also set up other barriers, and for now it was best to respect them.

For now.

This amazingly lovely, beautiful, elegant ride would be enough, for now. Free and alive and not a care in the world. No past to hold them, only an unknown future of promise and grace.

If only it could last forever.

Much too soon, Zeke slowed the Harley and turned to pass through a dilapidated gate onto a dirt road. Carli could just make out they were approaching an outcropping of rocks in the near distance. She felt lost but not the least bit unsure. Something told her to the right was the east, so they were heading north. At a slower speed, yes, but still rumbling along as if on a magic carpet.

She looked back over her shoulder at Loki to find he was watching her, still wary, his eyes all but screaming, You try one fucking thing wrong with my boss and I'll rip your throat open.

She chuckled and thought, Don't worry, puppy. My blood lust was satisfied, today. And I got a feeling your boss will be safe from me.

At least, I hope so.

Bloody Sunday is set...

I did a rewrite of what I'd rewritten in my rewrite of this draft of APoS regarding Brendan being in the middle of Bloody Sunday, in Derry. From where he winds up to hide from the British bullets, he sees several of the young men shot and killed, but not all. I had to be careful about that. He was already thinking of leaving Derry. Now he's making definite plans.

I also emphasized this is the point where the antipathy between Brendan and his mother explodes into near hostility. She's all for taking up arms and fighting back, like Brendan's older brother, Eamonn, is doing, while Brendan knows history too well to think this will work out. He'd move, but he has nowhere else to live except on the street, so he spends more and more time at the auto repair shop he works for.

I'm not doing another draft of this section, but moving on to the last two chapters. If it goes well, I may be done this weekend. Then I can finish Carli's Kills.

It ain't easy multi-tasking...

Busy day...

Had to go into the office for a bit, and we all went to lunch, then had errands and such to run that took me till late, so I'm getting back onto APoS, tomorrow. I already have notes on my printed copy of the Bloody Sunday chapter, and need to increase the meaning of the break between Brendan and his mother after the slaughter. That will carry over into the next two chapters...and once those are done, I will have a full draft rewritten.

I honestly cannot believe I'm this close to done.

So instead, after dinner, I wrote a scene out of order, for Carli's Kills. After Carli's committed another murder, she senses Zeke could be an anchor for her. He thinks she's suffering from PTSD and offers to take her on a ride, on his Harley. She's hesitant because she's still not 100% sure about him, but agrees...and it becomes a near sensual experience for her.

Carli's always been open to hitting the bed with a guy, but usually just to scratch an itch, as she puts it. The last man she actually enjoyed being with was an Aussie who was instructing her in Aikido. She felt he was worthy of her, but then he packed up and moved back to Brisbane. Now she's on the back of Zeke's bike, holding him around the waist, and felling the need for another man she can be with.

The darkness of the passing landscape. The black velvet of the night sky clustered with glistening stars. The wind whispering over her. From this point forward, she kills no one. Just gathers information...and realizes how far into madness she had descended.

But I'm also keeping the suspense, because slotted into her belt is a single-edge razor blade she used against the three men she's killed, so far. And she could use it on Zeke at any moment.

Especially once she learns he was there the night her daughter was raped.

I spoke too soon.

Yesterday, while writing some background into Carli's Kills and thinking I'd probably finish it before I got back onto A Place of Safety, I found the way into Brendan's horror at seeing people killed during Bloody Sunday. It happens three days before his sixteenth birthday, and he starts the day out excited about that. He's quit school and has a job and is feeling very much like a man.

When the march begins, he's with his friends, a couple of whom are veteran rock-throwers at Aggro Corner. That spot, where Waterloo and William connect, had become the location of an almost daily back and forth between Catholic teenagers and the British Army. The boys would throw stones that just bounced off the soldier's shields, and the soldiers would fire rubber bullets at them, which weren't normally lethal but could hurt. It was almost like a play date.

So when Brendan hears the first gunfire from the Paratroopers, he thinks they're crackers left over from Christmas and he thinks he'll have some for his birthday party. Then people start running and hiding and rushing about, and he sees a couple boys close to his age shot in the back and fall and bleed. He is almost shot but his best mate, Colm, yanks him out of the way, and the bullet whips past his ear...and he still can't believe what's happening.

When he finally gets home, he and his mother have a moment of agreement at the stupidity of what just happened that is quickly shattered when he says he's thinking of leaving Derry. Each has chosen a path -- her, pushing to fight violence with violence; him, seeing the British are using an old playbook that has never worked and will only bring death and destruction. The only thing that keeps him from leaving, right then, is his love for Joanna.

But even that is being tested by this.

CK has taken over...

I'm having so much fun writing Carli's Kills, I'm neglecting A Place of Safety. However, I'm not sorry for it. Not apologizing. And the reason why is simple.

I'm feeling extremely frustrated over the inaction from our Department of Justice to haul in people who are ignoring Congressional Subpoenas and who plotted to overthrow our government on 1/6. I'm having to avoid social media because every five seconds someone on there is trumpeting THIS IS IT! THE END OF THE GOP AND EVERYONE GOES TO JAIL or some such shit, and then nothing happens.

It's amazing how often the powers that be undermine reality in order to prevent anyone from finding justice. After Bloody Sunday, Westminster was immediately putting out word that the British Paratroopers had been fired upon and the only people shot were those with guns trying to kill them. Bernadette Devlin was seated in Parliament at the moment the lies were being spread by Home Secretary, Reginald Spaulding, and finally had enough. She stormed over and slapped the bastard.

Of course a brawl broke out and she was attacked by the British Press for being unladylike. Her response. "I'm only sorry I didn't hit him harder."

Read about it here. It's a slanted version and not 100% accurate -- the Bloody Sunday march was specifically against Internment -- but right now I feel that's fine. The image is of Edward Daly, who was wounded at Bloody Sunday. The people trying to carry him to someplace he could be cared for were fired upon by Paratroopers; I think the man leading them with the white flag was a priest.

We need some of Devlin's decisive action in Congress, right now. We have mentally unstable people in there...people like Marjorie Taylor Greene and Paul Gosar actually threatening others with violence...and nothing is being done to stop them. They are not being held accountable by Pelosi; she's only spouting a lot of words. Nor will this change before those two actually kill someone.

In order for there to be justice, there has to be a willingness to enforce the laws and the rules, and too much of our government is built on the buddy system. I know you and don't think you're a bad person, so we'll just minimize the fact that you threatened to kill a fellow representative or run around with weapons, suggesting you can kill someone.

Three white men are being tried in Georgia for murdering a black man, by an all-white jury, and the probability is they will get off. In Wisconsin, the prosecution is letting a clearly biased judge help the defense of a teenage boy who murdered two men and wounded another during a BLM protest, because the dead men weren't the right kind of guys. Cops get this all the time. So you shot him 47 times in the back? It was self-defense. 

It's like that all over the country, and has been for decades...and it's maddening. So I'm stepping back and working on an erotic-horror-thriller about a woman taking revenge on the men who drove her daughter to suicide since the system of justice won't. And it is getting brutal.

But facing APoS right now is like facing my own country, and I'm tired.

Another Day of CK

This story seems to be edging into erotic horror them mellowing down to erotic suspense. Not sure what to make of it, yet, but I just wrote the part that starts the explanation of why Carli is out for revenge...and the Biblical tale of David bringing King Saul 200 foreskins from Philistines he'd slaughtered worked into it (he did it to buy himself a royal wife). I guess it doesn't require saying that the tale is becoming somewhat kinky.

What's going to happen, as of now, is halfway through the story, Carli finds out her reason for going after these guys was wrong. She's a strong woman who's out to right a wrong and the people she initially goes after are not innocents, but neither are they the ones she should be attacking. She thought she knew what happened and why they did what they did, but she didn't have all the information, and now she's trying to back away but it's too late. It's war, and more innocent people will die along side the guilty.

Still, in the end it doesn't matter; everybody deserves what they get...except for one person. This guy. Zeke. He goes along with some things he shouldn't have, but only out of a misplaced sense of loyalty. He's the only truly decent person in the whole story, and he's part of the reason Carli begins to back away. He helps her see her campaign is counter-productive.

I'm not sure how this will play out with readers. But it's how the story wants to be told, and it's digging in its heels, with the characters supporting it.

I had a bit of this same dilemma with Brendan in Book 2 of APoS. He does some cruel things in the last half of this section, and while they're understandable, they're still hard to take. But I stuck with him on them. He doesn't want to remain a sweet boy throughout the story, and it's affected part of his growth in Derry...and also sets up conflict when he returns to the town.

I remembered helping a friend with a documentary about a punk band in San Antonio who had to travel to Austin to get playing gigs. This was in 1979...and it's working in nicely with my notes for the next two parts of the story. right now, I'm closing in on 112,000 words. Should prove interesting.

That's the way it works, sometimes. You go where the characters lead you or destroy what you're writing. There is no in-between.

CK Day

This is the opening of Carli's Kills...

Carli Vincenzo had a rating system for men. She felt it was only fair, since they had one for women, but hers was a bit more demanding.

Number one was the eyes. While she had a preference for men with nice, dark, sloe eyes, the main deal was...they have to look at her, not through her or up and down her. Meeting her gaze? Positive note. Glancing at her boobs? Demerits out the ass. 

Next came the lips. Had to be kissable, like Chris Evans, and hold a smile, not a smirk or grin. Either of those was another demerit...unless, of course, he was really, really gorgeous. Like Chris Evans. Not that she had a special thing for him. Honest. She'd never met the guy so had no idea what he was like.

But...if he did happen to have some of Chris' attributes, then she would happily make use of him to scratch an itch...and nothing more. Because those types of men always seemed to think once they'd fucked you, they owned you. Stupid boys. Big demerits, on that. 

Following that were his hands. Lean and strong, not beefy, and with fingernails that were clean but not manicured; that's too indicative of a man who's high-maintenance. Nothing down and dirty with a boy like that. She even liked to see a nail or two nibbled at, because that suggested he was the feeling sort, with a hint of nervousness. Much easier to be around...have fun with. 

Which led to number four -- flexibility. He could not one who always had to set the evening's agenda, be it on the town on in the bed. If they meet at a bar or restaurant for drinks and dinner, he wouldn't mind if it was late, and he would be willing to go to a midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show or a new screening of Singin' in the Rain, just for the hell of it. Of course, she was open to some give and take on that. Nothing wrong with the Marvel Universe or Fast and Furious number forty-seven. But if he was not willing to let her in on running the show? Very negative in the merits. 

The last big point was, he better smell good. Not perfumed, but at least a bath, deodorant and...well, maybe a hint of cologne. She had been around too many grunts in the Army who thought showering daily was for sissies and their manly odor was a turn-on, like they were beasts in the jungle. Not in the slightest, with her. That sort of attitude only showed he cared nothing about his effect on other people. Of course, too much cleanliness would fall back into the high-maintenance type, and she ain't got time for that. Just a nice, easy balance. 

The rest -- fine body, solid legs, round ass, good dick...those are to be considered but were secondary. And if he had a good laugh, they became superfluous. 

So as she quietly stood in a closet on the 25th floor in the dark master bedroom a luxury condominium on the Wilshire Corridor in Los Angeles, she was quietly ticking off each one of those points as she watched a man who was very involved in having sex with a young woman ten years his junior. In her bed. Atop her silk sheets. Which she was enjoying just as much as he was, if her groans and sighs and snarls and groping hands were to be believed.

His name was Mikey. She had no idea what the rest of it was, yet; that had been the only name mentioned by the woman. Whose name Carli did know -- Anastasia Florencia Devaux, better known as Stasi to any and all of her minions. She was twenty-three years old, five-seven, and a hundred and ten pounds. Body by personal trainer. Head a size too big for it, as were her breasts. Definitely enhanced. Obviously, Carli also had a rating system for women, and it was nowhere near as kind as for men.

To put it simply, Stasi was way into negative territory.

To start with, the nose job was obvious, thought it probably had helped the symmetry of her face. Her big eyes carried more than a hint of cruelty in them, but men tended to ignore that in their fake women. To be honest in her rating, Stasi's big lips could have been Botoxed but somehow Carli didn't really think so. Still, it was hard to really tell for sure in the low light and high shadows of the room. 

But none of that slowed Mikey down. She had curves enough to show she was female, with no tan lines and a willingness to get as down and dirty and hard at it as him. That was a demerit on his part, thinking what he was having with her was good sex. 

Carli halfway thought she should take Mikey on and show him what it meant to make love. Serious, solid, strong, intense love that blinded you for an instant at the moment of climax. She almost chuckled at the thought, knowing if she did he would never be interested in a superficial piece of plastic like this bitch, again. 

Stasi's superficiality extended around the room, which was custom designed to give the impression of old money well-spent, but carried just enough detail to undercut that intention. Silver molding along the polished white ceiling? Silver lamé drapes flanking the sliding glass doors to the balcony? A six-inch deep carpet in black and white waves with a faux polar bear rug atop it? All of that was bad enough, but the true piéce-de-resistance was a massive shell-like headboard done in chrome and polished into perfect reflectability above silver silk sheets and comforter and even fucking duvets? Jesus, it was all so tacky just looking at it was hard to take. The one good aspect of the room was it faced south, overlooking the basin. Imagine having the morning or evening sun blasting in against that headboard? Its reflections could start a fire as far away as El Monte or Malibu. 

But the whole condo was overwrought, like that, emphasis on silver and gold. Carli had cringed her way through it all as she skulked around, looking for the best spot to hide. A poor man's idea of what rich looks like. Of course, it made sense as far as Stasi was concerned. Daddy built his multi-millions in real estate back in Arizona, straight out of his double-wide mobile home for the first ten years. Not that there was anything wrong with that. But he still wore cowboy boots with his bespoke suits, and now had his twenty-six year-old trophy wife dressed in the latest of the latest styles ensconced in a penthouse on North Central, and had bought himself a seat in the Legislature while Stasi's mom played drunk golf in her khaki and turquoise ensembles outside her own condo-complex fronting an evergreen course that cost more to keep watered than the national debt's interest payments. Nouveaux riche in the worst way, straight down the line. It made Carli shudder, to see it in practice. 

She had no trouble sneaking in. Despite its vaunted security system, Carli had found five blind spots in the tower that gave her access to emergency stairwells. All she needed to do was steal a pass-card from one of the residents, which was easy to accomplish by following one very preoccupied society matron to a spa, accidentally running into her to make her drop her purse and helping her put it back together while ignoring the nonstop insults she spat at Carli for not watching where she was going. It was so cute. 

Of course, the negative part was climbing twenty-five flights of stairs to get to Stasi's floor. That was why Carli had been waiting in a disgusting chrome and leather chair in the bedroom. She was in excellent shape, but that was still a workout. 

Fortunately, she knew Stasi would be out till late with her latest boyfriend, so she could just sit and Zen until she heard the woman enter. But then she heard a man's voice, with her. Both sounding a bit drunk with wine and lust. The closet had been a tactical shift in plan, one she was actually finding it to be a positive shift. Because watching big, bad, buff Mikey undress...suit coat, shirt, shoes, jacket, and then the slow removal of his trousers to reveal a very nice ass. Lovely, even in gray boxer briefs. Surprisingly firm, from how little it jiggled as they were pulled off and he and Stasi fell on the bed and he went hard against her. Good clenching, too. Add to that the strong legs and fine hands, and how he'd focused his lips on her breasts and neck and kisses instead of just humping...those attributes put him on the positive side, despite the fact that he was fucking around on his wife. 

This is what research will bring you. Stasi only had married boyfriends. No chance of commitment for this little bitch. She was having her fun, and soon as a guy got too close, he kicked to the curb. It was a major demerit for a man to cheat on his wife, but the image Stasi presented would be hard for any guy with a female-oriented dick to resist. And Carli had to admit, the more she saw of Mikey at work, the more she wanted to let him live. 

Might even make use of him, later, since she was certain he was soon to be an unmarried man. Horn dogs like that who get dumped by their wives are easy. 

But first things first. Let's get it done, folks. 

As in, finish up. 

Today, okay?

Up to the last 3 chapters...

Today I took APoS up to Bloody Sunday. This is going to be a rough one to write because it's not so much the actions involved but the fact that Brendan is witnessing death, first hand. That's going to change him, massively. Send him careening into decisions that will have disastrous effects. Not of his making, but which include him, despite his best intentions.

The backstory is: on January 30, 1972 a peaceful demonstration against the British policy of internment -- arresting men and women and holding them without trial under the Special Powers Act -- was attacked by British Paratroopers. They claimed they were only returning fire against those who'd tried to shoot them, but there was no evidence they had been fired upon and the men and boys they killed were either running away or trying to help others who'd been shot.

13 died, right then. Another died later, from his wounds. Not one paratrooper was wounded by gunfire. The British government put out a whitewashed report that exonerated the Army, completely, but even the most ardent supporter of British involvement in NI had to admit that all the army had achieved was increase support and recruitment for the IRA and PIRA. And the region collapsed into what was, effectively, a civil war.

No one would call it that, but it was. Catholics now saw the British as occupiers, not saviors or protectors. And the world stood by and tut-tutted as the violence exploded. Before the peace accords, in 1998, over 3000 civilians and soldiers were dead and Northern Ireland was close to ruins.

3000 dead may not sound like a lot over 30 years, but to put it in perspective...that would be the equivalent of around 600,000 dead from civil warfare in the US, going by today's population, and most of it happening within the first 10 years.

I've found one of the books I have dealing with The Troubles in NI is from a very British viewpoint. It glosses over the atrocity with the usual casual prose. But that's how it was, for too long. I have plenty of other books that delve into The Troubles with much more honesty and clarity.

This part...this is going to be gut-wrenching.

Trip to Dublin

Brendan is trying to convince Joanna to attend Trinity College in Dublin instead of Queen's, in Belfast. He's planning to find some way of them moving to a place that isn't spiraling into death and chaos. But neither of them is impressed with the place...until the find a shop that does tattoos...and Brendan gets an idea.

“Joanna, what would you think of me with a tattoo?”

“My father has one from his time in the Navy,” was her absent reply. “Got it in Hong Kong, of a half-naked lady. On his left forearm. It’s begun to fade. Trop mal.”

“Does he have any names on him?”

“Names? Tattooed? No. Why?”

I turned to the girl at the counter and asked, “How much is one?”

“Depends on what you get,” she said.

“A name. Six letters here.” I motioned across my left upper arm.

“Which letterin’?” she asked as she came over.

“Brendan, what’re you doing?” Joanna asked, coming close.

“Dunno yet,” I said, then I pointed to the script.

The girl eyed my upper arm and said, “Three punt.”

“How long would it take?” I asked.

“Just over an hour.”

I had five punt on me and twelve British pounds, which I’ve found they take anywhere in the city, so I said, “Let's do it.”

Joanna’s mouth dropped open. “Brendan...”

“What age are you?” the girl asked, her eyes narrow and wary.

“Seventeen,” I said, without hesitation.

She eyed me, unsure. “You look younger, by far.”

I took my coolest pose and shot back at her, “We’re down from Derry lookin’ at Trinity College. We’re applyin’ to attend, next year, and wanted to see more about it. Isn’t that so, Joanna?”

She looked at me, wary, then nodded and said, “Though I’m not decided. I’m also considering St. Andrew’s.”

The girl shrugged, called into the back, and a man the size of Mrs. McKittrick’s house come out. I actually swallowed in nervousness at seeing him. “He wants a tatt, right here.” She patted her left upper arm. “In letterin’ E-6.”

“Spell it oot,” he said, shoving a slip of paper at me.

I did so.

Joanna was speechless for the first few minutes, then as I was handing over the money she turned me to her and said, “Are you mental? You can’t take these things off.”

“I’ll never want it off,” I replied.

“Brendan, this is foolish. How’ll you explain this to your mother? To anyone?”

“There‘s nothing to explain. Nothing. I love you, Joanna. I will till the day I die. Nothing else matters.”

“You are mad,” she muttered.

“No argument from me.”

She shook her head, still wary, but smiled.

The man and the girl smirked at each other, but I knew how deep my feelings were and no one could have swayed me from this course.

“Ooff wit’ ye shirt,” growled the man.

I removed it and sat beside him. “Does it hurt much?”

He smiled and said, “Put ye arm here, hold this grip an’ do NOT move.”

I did as he said. He copied the script onto my skin with a pen, which tickled giggles from me, to my eternal embarrassment, then started the needle up...and dug in... 

And I bloody near screamed at the sudden pain of it.

“Do not MOVE!”

I didn’t! For if there was anything I did not want, it's the letters to wind up like my own scratchy handwriting. I sat there and locked my eyes on Joanna’s and crushed that grip and she held my other hand and my focus stayed on keeping from crushing hers.

“Brendan, t'es trop folle,” she whispered to me, smiling in admiration. “Wicked mad.”

“Have been since the first day I saw you.”

“When was that?”

“Taxi rank. Remember? I was washing me hands.”

She giggled. “In the gutter, and you had dirt on you and you were so pleased with yourself about something.”

“It was the first time I fixed a car.”

“You like doing that, don’t you?” I nodded. “Well, a degree from university might help you get on with British Leyland. Design cars. Build them.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I whispered, and it pleased me no end that she had considered something so fine for my future.

That’s when the words began spilling from me, and I told her of seeing her, again, that day we saw Eamonn off, and of following her down Shipquay to Phillips, and watching her and her friends dance and seeing what record she bought and how I’d bought the same and the phonograph I’d fixed so’s I could listen to it and how I’d seared the words and music into my heart and sung it when I wanted to see her, and this being months before the Liberation Fleadh.

She just sat there, listening to me, looking at me, seeing me and seeming fascinated by my sordid little tales. And her eyes never wavered from my face.

Of course, I said nothing about the nights where I’d conjured her up.

And the girl behind the counter said nothing. And the burly man working on me seemed to grow more gentle so the pain seemed to lessen to the point I could hardly feel it, at all. I recounted how my heart leapt from joy at seeing her every time we met. How I hated parting from her. On and on I babbled, as if the needle was digging a truth drug into me instead of ink as he swiped and outlined and filled in.

I grew hoarse from talking so much. The girl behind the counter brought us cups of tea and never had anything felt so good on my throat or tasted so fine on my tongue.

Finally, I could speak no more, but it was all right, for the burly man did one last wipe of his work and leaned back to smile and say, “Well done, lad. Ye care to gain a look 'fore I cover it? Last chance for ten day.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It grows a scab as it heals, then it’ll peel away and what ye’ll have is as lovely as what ye see now.”

I nodded and he put up a mirror, and I laughed. “It’s backwards.”

He chuckled and angled the mirror then put up another to catch the first one’s reflection. And oh St. Brigit, how lovely it was. Script flowing together in tender darkness, the hint of an outline in red along the top. Dots of blood that he quickly wiped away. I drew in so deep a breath of pride, I could easily have burst, and I turned to show Joanna her new place in my soul.

She touched it, tenderly. “Does it hurt?”

Yes. “Never. I’m yours now, no matter what. You’ve branded me.”

She looked at me with eyes so filled with confusion and wariness, I grew afraid. Thought for an instant I’d made a fool of myself. Gone that one step too far for her or done it too soon or too sudden and now she’d back away from me for being too much a child in matters of the heart, still, and dear God, I thought I’d die if that happened.

But then she leaned in and kissed it. Barely brushed her lips over the raw etching, and relief overwhelmed me. I lay my head in the crook of her neck and let out my breath, finally knowing all would be well.

Then she put her hand to my cheek and whispered, “It’s near six. We’ll be late.”

APoS moves along...

I reworked two chapters, today, and input them and printed them out. 53 pages, total. I'm up to the point where Brendan is 15 and the Troubles are beginning to make life difficult for all in the Bogside part of Derry. Checkpoints to go through just to shop or head for a doctor's appointment. Short supply on some foods and good. Demonstrations that devolve into mini-riots. The British Army paying more and more attention to the Unionists than the Catholics, regarding things. And the media still repeating the government's spin on what's happening instead of paying attention to reality.

I remember when I was living in Houston a columnist for the Houston Post ran an opinion that could have been straight out of the British Media Kit, without a single question. The Troubles were all the IRA's fault and no one wanted to really support them and on and on. If I remember right, it was about 1990, so a lot of the British claims had been debunked. I wrote him a long letter detailing them...and about six weeks later he wrote a three part opinion piece about the situation at the time,  paying much more attention to what was really happening.

In fact, the IRA didn't come into real power in NI until late 1970-early 1971, and even then there was a split between the main IRA (initially geared towards a political solution) and Provisional. (who wanted action). Brendan's brother, Eamonn, has joined with the Provos and is now skulking about with others in the group. Here's what he has Brendan do, for him...

We didn't have a chance to speak again till I was in bed and he came in the room, freshly washed. "What a joy to have hot water in the tap, eh? And a toilet inside," he murmured as he sat beside me in the bed.

“What’re you sayin’?” I asked. “You act like we only just moved here.”

He nodded then cast me a glance, sideways. "My digs in Belfast weren't as modern as this." He cast me a wink. "You mind having the smaller bed?"

“It’s by the window,” I said, shaking my head. Then I looked out the window, at the back of Mr. Payne's. "The view was better on Nailors."

His voice went sing-song as he asked, "Bren-dan...what's the trou-ble?"

I looked at him. He was back to seeming like good old Eamonn, again, and he was one of the few who ever tried to find out what I was truly thinking, so I took in a deep breath and asked, “Didn’t your term end a fortnight ago?”

He grew still. “What if it did?”

"I read the papers," I said, soft and easy so as not to wake Rhuari and Kieran. "Mr. Hennessey clerks at Carroway’s and he lets me for having fixed his bicycle. The bloody thing's older than me and..." My voice trailed off. I coughed.

"And?" whispered from Eamonn.

I took a deep breath. "And sometimes at Colm's I'll see the news. There were fires in the Ardoyne and Short Strand, in Belfast. Catholics burned out. People on both sides shot. Both miles from Queens, but I can smell it deep in your coat. And word is Provos split from the IRA and fought back, killin’ people, and..."

He held up his hand to stop me. Did not look at me. His voice was tight as he said, "I have never known you to be one who spreads gossip or rumor."

"News is not gossip," I shot back, "and I only say this, 'cause...'cause..." My voice trailed off, but he had noticed my words quivered so turned his gaze upon me, wary. I kept on with, "I feel like I did when you were goin' on that long walk and...and I don't want you hurt, again. Seein’ you in hospital, like that...like you were that time...I'm scared for you."

He cast me an odd look, like surprise and confusion, then leaned on one arm and put his hand on my shoulder. "I've always wondered what you really think of the rest of us. You're so quiet. So focused on what you do. Sometimes it felt as if you were looking down on us all."

"Eamonn!" It jolted me that he said such a thing.

"I know better, now. I'm sorry for having ever thought it. I can't tell you anything more than...than I did not return to Queens in January. The IRA's cowardice in the face of what's been happening...it had to be remedied. And so...it will be."

"You're with the Provos?"

"I didn't say that." But his expression confirmed it.

Oh, Jesus... "Can I help you in some way?"

He looked at me, deep in thought. His face took back the expression of someone far older, then he said, "Do you...have you built yourself some hiding spaces? For to keep your money?"

So that's why he was talking to me. I almost felt hurt. I nodded. "It wasn't easy, believe me. Ma kept a sharp eye on me, expectin’ it. She's been pickin' everywhere, now Mai's gone." Then I smiled. "But I can be clever, now and then."

“Hang on.” He slipped back down the stairs, silent as a cat. I looked out to see him enter the hutch, for a moment, then come back out holding a small bag. Moments later, he was up in my room, his back to Rhuari and Kieran, blocking their view, and he showed me a felt bag. "Is one of your hideaways big enough for this?" He opened the felt wrapper.

Inside was a pistol.

I coughed and gulped in air and slapped my hand over my mouth to keep from saying anything.

He knelt by the bed and set it on the covers, his eyes locked on me.

I couldn't look at him as I whispered, "How'd you get it past the checkpoints?" He said nothing, for a moment, so I turned to him. "How?"

A crooked smile crossed his face. "I didn't come home the usual route. And it's not mine; I'm keeping it for a friend."

“Don’t lie to me,” I snapped, picking up the pistol and turning it over. "It's too big for any of my spaces. Have you a match?" He pulled a lighter from his pocket. I fired it up and inspected the pistol, carefully. "It can come apart, easy enough," I murmured. "I could spread it about."

"Could you?"

In answer, I slipped off the bed to get my tools, but Eamonn stopped me and moved the pistol to the window for better light then he ejected the bullet clip...and don't you think for two seconds I didn't notice it was filled. Then he pulled the slide to the rear to make sure it was empty, cocked it, pushed a tiny button on the right side of it, shifted the sliding part back to release a lever...a slide-stop. When he removed that, the pistol nearly exploded apart, across my bed.

He grimaced. "Forgot you have to hold it tight for the spring."

I stared at the pieces, unable to move. This was what the Provos were rumored to be heading for -- armed resistance. Now I knew why he hadn't returned to Queens; he was with them.

He continued with, "You're not supposed to carry it loaded, but there was no time and...well...no place I could do it, till now." He removed the bullets from the clip, slow and careful. "At least there wasn't one in the chamber."

"Jesus, Eamonn, if you'd been caught..." I noticed his hands were quivering. He knew full well he'd risked years at Long Kesh...and now was risking that for me, as well. "Would you rather I take it away?"

"No. No."

He took a section off the main grip then removed the barrel and bushings. In moments, the pistol was in pieces. The grip was still on the large side, so I removed the wood panels on each side, my stomach shaking but my hands steady as granite. I sorted them by size then checked at Ma's door to make sure she was sleeping. I heard her breathe, like a purr, so knew it was safe.

I snuck half the pieces downstairs and used paper from the fish to wrap the slide and stop, coating it with oil from the larder to avoid the juices. The felt bag held the panels, so I put it and the recoil bits in separate spaces behind the top frame of the pantry door. Then I slipped under the sink and pulled away a fake slat by the water pipe to hide the slide and stop. By the time I was done, you couldn't tell they'd been tampered with.

I kept the pistol grip, magazine and sear until the morning, when Ma was downstairs fixing a fry-up in honor of the man in the family. I snuck into her room, found a small groove I'd made, and pulled at it. A corner of the sill dropped down to reveal a hole in the wall. I hid the last of the pistol in there.

Aiden and Jackie came up for Eamonn just before noon and they headed out, being quiet as to where they were going, so I used that time to sneak into the hutch and make sure he didn't have a companion to the pistol...to find half a box of bullets! Those, I hid inside a brace under the settee.

When he returned home, Eamonn took me aside and asked for me to show him where everything was, but I wouldn't. "Better if you don't know," I said. "Then if you're lifted, you can't tell anyone of it."

"I never would," he huffed.

Says the man who can't keep a secret. "It's still safer this way," I snapped back. "And if things to explode and you need it, I...I'll put it back together for you."

Of course, my true intention was never to let him near that thing, again.

Possibility...

I did some running around, today, to catch up and then fell asleep for a few hours, in the middle of the day. Wednesday's move and drive caught up to me, bigtime. Didn't want to get up but I was hungry. Got no writing done because an online friend was having a rough time of it. Now I'm almost human, again, and think I know the best way to get into Carli's Kills.

Carli's got a ratings system for men. It's only fair, since they have one for women. But hers is a bit more intense...more demanding.

1. Eyes. They have to be nice, and while she has a preference for men with sloe eyes, the main deal is...they have to look at her, not through her or up and down her. Glancing at her boobs is a demerit.

2. Lips. Have to be kissable, like Chris Evans. And with a smile, not a smirk or grin. Either of those is another demerit...unless he's really gorgeous. Then maybe she'll use him to scratch an itch. But nothing more.

3. Hands. Lean and strong, not beefy, and with fingernails that are clean but not manicured; that's too indicative of high-maintenance. She even likes to see a nail or two nibbled at, because that suggests he's the feeling sort, with a hint of nervousness. Much easier to have fun with.

4. Flexible. He's not one who always has to set the evening's agenda. If they meet at a bar, he's willing to go to a midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show or a new screening of Singin' in the Rain, just for the hell of it. She's open to some give and take on that, but if he's one who has to run the show, forget it.

5. He better smell good. Not perfumed, but at least a bath, deodorant and maybe a hint of cologne.  Something to show he cares not only about appearance but his effect on other people. Of course, too much of that falls back into the high-maintenance type, and she ain't got time for that.

The rest -- nice body, solid legs, round ass, good dick...those are secondary.

The book's going to start out with her ticking off the whole list as she's hiding in a closet and watching a man named Mikey have sex with a woman named Stasi. Him having those attributes on the positive side, despite him fucking around on his wife, are what keep him alive. Might make use of him, later.

She also has a ratings system for women, and those are what lead to Stasi's death.

Got too tired to think...

The problem with packing a library of books is how much physical exertion there is, not just in getting the books off the shelf but wrapping them and setting them in boxes and packing them and shifting the full boxes out of the way so you can keep working, after getting all the packing materials in and finding space to use them, and on and on. I had help. A guy did the ferrying of the materials inside the house and built boxes for me to use, which took about 40% of the labor off my back, but I still get tired.

Wound up with 146 cartons, and these weren't even being shipped anywhere; they were being transported to a non-profit organization in NYC. So I didn't have to be as careful about them as I normally am, at least. But last night I just plain couldn't put coherent thoughts together...so I sat at my laptop and read through the last 5 chapters of APoS and cringed. Hated how superficial and unreal they seemed. One was dealing with Bloody Sunday, and it was so totally glossed over it might as well have been a Sunday stroll on the promenade.

Half the issue was me being tired and cranky. I couldn't even work up the appetite to go out for fish and chips; I nuked a meal at the hotel. And on top of it, something in the residence's heating system set off my allergies so I was sneezing like an idiot, to the point my sides hurt. I'm better, now that I'm home, but it seemed the fates were conspiring against me. I'll get hard onto APoS tomorrow, after I return the car and drop off the paperwork.

CK is being problematic, and I have no doubt it's because I couldn't focus on it, either. But I got an idea while driving back...and think I may have a way into the story. But I'm finishing this rewrite of APoS before I turn to it, in full awareness.

At least the area was pretty. This is a view of one of the county's lakes...

Probably a mistake...

I read through the last 5 chapters of APoS...and probably shouldn't have. They seem flat and shallow and uninteresting and need a complete overhaul. They aren't bad; they just aren't there, yet. And I'm not sure what to do to get them to the point they work for me.

Part of the issue might be me being tired and cranky. I packed 90 bankers boxes of books and will do another 30 or so, tomorrow. Part of the process with this job is dealing with an elderly man who hasn't decided, completely, what he is and isn't sending. So it's nonstop reworking of what's going and from what part of the house. I hate being nice all day.

So I might return to the hotel, tomorrow, and take a nap and see if that puts me in a better frame of mind.

I started writing Carli's Kills, as well. Just 1400 or so words, but a beginning. I'm opening it with a sex scene between Stasi, a spoiled young woman, and her married lover in her 24th floor condo on the Wilshire Corridor in LA. A high-end area of LA that charges you to breathe the air. She's the bitch who set Carli's daughter up to be raped because a man she was interested in was interested in Carli's daughter. No one comes between Stasi and a man she wants, kind of thing.

It's also her way of paying off a drug debt. Kill two problems with one actions. So she winds up being thrown off her balcony to fall to her death, naked. If I'm going for erotica, this might be on the horror side...but we'll see how it goes.

Sex = death...how original...