Review: Miami Connection

My review of the so-bad-it's-fabulous cheese-fest Miami Connection is up at Horrorview.

Today's mood

Review: Joyland

Step right up! My review of Stephen King's carny-themed novel Joyland is up at Horrorview.

Sample Sunday: read the prologue for The Day After Yesterday

For my first go-round in Sample Sunday (#samplesunday on Twitter), here is the prologue for my women's fiction/contemporary novel The Day After Yesterday. Enjoy!

Highway 101 was a dark strand along the California coast, all but invisible in the night and the rain. On this strand like a bright pearl was the Shoreline Diner. Zack Fuller stood by the window. Even when he shaded his eyes against the diner’s light and peered outside, he could see nothing. There were few lights on this stretch of the 101 and the storm shut out moon and stars. Nothing but midnight-in-a-mine-shaft darkness and no sound save for the rain, coming down hard, and the wind’s occasional lonely wail.

Zack placed one palm against the window to feel the chill. He rather liked these coastal winter storms. He much preferred them to the downpours of his native Louisiana; those warm rains smelled like wet plant life and reminded him too much of ‘Nam. By contrast, California storms were soothing, even inspiring at times. Some nights like these made him think he ought to try writing a book, or maybe a short story. He’d thought of an opening line — It was a dark and stormy night — but now had the uneasy feeling it might have been done before.

He turned away from the window. Two hours until closing but only five customers in the place — not surprising. No one was going out in this weather if they could help it. Four of the five he knew by sight and experience. Local teens who left their tables a mess, used foul language when ladies and kids were nearby, and never tipped. They’d long since eaten and paid, and were just killing time while waiting for the storm to die down. Zack ignored them and made his way to counter, where the fifth customer sat. A redhead, she sat with an empty plate in front of her — she’d had the Evening Breakfast Special. She had a book open but Zack had never seen her turn a page; she seemed more interested in the sketchpad she doodled on. The redhead gave Zack a quick up-and-down glance as he approached. Impossible to tell if she was pretty, for her face was half-hidden by her hair.

“Care for a refill?” Zack held up the iced tea pitcher.

“Yes, please. Is it still raining?”

“Cats and dogs.”

She glanced at the windows. Zack took the opportunity to sneak a peek at her doodlings, and was surprised by their quality — no stick figures or meaningless scribbles but detailed sketches of a saguaro cactus, a cat, the Golden Gate bridge. There were words on the sketchpad too, but he had to look away before he could read them, so she wouldn’t see he’d been peeking.

The redhead turned back to her sketchpad, biting her lower lip nervously. Zack could tell she didn’t want to venture out into the storm in search of a hotel, and he didn’t blame her. Pitching his voice low so the local quartet wouldn’t hear, he said, “Stay as long as you like. It’s not safe to be driving in this weather.”

“But you’ll be closed. I don’t want to keep you from home.”

Zack shrugged. “I’ve got insomnia.” A souvenir from ‘Nam. “And I don’t want to go out in this either.”

He thought of offering her a place to sleep. He had one — a tiny antechamber in the back among the canned goods and industrial-size boxes of flour and salt. An army cot with wool blankets, a space heater, and even a privacy curtain he’d sewn. He lay there on insomniac nights or when he and the old lady were going through a bad patch. But as he was about to offer he saw the way she regarded him — warily. Zack wondered how much of that was due to his admittedly scruffy appearance — bald head, tattoos, and long, white, braided beard. And how much of her wariness came from experience, from the telltale bump of her nose that told him it had been broken at least once.

She offered him a small smile. “Thank you. You’re very kind. I’m from Arizona, I’m not used to driving in this kind of rain.”

“Stay as long as you like.”

Zack occupied himself with cleaning the grill, brewing fresh coffee and decaf, and reading a New Orleans-set mystery titled The Jambalaya Alibi. The local quartet had run out of inane chatter. The redhead was writing something in her sketchpad. The storm had long since become white noise ignored by them all, so when the diner’s door opened with a thud, Zack started and looked up.

The man stood just inside the doorway, blinking dazedly as if astounded by the diner’s light and warmth. He was white-faced and soaked through — he might have emerged from the sea, which of course was impossible given the storm-tossed tide. He must have been walking in the rain for hours. Water dripped steadily from his clothes, his hair, the backpack he wore.

Zack walked over to the man, bringing a mug and the coffee pot with him. “God almighty, look at you,” Zack said. “Sit down and warm up.”

The man didn’t move save to look back over his shoulder. He seemed to be searching for someone. “Where did…” he said, but didn’t finish.

“It’s OK. Sit down.” Zack put a hand on the man’s shoulder — sopping wet and stone cold. When the man sat down, Zack poured some coffee. “Drink up.”

“Thank you.” The man hadn’t lost that dazed look. He sat with water pooling around him, hadn’t even taken off his backpack. He reached for the coffee mug, then with no warning slumped and toppled to the side, pitching headlong out of the booth. Zack dropped the coffee pot and caught the man bare inches before he’d have bashed his head a good one on the linoleum.

Zack grappled with the unconscious man’s dead weight while his shoes slid in rainwater and spilled coffee. He yelled over his shoulder at the local kids: “Hey, little help here!” But they were already out the door. Useless little twerps.

“Here.” The redhead helped ease the man to the floor. She checked the man’s pulse, his breathing, felt his forehead with the inside of her wrist. She did it quickly and professionally. Zack recognized that from field hospitals and the VA. “When he spoke, was it clear?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“He didn’t slur his words?”

“No. Is it hypothermia?”

“Probably. I think it’s mild but he should go to a hospital. Where’s the nearest one?”

Miles from here, he told her, and with the weather who knew how long it would take for an ambulance to get here.

She nodded, asked if there was some place they could get him warm.

Zack flipped the diner’s sign to Closed and together they carried the man into Zack’s makeshift bedroom. They worked with the efficiency of the nurse and the soldier and soon had the man’s drenched clothes off; they laid him down on the cot with the wool blankets over him and the space heater on.

Only once did Zack see the woman taken aback — when they took off the man’s shirt and saw the scars, red lines standing out angrily against the pale skin of his inner wrists. Not old scars, either. Zack knew wounds and gauged them to be a month or two old, at most. Nearly four inches long, straight and sure. The work of a determined man. The redhead paused for a moment, then went on with her work.

When they had the man as dry and warm as they could get him, she checked his pulse and breathing again. “He’s getting some color back,” she said as she held the man’s right hand. “That’s good. I’m going to stay with him a while.”

“OK. Let me take care of this.” Zack gathered the wet clothes into a plastic bag, thinking he’d hang them up somewhere to dry. Lastly he picked up the backpack and took it with him to the diner’s main room. He sat down in a booth and after a moment’s consideration, opened the backpack.

He expected to find the belongings a sodden mess but they were in Ziploc bags and had stayed dry. The box of Ziplocs, its cardboard wet, was the topmost item. It seemed a recent purchase; Zack found tucked inside the box a barely legible receipt from a convenience store some 25 miles north of here. Surely the man hadn’t walked 25 miles in the rain? No wonder he’d toppled over.

Zack reproached himself for prying but curiosity was too strong and the bag yielded up its contents. Two sets of clothes, jeans and shirts, not laundry-fresh but not stale either. One bag most curious — it held a woman’s gauzy blue scarf, shimmering cobalt beads embroidered on it, and a green teddy bear, most of its fuzz long since worn away. Zack shivered. He knew mementoes when he saw them. The last bag was a treasure trove. House keys. A wallet. A prescription bottle — Zoloft, half full. Papers: discharge papers from a hospital, referrals to a doctor, a sheet of notepaper from a motel with several names and addresses written on it, a letter sealed and addressed but with no stamp or return address.

Zack opened the wallet. About $40 or so. Standard-issue credit cards. A driver’s license for Daniel J. Whitman of Los Cielos. Zack had the notion Los Cielos was to the south — around San Diego perhaps? Health insurance and library cards. Musician’s Union membership cards. A “Buy 10 cups, get the 11^th free” card for a coffee house called Java Man — he had three more to go. Nothing that explained why Whitman was so far from home with little beyond the clothes on his back, sporting wrist scars, near to collapse with cold and exhaustion.

Feeling like a voyeur, Zack turned to the wallet’s photo insert. A Christmas studio picture of Whitman with a pretty blonde woman and a towheaded young boy, the sort of picture sent out with holiday greeting cards. Whitman was a good-looking fellow when he wasn’t impersonating a drowned rat. A picture of the boy in his preschool years, holding the green teddy bear. Zack felt a queasy thump and flipped through the remaining photos hurriedly. A group shot of the blonde woman with what looked like her siblings and parents. The boy having a toy lightsaber duel with a bespectacled man, who turned up in the next picture, a wedding portrait with him and a brunette. Are these people looking for you, Whitman? What happened? Why are you here?

“Pardon me.”

The voice was soft but Zack jumped, and guiltily snapped the wallet closed.

“He’s better now,” said the redhead. “Just sleeping. I’m going to stay up with him if that’s all right.”

“Sure. You want something to eat? BLT maybe?”

“Oh, yes please.”

 “I’m making a fresh pot of joe, would you like some?”

She cast a longing look at the pot. “I… I’d better not.” She made a vague gesture toward her midsection, didn’t seem to be aware she was doing it. Zack understood immediately. He was the oldest of six children and knew a breeding woman when he saw one.

Zack made the sandwich and brought it to her, along with a glass of skim milk. She was leaning over Whitman, examining his head by the light of a flashlight. Zack peered closely. “He didn’t get that bump when he fell. His head never touched the floor.”

She nodded. “He’s got a laceration too. That’s why I wanted to keep an eye on him. Pupils are dilating fine, so there doesn’t seem to be a concussion.”

Zack went back to his booth and packed Whitman’s belongings back into their Ziplocs. He picked up the backpack, intending to hang it up somewhere to dry, and as he did noticed several long green strands tangled in the backpack’s straps. Frowning, he looked at them more closely. Sea grass. On the wet clothes was more sea grass, and there was sand on the jeans, shoes, and socks.

Zack shuddered. He’d ventured out to look at the sea during these winter storms and had been amazed how fierce the gentle blue Pacific could turn. More amazed now that Whitman was here and not feeding the fish. He hung the wet things over chair backs to dry, then sat and laid his head down on the table. A long day and a longer night, and it wasn’t yet midnight. Zack didn’t mean to doze off but jerked awake at the sound.

The cry was not loud but the quality of it — the oboe tone of fear and desperation — cut through Zack’s uneasy sleep. He remembered a cry much like it, many years ago: some poor PFC stepped on a mine and wandered off mostly blind into the rice paddies where he bled out over half the night and called for his mother most of that time.

This voice wasn’t crying out for mother. It called for Sarah. And there was a phrase, one the unlucky PFC had used: Help me. Still woozy from his abrupt awakening, Zack went into the back where he found the redhead and the man holding each other. Zack couldn’t make out most of the man’s words. As for the redhead, she seemed unsure of what to say; she seemed uncomfortable in the man’s clutch. “Everything’s all right,” she said.

Whitman was having none of it. “No. Not ever.”

Nothing she said soothed him. But then she sang.

Something strange about her singing. Her voice was untrained, wobbly at times, yet a quality to it that wasn’t so much comfort as compassion. It said that she understood why he’d ended up here even if she didn’t know the exact reason. What she sang: it was slow, and strangely old-fashioned. The sort of music you’d hear from some woman in medieval clothes, playing a lute. Or so it seemed to Zack.

She sang, and held the man’s hand. A different song, one that made Zack think of long-ago Midnight Masses on Christmas eve; for a moment he even thought he caught a whiff of incense. The redhead didn’t look up at Zack — all her attention was on Whitman. He’d quieted down, lay still. Zack couldn’t tell if he was still awake. After a while Zack asked in a whisper if everything was all right, and she nodded, not taking her eyes off Whitman.

Zack went back to his booth. He meant to ask her about the songs. He laid his head down again, tried to remember the words she’d sung. A verse or two he could recall: Do way, dear heart, not so. Let no thought you dismay. Though you now part me from, we shall meet when we may. When he woke the rain had stopped. The dawn showed pearl-gray clouds and here and there a hint of blue. Whitman slept on in the makeshift bedroom. The redhead was gone.

The Day After Yesterday is available at Amazon and Smashwords.

One month until Comic-Con!

Yes! One month from today, my friend Karen and I will join more than 100,000 of our fellow nerds at San Diego Comic-Con. We'll spend Wednesday the 17th chilling out in our hotel room after having had a nice dinner, figuring out which panel to line up for and how much time we'll spend on the vendor floor or simply people-watching.

I first started going to Comic-Con in '08 - it was my present to myself for my 40th birthday (figured I'd kick off the mid-life crisis in style). And I must admit that walking into the San Diego Convention Center that first time was a life-changing experience. In the midst of all the crowds and sensory overload and adrenaline was a feeling of calm. Knowing that everyone here got it. It didn't matter what "it" was - specifics didn't matter. But everyone understood the enthusiasm, and supported it. I realized that for once in my life, I didn't have to explain myself or the things I liked. This was a great feeling, because I'd spent most of my life apologizing for my taste in things. Since then, I've resolved to never apologize for liking what I do, whether it be some weird art-house movie or a Regency romance novel. I'm not always successful, but at least I try.

Yes, Comic-Con is way too crowded these days. Yes, getting tickets is such an utter boondoggle that I operate under the assumption that every Con might be my last one. Yes, it's an exhausting few days. But it's something special. There's nothing else quite like it.

I will turn the mike over to my imaginary boyfriend everyone's favorite geek god Nathan Fillion, quoted here in a 2012 issue of Entertainment Weekly:

"Comic-Con is more than comics. More than the merchandise packed into oversize shoulder bags. More than the cosplay enthusiasts and doodad collectors. It's not the sneak previews, the special surprise guests, the actors or enormously talented writer-directors of the third-grossing-highest movies of all time. It's the freedom to geek out in wild abandon, to enjoy freely and without judgment. It's the best part of fandom. It's the best part of excitement and dedication. It's generosity of spirit. it's the best part of thousands of people in one place at one time."

So I'm getting ready. I've got my nerdy t-shirts picked out. I'm debating which hat (a chapeau is my trademark) to wear. My Phantom of the Paradise cape is being hemmed at the cleaners (people kept stepping on it last year). I'm researching restaurants so Karen and I get at least one good meal in each day. I'm bringing swag for friends' books to leave on the freebie table. I'm getting ready to dance at the nerd prom.

Four-star review of The Day After Yesterday

The Book Knoll has a four-star review of The Day After Yesterday. Take a look!

Review: Much Ado About Nothing

A black-and-white Shakespeare adaptation filmed in less than a fortnight might seem an odd film for a summer movie release, but Joss Whedon's take on the Bard is actually perfect summer entertainment. It's sweet and refreshing and leaves you with a smile on your face; it's like a tall glass of ginger beer on a hot day.

Leonato (Clark Gregg) is hosting a get-together consisting of "prince" Don Pedro (Reed Diamond) and his entourage. Abetting him in his duties as host are his daughter Hero (Jillian Morgese) and niece Beatrice (Amy Acker). Beatrice seems to have mixed feelings about the event as included in Don Pedro's retinue is Benedick (Alexis Denisof) with whom she has a "merry war" of words (said war seems to have its origin in a silent pre-credits sequence that implies Beatrice and Benedick had a brief fling that didn't end well). Soon a party is under way and things get complicated: Hero catches the eye of Claudio (Fran Kranz) and the two instantly plan to marry; Don Pedro's sullen brother Don John (Sean Maher) decides he wants to be a total jerk and sabotage the Hero/Claudio engagement; and the friends of Beatrice and Benedick plan to make the bickering couple realize they love each other. Things take a turn for the grim when Don John's plan succeeds, but true love gets an assist from some bumbling constables led by the well-intentioned if dim-witted Dogberry (Nathan Fillion).

Much Ado About Nothing isn't Shakespeare the way most of us have experienced it (reading it in high school). For one thing, it proves that the play is meant to be seen performed, not just read as text. It's set in modern day, and though its players get messages by iPhone and wield guns instead of swords, the language is still Shakespeare's. In a way, setting the play in a modern era helps rather than hinders comprehension of the language and wordplay. It isn't long before the language seems natural (it also helps that the actors use their everyday voices and accents, though I was so used to seeing Denisof in his role on Angel that it was jarring to hear him without a British accent). Shot at Whedon's home and shown in gorgeous black-and-white, the movie is lovely in a subtle, non-showy way that's welcome amid the more garish summertime cinema offerings.

Setting and cinematography aside, the success of the play is contingent on its actors, and every person here is up to the challenge. It's true that the cast is primarily alumni from Whedon's TV and movie work, but when your friends are as talented as these are, you're allowed to put them all in your movie. The heart of the film belongs to Acker, who gets the full range of emotions as she goes from her banter with Benedick to realization that she loves him to outrage when her cousin Hero's honor is besmirched; and to Denisof, whose rants against romance are a facade to protect himself from heartbreak (a facade that's destroyed the instant he realizes that Beatrice loves him) - the two also do some nifty physical comedy too. Gregg brings his down-to-earth everyman charm to Leonato, and Maher smolders malevolently while causing chaos just because he can. And stealing every scene they appear in are Nathan Fillion and Tom Lenk as constables Dogberry and Verges, with delightful comic chemistry and timing as they jockey for the alpha male position and help bring justice through sheer ineptitude.

The movie never quite loses its "let's put on a show" feel, and the seams show on occasion (particularly the "police station" scenes, where the set appears to be a dining room with a white board and banker boxes added). But those only make everything that much more endearing. It's a lark, and a tremendously enjoyable one.

Today's mood

Ashes on sale for 99 cents!

Ashes is one of Ereader News Today's bargain books for June 11 - only 99 cents! Treat yourself, or get Dad a good story to read for Father's Day.

Little help here?

I am desperately trying to figure out a way to use the line "This learned constable is too cunning to be understood" in daily life, preferably at the day job.

Why, yes, I've just seen Much Ado About Nothing, and it was wonderful. Like a tall glass of ginger beer on a summer day. Kudos to all involved.

Watch this now: Viewer reactions to the Red Wedding

I don't have cable and wasn't able to watch last night's Game of Thrones, but watching others watch it was nearly as much fun.

4-star review of The Day After Yesterday

See what the Between The Pages blog thought of The Day After Yesterday.