Thursday, October 23, 2014

Throwback Thursday Tune

How about some Southern rock? And how about the greatest Southern rock band in all the land? I was lucky enough to catch them two years ago live. It was one of the best shows I've ever seen.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Two Guys 3 Sneak Peek!

I bet you all have just been gnawing on your knuckles in anticipation of this moment. Well, gnaw no longer my M/M zom-rom-com loving friends! Have a sit down and enjoy this excerpt from Two Guys Walk Into an Apocalypse 3: He's a Lumberjack and He's Undead which releases next Wednesday.

Just as an extra warning, there is rough language in this excerpt. If you're offended by such things now is the time to skip off. I will not be offended at all, trust me.

The following day we were standing alongside Route 10. It had been agreed upon that we should keep a nice wide berth from Winnipeg, just in case the city had been overrun. Our intrepid band was staring across a huge area of what had been manicured yard that led up to a few acres of chain-link fence topped with circlets of barbed wire.

"I don't know," I said, chewing on a rather crisp apple we had borrowed from a tiny deserted Mom & Pop store about fifty miles back, "I'm just not sure how intelligent it would be to try to survive a zombie apocalypse inside a prison."

Rodney, of course, had a different take on the situation than I did. Shocking, I know.

"I think once we got it cleared out we'd be set," he said, gazing around my mother and Tink to locate me. All our asses were against the side of his Escalade. The wind was making a lovely whistling sound as it blew through the barbed wire. "They've got tons of food, weapons, medical supplies. Hell, we could hunker down in there and not come out for years."

"We could also run into a thousand inmates," Gordon interjected, his brown eyes roaming over the seemingly innocuous minimum-security prison. "Either way, infected or no, that is not a situation I'm comfortable putting ourselves into."

"I'm with Gordon," I seconded. "I say we move on, further north to the Territories, as we all agreed. The further we get from the border the fewer infected we should encounter."

"We'll also have shorter summers and worse winters," Rider said. I appreciated his reminder but I was backing Gordon on this one. "I'm not saying I'm not willing to go, I'm just wanting y'all to bear in mind the further north we go the harder survival is going to be. We got a shit load of stuff to do and learn before snow flies."

"Yeah, we got that down pat, Rodney," Justine said, reaching up to swat a persistent fly from her face. "I say we move north. I'm filling up on med supplies every stop we make and that place . . ." she flicked the prison a distrustful dark glance. "I'm not taking Eden into a prison."

I stepped from the Escalade and pushed my sticky fingers through my lanky blond hair. What I wouldn't give for a proper shower. I hadn't had a hot bath since that rest stop Gordon and I pulled into back in -- Ohio was it? Pennsylvania? Things get blurry when you're running for your life.

"Show of hands," I said, rolling the half-eaten Gala between my palms. "Those who want to move on, raise your hands." I crammed the apple in my mouth and looked down the line. A tweak of a smile tugged at my mouth when I found the Colonel at attention with his flattened age-spotted hand resting on his bushy silver eyebrows. It seemed we were unanimous after Rider grudgingly shoved his mitt into the air.

Monotony is nearly as deadly as infected zombies. Driving for hour after hour was enough to make even those with the patience of Job cranky. So when any sort of new distraction appears, those who are bored out of their minds leap on it. Our newest distraction came when we were about seven hours north of the prison. It was The Colonel, believe it or not, who spied the man walking down the middle of the road. I was driving the Escalade, chewing on some peanut butter bread, when our elderly neighbor leaned forward in the passenger seat, squinting so hard his bushy silver eyebrows were nearly lying on his bottom eyelid.

"Half a league, half a league, half a league onward," he said, pointing a crooked finger at a lone figure following the yellow line. I slowed the Caddy down. Gordon came up from the rear, his dark head sliding between the seats while he gripped the headrests.

"Is it a phobie?" he asked. Tink appeared, sticking her little brown and pink head over Gordon's shoulder.

"He's not walking like a phobie," she commented, lifting her thumbnail to her teeth. She had a point. The man was strutting down the middle of the road with a lively gait, his arms swinging to and fro as if he were taking a happy summer stroll. I crept forward, nudging a Suburban with a bloody back window out of the way. I glanced into the rearview. Mom was behind the wheel of the S-10, giving Justine a driving break. My sight returned to Mister Spring Stroller. He was an older man, with black and silver hair pulled into a ponytail the dangled down his back. Not a thin man by any means either. He wore black pants, a black vest over a tie-dyed tee, and a black top hat with a menagerie of different feathers arranged artfully in the band.

"What the fuck does he think he's doing?" Rodney asked, his voice muddy with sleep. I looked back to see the man leaning around Tink, his hand resting casually on her left shoulder. We slowed to a stop. The man stopped beside a car that was obviously holding a phobie. The windows were so smeared with blood and bile you couldn't make out what was inside, but the constant shaking of the old Sprint should have warned the fidiot not to tug the handle up. I tossed open the driver's side door and hit the ground running, my handgun up and aimed at the blue Sprint.

"Don't open that door!" I yelled. The Sunday Stroller turned at the shout. He was wearing round orange sunglasses. It was like looking at Jerry Garcia's twin, I shit you not.

"Have no fear, my brother," he said with a smile of utter assurance, "The Mighty Almighty One will protect me."

I couldn't get to him fast enough. I heard Tink, Gordon, Rodney, and even the Colonel shouting at him.

"Plunged into the battery smoke!" the dear old gent in the oversized cap and Gordon's jacket warned. The ass-crack yanked the door open.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Tuesday Tales - Picture Prompt

It's time for more romance!

We are still moving onward with a short Christmas serial titled Blue & Silver Bows. We have a picture prompt this week so the excerpt is written to reflect the image and must be three hundred words or under.   

This week Jonah and Dana meet up for their first date. Please do check out the other wonderful writers after you`re done reading by clicking on the Tuesday Tales link at the bottom. Thanks for stopping in!

Blue & Silver Bows

 Grinding the gears a little, I hurried out to Homestead. I had roughly fifteen minutes to meet Jonah at The Waterfront, a huge shopping complex along the mighty Monongahela River. It`s a monstrous place built on the site of the former Homestead steel mill with theaters, restaurants, and a comedy club among many other ‘cool’ places. Also, it was relatively easy to find.

I had nervously taken care of where we would eat and the evening`s entertainment as Jonah knew nothing about the local nightlife here. I swung off the bridge that spans the Monongahela. Christmas lights and twinkling decorated trees were everywhere. I drove around, swiping at the windshield occasionally. My trusty Toyota clattered into a slot and heaved a sigh of relief when I turned off the engine. 

Pulling back the sleeve of my coat I saw that I was ten minutes late. I swatted the clock above the radio then hauled ass to the front doors of The Improv. I saw Jonah chatting with some man and all that ‘Here comes the cougar! Rowr!’ spirit blew away like a balloon with a prick in it.

And didn`t my date pick that time to turn from his conversation to look at me as if on cue. I placed a hand nonchalantly on the wall hoping it looked like something like a come-hither glance. Jonah said something to the tall fellow he was chatting with then walked over to me. His long legs chewed up the distance quickly. He moved like a mountain lion, all sinew and stealth. I suddenly had a strong urge for a fancy drink. Perhaps several fancy drinks, all different colors.

Copyright 2013 ©by V.L. Locey


Click on the link below to return to the Tuesday Tales main blog for more great reads from the talented Tuesday Tales authors.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

The Twisted Sister Query

Alternatively, we can call my post today the 'What Do You Want to Do with Your Writing Life?' question. Dee Snider will not be making a guest writing appearance in this blog post, sorry Twisted Sister fans. Here`s a picture. Enjoy.

I'm repeatedly asked 'How are you so prolific?' Well, truthfully, 'What are you smoking up there on the mountain?' is the most frequently asked, but 'How are you so prolific?' is a close second. I have my stock answer of . . .

"I put my butt into the chair daily and I write."       

I know that`s a simple reply to a complex question so I`ll try to probe a bit deeper to show how I do what it is I do. Of course, what works for me may not work for others.  I'm just sharing what I have learned through a few years of trial and error. 

It seems to me that the people who are asking me how I write so much aren`t non-writers for the most part, they are other authors. I see so many of my fellow scribes struggling to put words down on the page for their novels but spending countless hours writing blog posts. They'll pen two or three thousand word posts daily, bi or tri-weekly, about a multitude of issues, concerns, rants, thoughts, etc. for their blog but lament about not having that book they started four years ago done.

So I will ask . . .

What do you want to do with your writing life?

You may have to choose. I know I did. While I enjoy blogging, my real passion is being a romance novelist. A few years ago, I had to decide which I wanted to do more. There is only so much time in the day. If I spend my time writing blog posts, my books sit untouched. So I
made the call and am now a full-time novelist. Sure, I blog about things in my life, the critters I share it with, and the general silliness that fills my brain on occasion, but I don`t let blogging hog up my writing time. I blog when I can. I do not blog heavily when I have novels to write. I consider blogging and my fan fiction side jobs. My novels are my full-time job, and as such, they get top priority.

What do you want to do with your writing life?

You may have to ask yourself this difficult question when you find yourself bemoaning/apologizing/explaining why you do not have time to write your book in your blog posts. I think it all comes down to what you want to do with your career. Or . . .

What do you want to do with your writing life?

If poetry is your love then embrace your poetry. If you love blogging, then blog away, my friend! Blog until you can't blog anymore. However, if you want to write books, then perhaps you need to sit down and reevaluate your goals. We are only human. We can't do it all. Multitasking does not work, the Mythbuster`s proved it.

If you're trying to juggle being a daily blogger with being a novelist/employee/parent/lover/marketing and promotion strategist something is going to suffer. Since we can't let it be the spouse, kids, or job guess what generally feels the time crunch the worst? Yep. Your novel. My husband is always saying that life is about choices. This may be one of those tough choices you have to make in life--blog when you have a spare hour or work on the novel? Only you can decide.

Whatever your choice is, I wish you the best with it. Love your choice. Own it, hug it, squeeze it, and call it George. Give it all your devotion, good karma, and spare time and I promise it will pay you back in joy, self-satisfaction, and knowledge that you have found your calling. 

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Throwback Thursday Tune

Oh yeah, now we're talking! Who else thought these guys were the cat`s pajamas?

Sorry, I had to go there and do that.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Two Guys Walk Into an Apocalypse 3 Cover Reveal! (Scroll Down for This Weeks Tuesday Tales)

It`s been a long time coming but finally the third novella is here. Paul, Gordon, and all their slightly wacky friends are back just in time for Halloween!

Check out this hilarious cover. Talk about a perfect fit for a zom-rom-com! Two Guys 3 will be released upon the world on October 29th exclusively from Torquere Press.

Here`s a bit of info and a PG-rated excerpt from the book:

Paul and Gordon aren't your typical zombie hunters. They're a loving couple of educators who might be infected by the virus that is turning the world's population into mindless, undead eating machines. So why haven`t they turned?  Well, Gordon has a theory about that. He suspects that those who march under the rainbow flag just might be carrying the cure for the plague in their bloodstream. Zendra, the massive pharmaceutical company where the mutated virus was made, certainly seems to be in a hurry to round up all the gay survivors they can grab.

To avoid the clutches of Zendra, Paul, his partner Gordon, and a ragtag band of survivors head into the Great White North - the land of maple syrup, hockey, lumberjacks, and thick bacon. Here they plan to spend the winter, hopefully safe from roaming bands of undead, militaristic companies with far too much power, seedy groups of other survivors, and the always dreaded moose. Can two guys in love lead a motley crew to safety?


My sigh and a steady but thin stream of urine pattering on the pine needles and last fall's dead leaves were the only noises until something stepped on a branch directly behind me. The dead bough cracked like a pistol. My urine stopped flowing as my heart dropped into my gut. A hot breath blew over the back of my neck causing every fine hair to stand up on end. The exhalation stank of rotten teeth and pond scum. With one hand, I tucked the shriveled beast back into its BVD cage. If a phobie was going to rip me into strips I was not dying with my dick  out. That's just a thing I have. Death can claim me but my genitals will be covered if I can manage it.

With a very unhurried demeanor and a sudden weakness in my legs and knees, I simultaneously reached behind my back for the gun while I swiveled my head around. The largest brown eyes I have ever seen gazed down at me. The creature shook its massive head and blew snot from its nostrils. My fingertips skimmed the gun as a scream of sheer horror escaped me. The moose promptly freaked out. It bulled forward (I know, it's funny isn't it? Bull plus moose. Ha. Ha. God, I hate moose) as if someone had rammed a hot poker up its bunghole.

I pulled the gun free and fired. The moose got over being scared and got royally pissed off, which was rather a bit of irony since I now was fearful of losing control of my bladder. Where I hit the monstrous beast from hell I do not know but I think we can rest assured that it was not a killing shot. Bullwinkle threw his head to the left and right. I turned to run, was hit in the shoulder by a moose brow and was thrown to the side like some insignificant gay Raggedy Andy. My face met a tree, my gun flew from my hand, and Sir Moose attacked the nearest bush thinking -- in its brilliant moose way -- that the bush was the man who had screamed in its face and then shot beside its ear. I watched all this from the ground where I was balled up in a fetal position, whimpering about the sap on my lower lip.

My shot must have roused the camp, for within a moment (although between you and me it felt much more like several hours) the sound of people crashing through the woods broke through the snorting, thrashing, and pawing the long-headed cousin of Bambi was doing. A brilliant light swept the area. I screamed. The moose spun from his bush battle. Rider and Gordon skidded into the scene, the beams from their flashlights hitting the moose right in his ugly, flubbery face. Gordon raised a shotgun into the air but never got the chance to shoot. The moose plunged between the men, sending both diving to opposite sides. Bouncing shafts of light accompanied the departure of the moose as he crashed away into the land of nightmares.

"Sweet Jeezus," I heard Rider pant somewhere in the darkness. "Damned shame I didn't have my deer rifle, we could have eaten on that bitch for a month."

"Paul, are you okay?" my partner called as he struggled to get to his feet and locate his flashlight.

A mousey sound tumbled from me. I coughed and tried several times to find my voice. When I located it down by my spleen, I had a question for my saviors. "Did-- Did he mean 'bitch' like that animal was a female, or like some sort of rural Southern expression like 'Damn son, we could have eaten on that bitch for a week!' when in actuality the beast was a male?"

Monday, October 13, 2014

Tuesday Tales - Letter

Welcome back to Tuesday Tales! 

It's time for  more romance. Today we have the first installment of a short holiday addition that spanned White Moon, Yellow Leaves and Wind in White Birch. We'll have four short issues of Blue & Silver Bows that details Dana and Jonah`s first date.

Our word prompt this week is 'Letter'. Please do check out the other wonderful writers after you`re done reading by clicking on the Tuesday Tales link at the bottom. Thanks for stopping in!

Blue & Silver Bows

Pittsburgh, PA

“Mom, if you and Jonah get married will I be Rhett Big Deer? I think that would be a cool name. Better than Rhett Waters. Mr. Boyer said it was cool that we knew Indians and that they were purse and cutie.”

I stopped at the red light and stared at the six year old chatterbox buckled into the seat at my right.

“Your teacher said what?” Rhett stopped drawing a bear in the steam of his window and turned lovely blue eyes to me. Ever since hearing Jonah relay a Seneca legend about a magical bear Rhett was bruin obsessed. He wrote his name over the bears head in large awkward letters.

“That the Indian people were purse and cutie. I didn`t never seen Jonah with a purse and I don`t think he`s a cutie either. I think Mr. Boyer sniffs glue,” the first grader announced then returned to his steam bruin. A blaring horn got me moving again.

“Okay, let`s handle these one at a time. First, Jonah and I are not getting married. We`re going on a date. One date doesn`t mean I`m marrying the man. Second, even if I did marry Jonah - which I`m not – but if I did your name would still be Waters.”

“Your name would be Big Deer. I like that better.”

“Yes, my name would but I`d be his wife. You`re a Waters, you`ll always be a Waters. It`s beside the point because I`m not marrying Jonah." I turned the clunky heater up another notch. “Third, the Native American people were persecuted, not purse and cutie,” I explained working quite hard to suppress a smile at the lads expense.

“Is persecuted like hated?”

“It is, yes.” I glanced at his profile. He was so very much Rhick`s son right down to the way his nose turned up a bit on the end.

“It`s stupid to hate people. I like Jonah and Andy. I wish I was Indian,” Rhett said with the kind of enthusiasm only a six year old can muster.

“I agree. It is stupid to hate,” I replied while pulling into Rhick`s driveway.

Two cars sat in front of the modest home my ex and his new wife owned. I started chewing on my bottom lip. The porch light came on and I exhaled loudly when Rhick came down the steps, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold. I sat behind the wheel of my Toyota, watching the man jog to his son`s door then try to tug it open. It took more than a tug, it took the Incredible Hulk to wrench it open but this was the only car I could afford after the divorce. His new wife had a nice green Prius. I hate green cars. The door groaned and freezing cold air blew into the car. Rhick stuck his head in. He was still just as damned cute as he ever was, the bastard.

“You`re early." He ruffled his son`s hair as the boy struggled with the sticky seat-belt. “We didn`t get the lights up on the porch. Must be your mother is in a hurry to meet her date.”

“At least I waited for our marriage to be over before I – You know what, why don`t you get his bags out of the trunk?” I pushed the damned little button with the image of an open trunk on it.

God, that was close. I promised myself that I would not be that woman in front of my son. Rhett loved his father. Rhick loved his boy. He just didn`t love me. Screw him and the horse he rode in on. I had a date with Jonah Big Deer in thirty minutes. Rhick`s bullshit was not going to sour this night for me.

“Mom, you`ll be getting me tomorrow, right? Will Jonah be here?” Rhett asked. Rhick, who has bionic hearing when it`s something not of his concern, arrived back at the open passenger door, two duffel bags in hand.

“Yeah, Dana, will Jonah be here tomorrow?” Rhick asked, his breath clouding in front of his smug face.

The denial was on the tip of my tongue. Instead of giving my ex the benefit of seeing me squirm I decided to play it cool.

“If he`s here you`ll see him,” I told my son then kissed his pink cheek. “Now go have fun and make sure you show Inga how to decorate a Christmas tree properly.”

“She`s Swedish, Dana, they know about Christmas. Unlike the kid you`re seeing tonight,” Rhick snarled, hurried our son out into the cold then slammed the door as hard as he could. I grimaced, fearing for the car in general. One good slam could be all it took for the rusted out POS to disintegrate, leaving me sitting alongside the curb in my best black dress with a steering wheel in my hands.

“Did I detect a tint of racism?” I asked my rattling heater. “Or was that jealousy?” Rhick was going to be forty in eight weeks. Jonah Big Deer was twenty and six. It was pretty obvious that age was just one of many differences between the two men.

Copyright 2013 ©by V.L. Locey


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