No Sex Please...Frankly, We're Bored!

Over on Facebook--what, writers waste time on Facebook?????--some of us author-types were discussing sex in romance novels (mostly M/M romances, since that's what the writers concerned wrote mostly). I can only go by my own tastes, of course. And...it's not that I'd a prude, by any stretch of the imagination, but I am of the opinion that with this subject, a little goes a long way.

Okay, I'm a sucker for romance. I admit it. I like a good falling in love story as much as anyone. And do I object to a well placed sex scene? Not at all. Some of them are quite good, and even add to character development and plot. But (or should that be "butt?") it's often overdone, and I find myself skipping scenes. Come on, honestly, how many times can you use the word thrust before it becomes laughable?

I recently read a book by, from what I can tell, a very popular gay romance writer (certainly much more popular than me, if Goodreads is anything to go by) and every other chapter, literally, was a sex scene. It was as if the author was thinking, "Oh, my goodness, I've written 10 pages and they haven't hit the hay again! Better get their clothes off!" and insert thingy and boinky boink and another chapter was done. I was enjoying the actual plot of the book, but found myself skimming a lot. I mean, it was the same two characters! I get it! They like each other! It did fill out the book, though. Probably added 30,000 words, all sex scenes. By the end, I was so annoyed that I hoped a very large anvil would fall on the two guys before they could get their skivvies off one more time. And it was a shame, because the writing was good, and the plot was interesting, until it became secondary to the boinking.

Do we need a blow by blow description, so to speak? Especially EVERY time the protagonists get frisky? And, I must point out, this wasn't a book touted as Erotica, just romance. I'm probably alone on this. I know I get some complaints from people because my books, for the most part, have little or no sex in them. I guess I feel like there's enough of that out there. Take a break every now and then. Read something, or write something, that doesn't have a sex scene every other page. Again, not talking about erotica here. If I pick up something that promises that it's erotica, I expect a lot of sex. I guess I'm just saying I miss good old boy meets boy or man meets man romance.

Yeah, I'm alone on this.

Short story, "Crystal Ball"

Crystal Ball

by Stephen Osborne

“Let's do the Tilt-a-Whirl,” Ron said, pulling on my sleeve. “We haven't done that yet.”

I made a face. “There's a reason for that. It's a crap ride. It just spins you around until you want to throw up. Thanks, but I can just stick my finger down my throat and get the same thrill and it won't cost me a ride ticket that I paid a dollar for.”

In truth, I was losing my carnival spirit. Ron and I had been there since morning and now that the sun was setting I was finding that my legs really weren't up to standing in a long line for a ride that lasted all of a minute. I would have suggested we call it a day and head back to the car, but Ron was still full of energy and, besides, we still had tickets left to use. I knew that Ron, frugal soul that he was, would never depart until each and every ticket had been used.

Ron continued tugging. “You won't get sick, Theo. If you could stand the Rocket to the Moon ride, you can do the Tilt-a-Whirl.”

I refused to move. “I barely survived the Rocket to the Moon. Ten more seconds of that thing and you'd have had my lunch in your lap.”

Ron and I have been friends forever, but we couldn't be more different. He's straight and works construction. I'm a retail fag. He's got a huge chest and boxes for fun and recreation. I'm thin and my only workout consists of running around the block with my dog, Cheshire. His hairline is beginning to recede --something I would never call attention to—did I mention he's a boxer?-- and my own mop is still growing thick and full. True, there are a few gray hairs at the temples, but I can live with that. Also, I'm single, and he's got a girlfriend. A girlfriend who, despite his protests, I know doesn't like

me. I can tell by the way she looks at me. It's written all over her face. She thinks that when she's not around that Ron and I are fucking. I know that's what she thinks and it's the stupidest idea ever. For one thing, Ron is just about the straightest straight guy I've ever known. For another, he's not my type. Don't get me wrong, I love him like a brother. I just don't love him. Not even slightly.

Penny (that's the bitch's name) will make little jokes every now and then which really aren't jokes but not-very-subtle accusations. “I'm going to the grocery store. Theo, do you think you can keep your mouth off his cock while I'm gone?” Ron insists that she says things like that to show how cool she is with him being friends with a gay guy. Love can make you so delusional.

Her animosity towards me has increased to the point that this morning when Ron suggested we go to the carnival she suddenly developed a headache. I'm sure she thought Ron would decide to stay at home with her but he shocked her by saying, “That's cool. Theo and I haven't had a day to ourselves in a while.”

He totally didn't pick up on her aggravated mood. I foresee a breakup in their future.

Anyway, Ron was trying to guide me over to the Tilt-a-Whirl of Death, and I wasn't budging. It was then that I saw Madame Olga's Fortune Telling tent. I don't know how I'd missed it before, since it was close to the corn dog stand where we'd had lunch but there it was, nestled a little behind the Whack-a-Mole booth. There was nothing flashy about Madame Olga's. Every other booth or display at the carnival had flashy neon signs. Not Madame Olga. Her dark tent just had a wooden sign above the entrance, telling passersby that here was Olga, Fortune Teller. In the fading sunlight, it was hard to even read the sign. Olga desperately needed some bling to advertise her business.

I went to tug on Ron's shirt, but he wears his t-shirts so tight that there wasn't enough material to grab so I ended up just pinching his arm. “Let's go over there instead.”

He looked. “A fortune teller?”

“It'll be cool,” I insisted. “I bet she looks like Maria Ouspenskaya in The Wolf Man. Let's go. I want to know if there's love in my future.”

“Maria Ouspen...what?”

I quoted in my best gypsy voice, “Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms...and the Autumn moon is bright.”

He blinked at me uncomprehendingly. I really have to get him to watch more movies.

We approached the tent and I swear it seemed like we were walking into some sort of weird Twilight Zone dimension. The noise of the carnival seemed to fade away and the air got colder. The sun had completely vanished and the shadows cast by the trees around the little tent gave the area a creepy feel. Ron pulled back the flap covering the entrance and we went inside.

We found Madame Olga seated at a small table in the center of the tent. I had expected that she'd look like a regional theater version of a gypsy, but old Olga had taken things even further. She had the whole gypsy costume going, with puffy sleeves, rings on every finger, and huge dangling earrings, sure, but to top this off she had apparently used several bottles of fake tanning product that, instead of giving her a swarthy look, made her look jaundiced. She wore a bad Cher wig which just didn't suit her wrinkled face. By the way Ron stopped suddenly right next to me, I know he was as shocked as I was. I didn't know whether to laugh or to pretend we'd walked in by accident and graciously back out of the tent.

“You young men want your fortune told?” Olga asked. The gypsy accent was as thick as it was fake.

“I don't know,” Ron said in a fairly quiet voice. For a construction worker who likes to box, he can be pretty shy around people he doesn't know. He held up some of our ride tickets. “Do you take these?”

Olga gave out a hollow laugh. “Do I look like a Midway ride? Olga takes only cash. No tickets. No credit cards.”

Ron smiled weakly. “We don't have that much cash on us. Sorry to have bothered you. We'd better just...”

Madame Olga ignored Ron and stared into my face. “You want to know about the love of your life,” she said simply.

I gulped. Something about her gaze made me forget the tacky wig and the theatrical accent. Somehow I knew that this woman just might be able to see into one's future. “How much?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “That depends on whether you want me to read your palm, if you want a Tarot reading, or if you want me to use the crystal ball.”

“How much to read a palm?” Ron asked. I knew whatever sum she said would make him balk.

“For you,” she said steadily, “I make a special price. Ten dollars.”

Ron's eyes bulged. “Ten bucks just to--”

I held up a hand and pulled out my wallet. “I'll pay for it.”

Olga took the bill with a smile and Ron and I sat down in two rickety chairs opposite her. She took Ron's right hand in hers and examined it. “You are very strong,” she said, “and you take great pride in your strength.”

That wasn't such a stretch, considering Ron's bulging muscles and the tightness of his t-shirt. I could see a smirk beginning to form on his lips. Her next words wiped it away.

“You have a great secret. You have been cheating on your loved one.”

Ron gasped and I could see the color drain from his face. Madame Olga had struck a nerve. Ron looked at his own hand as if expecting to see the word cheater written there. “What else do you see?” he asked, a little desperation showing in his voice.

Olga ran a finger over his hand and nodded. “She knows. Your girlfriend knows that you've been seeing someone else. She plans to break off your relationship.”

Ron looked at me and then back at his palm. “Holy shit,” he muttered.

I didn't know what to think. On one hand, I was hoping Madame Olga was right because that meant that I'd be free of his bitch girlfriend, but I was also annoyed that Ron was seeing someone and that he hadn't confided in me. When had he planned on telling me? Hell, I kept nothing back when telling Ron about my relationships. Well, that is, back in the days when I actually had relationships. Lately there hadn't been much to discuss.

When Olga finished his reading, Ron slumped back into his chair, obviously drained. She turned to me with a little half-smile on her face. “Would you like me to read your palm as well?”

I had my eye on the large crystal ball in the center of the table. Crystal balls, at least from what I'd seen in movies and on television, saw into the future and it was the future I wanted to know about. “What does a crystal ball reading cost?”

Her eyebrows arched. “Twenty-five.”

I fished my wallet back out and handed her the bills. She stuffed them into a seemingly invisible pocket on her puffy shirt and then hunched over the crystal ball. She gazed intently for several moments before saying, “You have already met the love of your life. You met him several years ago, but then fate tore you apart. You will never have another love as strong as the one you felt for him.”

My heart sank. I had hoped she would spout out some good news, like I would be meeting some tall, dark and handsome soon that would sweep me off my feet. I knew deep down, however, that what she was saying was true. I would never find someone like Greg again. I leaned forward and looked into the crystal ball, trying to see what she was seeing. It just looked like a glass ball to me.

Olga went on, “You will be reunited with him, very soon. You will rekindle your romance, and you will be very happy together for many years to come.”

She continued to talk, but I wasn't hearing what she was saying. Something about work and money, but it meant nothing to me. I could only think about Greg and her prediction that we'd meet up again. I knew it was impossible, but part of me hoped to the heavens that she was right. As I looked into the crystal, I thought I saw a tiny black shadow forming in the center of the glass. I peered at it, hoping it would take some sort of form.

Greg had been twenty when we met, fourteen years younger than me. We met at a party thrown by my friend Renata and I'd be lying if I said it was love at first sight. Quite the opposite, actually. Oh, he made it plain from the first that he was interested in me. He just wasn't my type and I really didn't want to start seeing someone who wasn't even old enough to get into a bar legally.

The first time I saw him was in Renata's kitchen when I was trying to see if there was something other than beer to drink. I found a cooler with cans of soft drinks floating around in icy water and was pulling out a Diet Pepsi when someone else plunged their hand in and somehow managed to grab hold of the same can. I looked up to see a thin young man with long brown hair and a cute face smiling at me. “Sorry,” he said, releasing the can. He flashed me a grin and stuck out his hand for me to shake. “I'm Greg,” he said. The hand was dripping icy droplets. I shook it quickly and told him my name was Theo.

Yeah, he was cute, but too young. I thought that his slightly bucked teeth made him more attractive—you know, an imperfection that somehow is endearing, but after he pulled out a different can and walked away I didn't give him another thought. I snapped open the tab on the soda and began to roam back through the crowd looking for Ron and the Queen Bitch...I mean, Penny.

I found them in the living room, where most of the throng seemed to have gathered. I forced my way through the crowd and finally managed to get next to Ron. As I came up, I saw a faint look of distrust and dislike cross Penny's face before she put on her fake smile.

“You should like this party,” she said, speaking loudly to be heard over the music. “There are lots of fags here.”

Some people can say fags and not mean it as an insult. Penny wasn't one of them.

“Maybe you'll meet someone,” offered Ron with a smile.

“I doubt it,” I said, turning to him and ignoring the fact that Penny was standing next to him. It was pretty easy to ignore her. “The only one I've met so far was some kid out in the kitchen. He was skinny, had long straight hair, stick-out ears, and an overbite. I think he was an elf.”

Ron laughed. “Don't knock it. You know what they say. Once you go elf...”

As the night went on, I noticed that every time I moved into a different room, Greg would soon follow. Then he began to try to make eye contact with me. You know, the gay bar little stare and nod that shows you're interested. I would nod back politely and then immerse myself in some conversation with anyone around me. It didn't work. Greg tired of the subtle approach and went for a more direct line. He came right up to me.

“Has anyone ever told you that you're hot?” he said.

I chuckled uneasily. “It doesn't really come up all that often, actually.” I don't know what I meant by that, but it seemed like I had to make some reply. Greg had picked his moment well. Ron was off getting another beer, and Penny was...well, I assumed she was in the bathroom or something. Frankly, I didn't really care where she was as long as it wasn't around me.

Greg tapped his soda can against mine. “I see you don't drink either. Alcohol, I mean.”

I shrugged. “Occasionally I do. I'm designated driver tonight.”

He grinned. He really did have a sweet smile. “I'm not really legal to drink yet. I don't turn 21 until June.” He moved a little closer to me.

“Yeah,” I said slowly, “when I became legal to drink you probably hadn't even hit puberty yet.”

Now it was his turn to shrug. “So?” he asked. How does one argue with So? After a pause he went on. “Are you busy this weekend? I thought it might be nice to go out to dinner and a movie. There's this movie I've been wanting to see, and I hate going alone, and--”

I cut him off. “Look,” I said as gently as I could, considering that I had to speak loudly to be heard over the music and the crowd, “you're really sweet and cute and all that, but you're out of my age bracket. I make it a point not to date anyone who could, in a theoretical sense, be young enough to be my son.”

Greg nodded sagely. “Oh. So you're an ageist.”

I didn't like the sound of that. An 'ist' is never good. Communist. Fascist. Republican-ist. “No, it's just that I--”

“You don't think we'll have enough in common to make a good couple,” he finished for me.

“Well, yeah.”

“Wouldn't it make more sense, if you aren't an ageist, to go out with me and find out for sure rather than just assuming I'm like other guys my age?”

He had me there. Of course, part of me wanted him to convince me to go out with him because he really was cute as hell. The other part of me knew I'd feel a little like a dirty old man going out with a bit of eye-candy. Decisions, decisions.

While I was trying to figure out how to answer, he suddenly leaned his face up to mine. His hands went behind my neck and he pulled my head down a few inches to meet his. Our lips locked.

Fuck, what a kiss. It was one of those that made your toes tingle. His face seemed to melt into mine. It was like our lips, our tongues, were made to be together. If the music hadn't been so damn loud I'm sure I would have heard bells ring.

When we finally came up for air, I muttered, “Dinner and a movie sounds good.”

Hey, it was a really good kiss.

I had to endure the obvious jokes from Ron, of course. Cradle robber. Did I have to help him out with his homework? Was it hard to burp him after he ate? Things like that. As the weeks went by and I saw more and more of Greg, the jokes ceased to bother me. Hell, I added some in myself. We had to take my car when we went out on dates since Greg's was a Big Wheel. I referred to myself as Woody Allen's gay cousin. That, I guess, was my way of dealing with the age difference. Not to ignore it, but to embrace it and have fun with it!

Greg and I had three official dates before we went to bed together. It just happened. We had planned to go out to a movie, but then we started kissing and one thing led to another. He surprised me when we got to my bedroom by pushing me onto the bed and leaping on me. God, he was wiry. With an evil grin he said, “Let's wrestle for top.”

I thought he was kidding at first. I mean, I had thirty pounds and four inches of height on him. I soon learned he wasn't kidding. I could tell from the effort that he put into the wrestling that he really wanted to win. Who'd have thought, with his elfin features, that he'd be a top? Guess that's what you get when you assume things.

I let him win.

The first time we fucked it was all passion and fury. I swear they must have heard us several zip codes away. After a short breather, we went at it again, this time all sweet and tender. Greg's face was so beautiful when he came. He looked like he was listening to the singing of angels.

After six months we began to talk about him moving in with me. It made sense, since we spent all our free time at my place anyway and his apartment was tiny, cramped, and infested with cockroaches. Even Ron was supportive of the relationship, despite the kidding. Penny wasn't, of course, but fuck her anyway.

Then disaster struck. I'd known, of course, that somewhere in town was Greg's father. Greg didn't talk about family much, but I gathered he and his dad didn't get along. Greg's mother, I learned, had died in a car crash years ago. So his dad was a known entity, but I had sort of assumed he was out of the picture. I found out I was wrong when he knocked on my door one evening.

He was of a slight build like Greg, but that's where the similarities ended. He wasn't a particularly attractive man and the permanent scowl he seemed to wear didn't help matters any. He introduced himself and practically shoved his way into my apartment.

“We need to talk,” he said stiffly.

By talk, he apparently meant that he'd talk and I should just listen, for whenever I tried to speak up he talked right over me like Ann Coulter on a talk show. He accused me of “enticing” his son, of breaking up their family, and of consorting with the devil. He didn't actually say that last one, but he was thinking it, I could tell. I tried to explain the situation, but Greg Sr. already had his mind made up. He had decided that the thing to do was to ship Greg out to join the navy. That, he was sure, would make a man out of his son. During Greg's two year stint we were to have no contact whatsoever. When he paused for breath I finally got a word in.

“Greg is of legal age,” I reminded him. “You can't make him join the navy or anything for that matter. And you certainly can't tell me that I can't have any contact with your son.”

The man glared at me and I thought for a moment he was going to haul off and slug me. Finally he just curled his lip and stormed to the door. “We'll see,” he said, slamming the door behind him.

I didn't see Greg until the next night, when he came to my apartment just a mass of long hair and tears. I held him as he cried. Just when I thought he'd cried himself out, a new flood would start. We went to bed where I just held him close.

Finally he got to where he could speak. “I've got to do what my dad says,” he sputtered in a choked voice. “He says he'll disown me if I don't do this.”

I didn't think that would be a bad thing, but I kept quiet.

The tears started again. Greg held me fiercely, gasping in between sobs. “I don't know what to do. I love my dad, but I love you, too.”

I felt like a heel. One the one hand, I could see how it must look through Greg's father's eyes. Here was this older guy having an affair with his son. Hell, I was closer to his dad's age than I was to Greg's. I didn't know what to say, so I just held Greg until he finally sobbed himself to sleep.

In the end, of course, his dad won out. Greg insisted that after his two year stint he'd come back and we'd take up where we left off, but I knew it wouldn't happen. Before he left, we had one last kiss. It was as sweet and tender and electric as the first had been.

Madame Olga was still speaking, but I was still reminiscing about Greg. Then she asked me something that shifted my attention back to her. “The young man you love, he has recently contacted you, yes?”

My heart sunk. I had been hoping that despite the trappings that maybe this bewigged woman actually knew something of the future. Apparently not. “No. Haven't heard from him in over two years,” I told her numbly.

Olga looked slightly confused but covered with, “Then he had tried to contact you. You will hear from him soon.”

That didn't seem likely.

The reading was obviously over, so Ron and I made our way back out into the night. The carnival throng was quickly dispersing, everyone making their way back to the parking area. As we ambled along, Ron said, “So, was she right? Have you heard from the elf?”

“No,” I said. “I would have told you if I had. Unlike you, I don't keep secrets! How long have you been having an affair, and with whom?”

Even in the moonlight I could tell he turned bright crimson. “I was going to tell you. After all things are pretty much over between Penny and I anyway.”

“Who's the new love?”

Ron beamed with the pride of new romance. “Her name is Rachel. You'll love her. I've already told her all about you. Actually, I should call her. I was supposed to go over to her place tonight and I didn't think we'd be out this late. Can I borrow your cell phone?”

I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to him. We stopped walking so that Ron would be able to dial. I love him like a brother, but walking and dialing a phone at the same time is beyond his abilities. As he looked at the phone, a wide grin spread over his face.

“You've got several missed calls,” he told me. “And a text message.” He shoved the phone in my face.

The message was short. Just the words I'm back followed by a familiar name...

Stories, stories, stories

I'm nearing the end of my WIP. Well, when I say that, I'm 3/4 of the way through the first draft, but whenever I get to that point, my mind starts to think 20 steps ahead and is plotting out the next three stories. And one of them is really, really wanting to be told.

But...and there are several buts (no pun intended). First up after this one is the next book in the Duncan Andrews series. And then...maybe.

You see, the trouble is, this story isn't my usual thing. It's not humor, for one thing. It's pretty much a horror novel, with some romance thrown in. My question is, will it work? Will anyone care?

But of course, it may not even matter. By the time I get the next Duncan Andrews done, something else might push it's way to the front. But I don't know...it's REALLY wanting to be told...

"Dying is easy. Comedy is hard."

The quote has been attributed to Shakespearean actor Edmund Keen. Others say a version of it was uttered by character actor Edmund Gwenn on his death bed. The exact wording may have come from the writers of the movie My Favorite Year, uttered on screen by the brilliant Peter O'Toole.

Whoever said it, it's true. Comedy is very subjective, and if someone doesn't see the humor, explaining the joke to them just doesn't work. It's just not funny, to them at least.

The members of Monty Python, upon finishing their movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail, were sure that they had one of the biggest turkeys ever on their hands. They were used to writing a skit, working it over a bit, filming it, and then moving on. Constantly going over the same scene over and over while filming the movie, by the end they saw no humor in it any longer.

Not that I'm comparing myself to Monty Python, Edmund Keen, or anyone of that caliber, but I understand where they're coming from on this. Most of what I write is either comedy or at least has huge doses of comedy. It's funny when you think of it, funny when you first write it, maybe even slightly humorous by the time you go over it again...but after a while, you start to wonder just what the hell you thought was good about the idea in the first place.

In my last blog I expounded on my worry over waiting to hear if a story gets the green light or gets the raspberry. And I wasn't just being self-deprecating. Sometimes by the time something is ready to be sent out, I have no idea whether it's any good or not. Let the editors decide, I tell myself. That's their job. One story I was waiting to hear about was "Quarter Moon Over a Ten Cent Town," a story I sent to Dreamspinner Press for possible inclusion in their Cuddling anthology. I wasn't sure if the story was funny, or even if it fit with the theme of the anthology. I sent it out anyway. I always liked to color outside the lines.

And they bought the story! So...take that, me! You don't know what you're talking about! At least someone liked the story enough to dole out some dough for it.

Note to self: don't always listen to that inner voice. Sometimes it's a good thing to be loopy on paint fumes.

The Waiting Game

Once you've sent something out, there comes the horrible, horrible waiting game.
I currently have two things out, a novel and a short story. Having 4 novels published and two books of ghost stories and legends, you'd think the waiting game wouldn't bother me. Well, that's where you're wrong! Still does. And the longer the wait, the more nervous I get.

One writer friend on Facebook said, "Why are you worried? It's the same publisher, right? They know they have an audience for you." I hope he's right, and that my tiny but faithful audience is enough to keep them publishing my stuff. But I take nothing for granted. There's always the chance that they may say, "Hmmm...this one doesn't do it for us" or "the bottom has fallen out of the market, and we need to concentrate on bigger sellers." You never know.

I have a good feeling about the novel. It's the third book in the Duncan Andrews series, and I think my writing has improved with each book. And I hope it continues to improve. Right now I'm reading a book that I'm really not enjoying. I hate to NOT finish a book, but this one is really trying me. The writing style isn't to my liking, there are some really clunky sentences, and the book needed a good editor and obviously didn't get one. For instance, twice the author used the word "lightening" when she obviously meant "lightning." I truly hate to give a book a rating lower than 3 stars because I know (oh, how I know!) how difficult it is to actually write a novel. But...this one...sigh. Several times I've almost stopped and gone on to another book. It's pretty bad. Too much detail, for one thing. If I have to read about the main character making dinner one more time, I may scream.

But maybe I was meant to read this book at this time. Seeing someone else's mistakes will hopefully make me more careful.

You write for yourself, or at least you should. If you don't like what you write, no one else probably will. The short story I have out was really an sort of experiment. I'm not even sure it fits the anthology that I submitted it for, but that's for the editor to decide. And even then, they may not like it. It is, admittedly, not the usual fare (but then, are any of my stories?). I won't be heartbroken if it doesn't get accepted. Actually, I'll be surprised and thrilled if they like it.

What's the fun of playing it safe?

Memories

This morning my cousin, Debbie Cooper, passed away. She had been in the hospital for weeks, and had been in poor health for quite a while, but always she was a fighter and she overcame the odds so many times that it's hard to believe that she is no longer with us.

When someone passes, especially a family member, the memories come flooding into your brain. And I'd like to jot down a few of these. Debbie's father, my Uncle Don, passed away a short time ago. He and my dad were close, even before Don married by dad's sister, Nancy. The Coopers and the Osbornes lived in Lafayette while we were growing up, not far from each other, so we spent a lot of time with them. It's odd the things you recall at a time like this. I vividly remember picnics at the Coopers and Aunt Nancy serving us Kool-Aid in a metal pitcher. Why does that pitcher stick out in my mind? Maybe because I always believed, probably erroneously, that the metal somehow tinged the flavor of the Kook-Aid.
But mostly I remember holidays at my Grandmother's. My older brother Rob and Debbie's older sister Janet were always picking on us, as older siblings are wont to do. They cheated at Monopoly, making up the rules as they went along. No wonder Debbie and I never won! For meals, we sat at "the kids table," a card table set up in the living room. If you got up to go to the bathroom or something, inevitably you'd come back to find some mashed potatoes in your drink or something similar.
Last October the Coopers came to northern Illinois for a weekend visit. It was like old times. We even played Mousetrap, although it wasn't nearly as fun as we remembered it being. And the damn thing never worked properly. But we laughed and talked and shared stories (although, I have to admit, Rob and Janet have a lot of memories that don't seem to fit my recollection of things at all). It was a great weekend.
I think that's a memory I'll cherish. The four of us, once again, sitting at a table playing Mousetrap. Good times, good days.
Wings of angels, tears of Saints. Take care, Debbie.

And the winner is...

First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who entered to win a signed copy of Pale As a Ghost. For those who didn't win, I hope you still buy a copy, read it, and hopefully like it. I will probably be giving away another copy soon, so keep your eyes peeled. It was nice hearing from people who commented on my blog or on my Facebook page (those who couldn't figure out how to leave a comment! lol) and I greatly appreciate your interest. I drew a name out of the proverbial hat, and the winner is...Ellen T! I will be contacting Ellen to see if she'd like a special dedication or whatever. Ellen, if you could send me your address either via a private message on Facebook or to my email address (leftyIN@yahoo.com) I'll see that your signed copy gets out this week! Again, thanks to all who entered!