A change of plans …

Nope, no Part Three of my Misfits today. Say goodbye to Maxine for a while and hunker down for wonderful news worth celebrating.

 

Graphic credit

Today, I would like to celebrate two women I consider talented and inspiring, women who encourage and cheer others, women who worked harder and longer to accomplish what most of us aspire to achieve. I am honored to count them among my writing friends and to highlight their good news here today.

Like so many of you, I met Laura Drake on line. She has generously offered her friendship, critique of my lame synopsis and waning plots, and she has encouraged me to keep on during those times when I wanted to quit. I borrow her short bio from Writers in the Storm, a group  blog she helped to form and where she contributes monthly.

Laura Drake is a city girl who never grew out of her tomboy ways, or a serious cowboy crush. She writes both Women’s Fiction and Romance.

She sold her Sweet on a Cowboy series, romances set in the world of professional bull riding, to Grand Central. The Sweet Spot (May 2013), Nothing Sweeter (Jan 2014) and Sweet on You (August 2014). The Sweet Spot has recently been named a Romance Writers of America^®   RITA^® Finalist in both the Contemporary and Best First Book categories.

Her ‘biker-chick’ novel, Her Road Home, sold to Harlequin’s Superromance line (August, 2013) and has expanded to three more stories set in the same small town. The Reasons to Stay will release August, 2014.

This year Laura realized a lifelong dream of becoming a Texan and is currently working on her accent. She gave up the corporate CFO gig to write full time. She’s a wife, grandmother, and motorcycle chick in the remaining waking hours.

 

I could not break the link to show you, but this url will bring you to the video of Laura accepting her RITA at the RWA Nationals this weekend. And tingles all around, she was hugged by NORA. list=UUexKC_mroN5YluFQ2pDJjHw

The purpose of the RITA award is to promote excellence in the romance genre by recognizing outstanding published romance novels and novellas.

The award itself is a golden statuette named after RWA’s first president, Rita Clay Estrada, and has become the symbol for excellence in published romance fiction.

 

 ##########

Christi Corbett was the first person to subscribe to my blog and she has been a loyal reader for over four years now. We met on-line in a Writer’s Digest group, we exchange comments, emails, and phone calls. I can’t ever list three items with an “and” and forget the comma because she has drilled the Oxford Comma into my brain.

I have taken her bio from her blog.

From a young age, writing was an integral part of Christi Corbett’s life. It was a skill she further developed during her career as a television writer. Now, Christi continues to broaden her writing horizons with her novel, Along the Way Home, a Historical Western novel about the Oregon Trail.

After graduating from Western Washington University with a degree in Communications, Christi took a job with a CBS affiliate in the Creative Services Department. Over the years her lifelong love of writing was put to good use; in addition to writing over three hundred television commercials, she earned the position as head writer for a weekly television show. Furthermore, she was responsible for writing over one hundred press releases detailing the station’s various special events, community programs, and news department awards.

Currently, Christi lives in a small town in Oregon with her husband, and twin children. The location of the home holds a special place in Christi’s writing life; the view from her back door is a hill travelers looked upon years ago as they explored the Oregon Territory and beyond.

Christi is a member of Women Writing the West and The Ridge Writers, a local writing critique group.

 

 

This is Christi this past weekend at a book signing. She was unable to attend the RONE awards in person, but the thrill was certainly the high point of her family’s week. The RONE … Spotlighting the very best and rewarding excellence in the 2014 Indie and Small Publishing Industry.

Congratulations to both of these amazing women.

##########

How many times?  I mean, count to yourself and tell me … how many times have you heard … all good things come to those who wait??

I would amend that to say … all good things come to those who work hard, believe in themselves, and never give up. I mean don’t just sit there and “wait” for the knock on the door. Prince Charming never knocks and opportunity is inside your soul … listen for it … know it when it comes … and grab onto the gold ring and never let go.

 

This will be my last blog post until September 3rd. Read, write, play and enjoy the balance of your summer.

Do you have good news to share?.

Yours or a friend. Tell me.

fOIS In The City

 

Another blind date ?

I consider my”flawed” work and failed characters as my right to passage, my Baptism by Fire, and a darn good way to have excess material I can use for the blog. You see, I was very spoiled. As a verbal story-teller, I didn’t have to follow any rules. All I needed to do was engage my audience, give them good one-liners and the moment was mine.  Thus, I invented my Bleeps, Bloopers and Outtakes category.

Story Telling

 

Back at the ranch, poor Gail is on another hot date. My blind date series should cure anyone contemplating buying a pig in a poke. I can’t decide which is worse than the others. One of these days, we’ll do a recap. For now, enjoy. Counting to six, this week is our fifth hot date … one more and Gail’s salad days will end.

Third Candidate …

His name is Larry Reuben and he’s one of Meredith’s throwaways. To be fair to Larry and give you a clearer picture of my cousin, none of them are ever gone. Meredith is a pioneer of the notion that nothing and no one should ever be thrown out, just recycled on an as-need basis. Thus, Larry.

 

Blind Dates Gone Bad

Larry is wearing a black suit, a deep rose-pink shirt, with a rose-pink double wide, silk tie and is as good looking as his picture. He motions. “Our table is right here.”

He points to the last table in the back of the room, the table near the kitchen, the table where they put the prepubescent, pimply boys and girls. Three chubby girls with thick glasses, braces and blotchy complexions, six boys short and shunken chested, and all giggles, one with straws stuck up his nose, look up at us and giggle.

What is worse than a blind date? A blind date in full view of your entire family. No one in the family ever misses one of Meredith’s weddings. She is prone to marrying well, living better and at the last, sucking all the mutual funds out of them.

Larry politely offers to get us a drink. “What can I get for you?”

“A Pepsi would be fine.”

He returns with a Coke. “They didn’t have Pepsi. I took the liberty of having them squeeze lemon in it for you.”

I hate lemon in my Coke, but it was so thoughtful, I drink it anyway. “Thanks.”

The appetizers are passed around the room. Larry asks to be excused and I nod, my mouth stuffed with a dumpling. During the cocktail hour I eat four shrimp cocktails and a dozen of those tiny egg rolls.

While Larry is visiting various tables, I am the only adult with this group of camp rejects. The girls huddle next to one another and whisper, while the boys tell jokes about “uranus.” The chubby girl in pink ruffles. “You shouldn’t talk like that, Stewart Levinson.”

“It’s a planet.” They slap one another and howl with laughter.

They blow straws from their noses, tell anus jokes and provide comic relief with the sound effect for the word fart. “You’re the fart, Melvin Goldberg.”

Larry sits and is well mannered, jokes with the kids and at first makes normal conversation. The dinner hour starts and we make small talk. “You work in real estate, Gail?”

I smile. “In real estate management.” Makes me sound more important, doesn’t it?

Larry might have been the first blind date that is normal, even enjoyable. He politely asks for a dance and I decline. “I’m having problems with my feet, but go on and dance if you like.”

He smiles and leaves to dance with my Aunt Rachel. I mean every other female in the room is thrilled to dance with him, flattered by his more than attentive manner and bowled over with his sense of humor. He didn’t sweat all over me or try to rub my toes.

The evening is winding down and Larry sits at our table, his tie undone, his feet stretched out on an empty chair. “Gail, you look like a girl who loves a good time.”

I haven’t moved from our table except to graze at the desert table. What good time? I smile. “Thanks.”

He leans closer. “I mean a truly good time.” He winks. “If you catch my drift.”

Actually, I didn’t. “Sure.”

“Maybe we can see a show next weekend. Having a first date at a family wedding isn’t much fun.”

He peaks my interest. “Sure.”

He leans over. “I bet you’re wearing white, cotton bloomers.”

I thought I heard something, but was certain I had been mistaken. Elaine is always telling me to be more assertive, more proactive, so I add, “We could catch a movie downtown.”

Again he leans. “And your fat ass probably jiggles in them … the white cotton bloomers I mean.”

He waves to my sister. “Aw, the ever-lovely Elaine.” He turns. “Is it true your mother dressed you like twins?”

“That was a long time ago.”

His face begins to transform. He licks his lips and points to his pants. “I have on the most fantastic hot pink, satin undies. Straight from the Victoria Secret summer sale catalog.”

The other Gail whispers. Great going, Gail. Mr. Normal just became Mr. Crossdresser.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I do.” He pulls down the waistband of his pants and shows me a tiny swatch of hot pink satin. “When I dance they swish against my skin and feel wonderful.”

The picture of pink satin is swishing in my head. Larry is licking his lips. “We could have such a good time. I have this picture of you in tightie-whities, a T-shirt flat on your chest.” He cocks his head. “Or stripped boxers.”

I’ve seen some of the teen girls in the neighborhood wearing boxer shorts, sometimes on the outside of their jeans, other times instead of summer shorts. But I have a sinking feeling he’s not going for the latest fashion trend of the eighties.

I’m worrying about satin and tightie-whities and fumble with my bag. “Oh look, Meredith is throwing the bouquet.”

He puts his hand on my thigh. “After we finish I’ll let you rub the satin on your face. It’s better than face cream.”

“Actually Larry, I’m allergic to satin.”

He reaches for my hand and guides it to his shirt. “Feel that?”

“Huh, no?”

“Reach in and feel it. I have on a matching Victoria bra. And for fifty percent off, I got the same color in a bustiere.”

I quickly gather my stuff. “Gee, that’s wonderful for you, Larry.”

“What movies do you like?”

My head is spinning. “What?”

“Movies, what kind do you like?”

I’m on my feet and Meredith comes over. She takes one look at my face and laughs. “Don’t be such a putz. You haven’t lived until you’ve reversed roles.” She peels down his waistband and smiles. “Victoria hot pink?”

He smiles. “From their Summer catalog.”

“Did you see that bustiere? Is that great or what?”

Meredith looks across the room at her newly betrothed. “Larry, my love. Are you aware this place has private rooms for the bride and groom?”

His eyes sparkle. “Really?”

“Yes, and I just happen to have a key to one of those rooms?” She reaches into her bountiful breast and produces a key.

He suddenly looks downtrodden. “We can’t just leave Gail alone.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Meredith laughs. “Don’t hyperventilate, Gail.”

She grabs Larry’s belt buckle. “Our bags are packed for the honeymoon. I’ll use Steven’s boxers.” She giggles. “If you’re a good boy, mommy will give you a spanking.”

Larry is transported to nirvana. “Yes, oh please. I’ll be good.”

She grabs his arm. “Let’s go.”

He gets up to follow. “I’ll call you, Gail. We’ll take in a movie or something.” With that they scurry out of the room.

Of course we will. We’ll take in a movie and then we’ll exchange undies.

##########

Curious minds want to know.

What do you do with your failed characters?

fOIS In The City

News Flash …

My dear friend, Christi Corbett has been nominated for the Rone Award. These are given for excellence in Indie and Small Press. Along the Way Home, published by Astraea Press, has been nominated in the American Historical category. Congrats, good buddy.

A love story …

Welcome to Flash Fiction Valentine.

In honor of Valentine’s Day, I am writing a short love story with a sentence prompt sent to me from Christi Corbett: Gina scanned the crowded park, searching for the man wearing the agreed upon red baseball cap.

They say true love is hard to find. For many it never happens. They come and go in this world and never find that illusive something that connects them to another human being. That is sad … for as  poet Alfred Lord Tennyson said: ‘Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.

The remains of the day …

Gina paid the taxi, took the tiny map the caretaker provided, and walked along the winding pathways of the Most Holy Trinity Catholic Cemetery, in East Hampton, Long Island. It was where the Gambone family plots were located. It was where the remains of his mortal body rested, under six feet of dirt she did not own, beneath a tombstone she did not select, surrounded by dozens of dead strangers. His grandparents’ mausoleum stood in the background, guarding the others, overseeing in death as they had in life.

It had been three long years since she came to this place. The graves were tended by perpetual care. Flowering bushes, low branches of Dogwood, and the clinging blooms of the wisteria on the mausoleum reached for the noon-day sun. Spring was in the air, its colors splashing the landscape of his rarified internment.

She stopped in front of his grave site and told him, “Not exactly where the likes of Gina Ferrante will be put to rest.”

Her fingers stroked the letters of his name, Michael Gambone, they circled the dates of his birth and his untimely death. The family had kindly provided a stone bench. She sat and placed the flowers from her cousin’s florist shop on the ground. “The family takes good care of you, Mike,” she said. “I guess they always took good care of you.”

She let her eyes wander from the massive house to the grounds with several other benches and  the graves of his younger brother, two cousins and three aunts and uncles, “And not a room in the inn for the outsider.”

She felt daft talking to his tombstone although she knew well many others talked to the ground, to cold, hard stones, shouted at the wind and railed against the finality of this place.

She did a semicircle of the bench. “I guess I came to say goodbye, Mike. I owe you that,” she said. “Only to you, not your family.”

Like others who came to visit, Gina began rooting out weeds, picking up dried leaves and doing a bit of gravesite housework. “Your mother told me they spend a fortune to keep up everybody’s graves.” She tossed dried leaves in a small metal can behind her. “I didn’t tell her I was coming. If I told her, she would have wanted to come with me. And I wanted to talk to you alone.”

“I brought some fresh lilac. I remember how you loved the lilac’s in your mom’s garden.” Gina found a plastic funnel and fixed the lilac branches she brought. “I don’t believe you’re really down there. I think you’ve already been recycled.” She laughed. “Of course, I won’t tell your mom.”

She shifted in her seat, unable to be still. “I met someone.” She put her head down, ashamed and embarrassed at once. “Well kind’a met someone that is.”

Gina stood and walked over to the other graves, braved one long look through the stained glass of the mausoleum and paced around to another group of tombstones. Shaking her head, she sat again. “Some friend of a friend told me about this guy. We only talked in emails and on the phone,” she said. “It’s not like I don’t still love you. I’ll always love you, Mike.”

She thought of the day she saw two uniformed officers at her door, the grim reaper in NYPD Blue. “They tried to be nice about it. Asked if there was someone they could call.”

Gina became aware of tears. “Imagine that? Asking me if there was someone they could call.” She swiped her face with the back of her hand. “You were the one I always called. How rotten is that? I didn’t expect to be a widow at twenty-five. I’m sure you didn’t expect to be dead either.”

Gina slipped off the bench and sat on the ground. “I need you to tell me what to do, Mike. Tell me it’s okay.” She stroked the side of the stone. “What would you say if I met someone else? I mean, it’s not like you’re gonna come back. You didn’t take a trip to Cleveland or drive to Jersey, you know. You took the big ride, the last trip.”

A gust of wind blew up the few loose leaves left on the ground. When the wind calmed, Gina looked over and saw a blue jay sitting on the top of the mausoleum. It squawked and complained as they do. “Noisy birds, those damn blue jays.” It complained further and she laughed. “Oh, why do you make such a fuss?”

The bird continued to complain to the universe about something until in a flurry of blue feathers, it was joined by another. They rubbed beaks, preened each other’s feathers and with more noise than a room full of ten year old boys, they flew off.

Gina took it as a sign. “You were a good man and I’ll always miss you. But it’s time for me to take flight, maybe find another bird. You know what I mean?”

She pressed two fingers to her lips and pressed them to his name. “Maybe we can take up where we left off one day.”

Without another word, she walked out of the cemetery.

Four days later, Gina scanned the crowded park, searching for the man wearing the agreed upon red baseball cap. Prospect Park in Brooklyn, was ablaze with spring colors. Gina sat on a bench and waited. She saw another pair of blue jays in one of the giant oak trees lining the sidewalks in the park and smiled.

“I told him to wear a red cap. Like the one you were wearing the day we met,” she said.

She saw his approach, measured his stride. Under the red baseball cap, his wide smile welcomed her. He waved, “Gina, is that you?”

##########

Have you met our soul mate?

And please tell all … what was your most memorable Valentine?

fOIS In The City