Pulling Words from the Air

Michelle at Joyfully Jay gives Caged 4.75 Stars

August 7, 2014 by Bey

Every once in a while, there's a review that really touches me to the core. This is one of them.

"I have to start by calling attention to the writing itself. It’s exceptional. When I take a break from reading and have to take a moment to get reacquainted with my surroundings, it’s just not possible to be pulled any more into a story. The use of words landing in the exact perfect place, the small intricate details woven together, and the flow of moving from one page to the next, perfectly illustrates Deckard’s talent.

The story is set in a historical period, but does not focus or dwell on a lot of historical details. The well researched details are in the scenes themselves that slowly sneak up on you to give you a full picture of where you are. It’s the description of the laces and the material of the men’s pants, their boots, the type of shirt (or lack of shirt) they are wearing, the color of the bedding, the placement of items in a room, the detail on a window, and then all of a sudden Baltsaros walks into his quarters and you can picture him and what his room looks like without having been given a list and an information overload of details. That is an art form."

Read the Review at Joyfully Jay

Beth Brock Gives Caged 4 Stars

August 5, 2014 by Bey

Pirates, adventure, romance, gay sex, a titch of MMF, a splash of BDSM, and a dash of MMM. This book has everything. It’s refreshing to read a MMM Romance that blows convention out of the water...

Read the whole review at Beth's blog

Fan Mail Wednesday – picture-post edition.

July 30, 2014 by Bey

Welcome to another round of fan mail Wednesday!

I just received what is probably one of the oddest questions so far, so I thought I'd turn my answer into a blog post.

Ann writes: You probably get asked what you actually look like all the time so I will ask a different question. What do you smell like?

Hi Ann! What do I smell like? Hmm. Well, most of the time I smell like:

and:

and, if I'm being honest, probably a little of:

Thank you for writing to me, Ann! I love random emails. I'm glad you enjoyed Caged.

High School was a Blast

September 5, 2014July 28, 2014 by Bey

I recently got an invite to my twenty-year high school reunion.

Twenty.

Twenty fucking years.

Jesus.

So, since high school has been on my mind for the past few days, I figured I might as well write a post about it.

I liked high school. I think I might have actually loved it a little. Yes, you heard me right.

The actual lessons were always easy. I'm intelligent and a quick study; I was in a special program where I did intensive science classes for the last three years (bio-chem, intro genetics, college-level physics and gen chem), and I was tutoring advanced math. My English classes were largely Latin courses and Shakespeare. I was my art teacher's favourite student. I was on the honour roll. I won a bunch of awards at graduation.

I also held the record for the most absences in a year. Two years in a row. I was constantly in detention... mostly for creating mayhem. I was suspended. I was put on academic probation. I had to see a guidance counsellor twice a week for the last two years of school. Why? Because all my report cards said approximately the same thing:

Brilliant student when motivated. Does not play well with others.

When watching The Breakfast Club, someone asked me who I was in high school, I said: "Why do I have to pick?"

Death metal t-shirts, ripped jeans one day. Three-piece pinstripe suit the next. In the chess club and on the yearbook team. Organizer of fights off school property where I also acted as bookie. Was nominated to position of Peer Counsellor* for my grade and interviewed by a newspaper. Chronic stoner that helped to run acid and hash through the school.

I was suspended and forced to come into school over a holiday once, but the principal gave me the keys to the school so I could go work in the dark room instead of sitting in her office.

I wasn't popular, no, but I got along with a lot of people.

I was either a teacher's favourite student or their worst nightmare.

I got away with so much shit.

I had fun.

I tend not to remember the bad parts.

It was a time when I had no responsibility other than getting my school work done... the rest of the time was a barrel of laughs. So many good memories.

Getting stoned and skipping class to trip in the woods where I told ghost stories.

Hanging out with my friends, smoking our cigarettes, thinking were were all that.

All the art projects... plus getting really stoned and watching The Wall in art class.

Drunken school dances with furtive fondling.

But... am I going to my reunion?

No. I'm not interested. I'd like to leave the happy memories where they are... anyone that I wanted to stay in contact with, I have on Facebook. I don't get off on talking about work, kids, diseases, mortgages. And, while I got a little nostalgic writing this post, I'm also not one for talking about the Good Old Days™. I'm still right in the middle of them...

High school was a blast though.

*where I used my powers to pull students out of class to snag a friend of mine so we could go to my place and get so high on hash that I lay on my bed and came hands-free. Then was promptly sick.

Spires complete!

July 27, 2014 by Bey

Just finished writing the sequel to Caged last night. I'll wait a few days to clear my head and start the first reread. Hopefully it will be published in a few months.

Phew.

Still not sure about the name.

Can't wait to work on the cover. :)

Tears

July 25, 2014 by Bey

I don't cry a lot. In fact, I can't remember the last time it happened. I can think of one time, and that was nearly three years ago.

I don't like crying. Some say it's catharsis. To me, it's just a stuffy nose and a slight headache if it goes on a bit. I have other ways of relieving tension.

I have an ex who used to argue that I was heartless because I don't find certain movies sad.

Just today I was talking to someone about how I don't like endings, so here are four movies I can't watch the end of for fear that they'll make me cry... because it happened before:

1. Brokeback Mountain - watched late at night at the office along with too much to drink. Cried like a baby.

2. Terminator 2 - need I say more?

3. Armageddon - ok, I may have daddy issues.

4. Dances with Wolves - Ugh. Two Socks.

I watch these but turn them off before the Bad Things happen. Cowardly or just avoiding a stuffy nose? Take your pick.

What movies make you cry?

Sarge

November 13, 2014July 21, 2014 by Bey

Down on my knees in mud made from equal parts dirt and blood, I survey the damage done to Sarge. His left eye’s completely gone; it’s just a big, wet red hole where the charge went in. Thankfully, it’s cauterized some, so the bleeding is minimal. There’s nothing I can really do about it; he’ll have to get it replaced at the chop n’ change at HQ, and that’s a half-hour hike that might as well be on the other side of the planet as long as the sun’s still up.

I pop open a compartment in my hip and take out a pin-sticker of hubba bubba. I jab it into his neck and sit back to check if any of this goddamned blood is my own while I let the painkiller work its magic. HeBA, or Hexa-Benactryl Almeanotroxene, is a synthetic compound that’s part homegrown and part alien; the fact that the shit is bright fucking pink gets me thinking that the squinters and grinders that make it were actively hoping for the nickname.

It doesn’t take long. The hubba’s pretty potent. Up until this point, the Sarge’s been staring off to the side, his face tense, not saying a word. The wound’s gotta hurt like hell, but this is the Sarge. He’s a legend. Hell, even I’d be tempted to cry a little if some asshole blew a hole in my head. When he finally turns to me, his right eye looks blankly somewhere over my shoulder, and there’s no expression on his face.

“Soldier?” he says, like he doesn’t know who I am. He’s still not looking directly at me, and it dawns on me right then that maybe he can’t see.

“Y’sir,” I reply. My voice is in the basement end of the register, all gravel and boom. Half of what I say ends up sounding like a grunt, but that’s fine with me. I don’t say much.

Outlaw Reviews gives Caged 9/10 stars!

July 20, 2014 by Bey

Nancy at Outlaw Review writes:

"I thoroughly enjoyed spending time with these three men as they fought, loved and hurt. Their many adventures, the steamy sex, and the memorable secondary characters made this story a joy to read. I especially loved the badass Katherine, whose relationship to Jon was almost sisterly and I even liked Baltsaros’ ex-wife, Abetha, who went through changes of her own. Jon’s growth throughout the story was very convincing and well portrayed. He’s a solid character with the right mix of strength and compassion that brings all three men together..."

Read the rest at Outlaw Review

Orbiting

December 11, 2015July 16, 2014 by Bey

All it takes is for me to see that look in his eyes. That look. It's like a punch to the solar plexus. I can't breathe. There's panic. It hurts. For a moment the world narrows down to one tiny, sharp point that prods the part of me I rarely use. The one that pumps the blood through my veins.

Then the visions come, rapid-fire and unsympathetic.

I can't look away if they're inside my head.

»»»»»

On my knees, his head on my lap. Beneath my palm is a hot, slick mess of blood. I can feel how it pulses out of him. People say blood is sticky. It's not sticky. Sticky is the drip of honey on your shirt; sticky is the orange juice you dropped on the linoleum last night when you needed something to wash the sour taste from your mouth. Sticky is sweet things that don't dry.

Blood ain't sweet.

Blood is tacky. The way drying glue is tacky. Though my palm threatens to slide, my fingers are dry and stiff, and if I were to lift them away, the skin of his neck would stretch a little with the pull. I don't let go. I wouldn't.

His eyes plead with me, but there's no hope. I can hear a chopper in the distance. The smell of blood is so rich and meaty I can almost taste it. There's a tear on the tip of my nose, but it never falls.

»»»»

He's in a plane. I'm in a different one. It's not like Top Gun; the kites we're flying have props. We're making a final pass. There's a bullet that punches through the cockpit and cuts through my pant leg, but I don't feel a thing. I don't know if it's because of the adrenaline running cold in my veins or if I was just a lucky bastard. My radio gets it a second later, and I'm alone in the sky.

I find my bearings. I cross the Channel. I'm home. I am a lucky, bloody bastard.

My heart beats loud in my ears—a liquid white noise I can hear inside my skull. The touch down is ropey because my hands are shaking. I know I'm bleeding now because I'm cold and my boot is wet. I don't care, because what cripples me is that I don't see his plane on the runway, and I can't see him in the air. I'm only told after I fall out of the cockpit that he was gunned down. Another punch to the gut, and I'm pulled away again.

»»»

Is it Nice? Barcelona? Palermo? I can see beautiful water beyond the high patio. Thin white curtains blow in the warm breeze. He's wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned. Shorts. He's tanned. His feet are bare.

For once we're not fighting for our lives. No, we're playing chess in the sun. That smile always gets me. I can't help but smile back. The way his hand curls around the piece suddenly reminds me of the way it looks curled around my wrist.

Oh, but we do fight... and fight. Behind those smiling eyes is that darkness he keeps there like a prisoner. I know that darkness well; we're old friends.

White shirt, white curtains, white sheets. There's blood on those white sheets; among the tiny, red rosebuds there's a full bloom. We fight until dawn. Then we're in the summer sun again, and we play another round of chess. He hates the way I make him feel; I hate the fact that I love him.

»»

I'm on my knees on the ground again. This time it's dusk, and it's really fucking cold. There are trees all around me. I'm back in uniform, and my horse has thrown a shoe. The horse isn't hurt, but I'm wrapping her hoof in my scarf even though the wind blows its ice down my neck. I can hear him get off his mount and walk to me. We're alone, so when he puts his hand on my shoulder, I lean against him. We're late getting back to camp. He knows it, I know it. Neither of us cares for the moment. Is he going to die on me again? Will I be the first to go?

More visions. More lives.

I blink, and they're gone. I can breathe again.

I don't want to breathe.

We're never quite in sync, never given enough time. Like twin moons orbiting something built from blood, love, and far too much pain. If I don't turn away, my eyes begin to burn.

They're not tears. They're more like memories of tears.

I push it all out of my head, reclaim the coldness I prefer, and I go back to breathing. Easy as pie.

Problem is, it'll take at least another beer just so I can look away.

Rustin Cohle

July 12, 2014 by Bey

New portrait of Rust from True Detective. A long time planning.

Michelle at Joyfully Jay gives Caged 4.75 Stars

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Beth Brock Gives Caged 4 Stars

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Fan Mail Wednesday – picture-post edition.

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High School was a Blast

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Spires complete!

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Tears

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Sarge

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Outlaw Reviews gives Caged 9/10 stars!

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Orbiting

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Rustin Cohle

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