Monthly Archives: December 2012

Hay-Zeuss is Watching, pt 2


She was from somewhere else and still had the slightest trace of an accent.  Sometimes when she got mad, it thickened up, and man, when she rolled her Rs—

“Do you see anything?” she spat in his ear.

“Uh, no.”  He had to stay on his game.  Just because it looked like they were gone didn’t mean somebody wasn’t coming back.  People forgot stuff all the time.  He wanted to be long gone in case somebody came back for a golf bag or a make-up case.

It was even darker in the bathroom.  He felt around, not wanting to grab his flashlight.

“Oof!”  Something tapped DeWayne on the balls and he almost went to his knees.  He managed to lean on the counter as the pain crawled up out of his sack and raked across his stomach.  His head swam a moment and he closed his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Mel asked.

“My balls,” he coughed out a minute later.  “Something hit me in the balls.”

“What do you mean something hit you?  You’re there alone, right?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I am.”  The feeling, like a vise, pinching off every blood vessel from his groin to his brain gradually subsided and he stood.  He took a breath and pulled out the flashlight and skimmed the bathroom.  The only thing in here not bolted down was an office chair on wheels.  Unless the thing had rolled silently over, swatted him in the nuts and silently rolled back, it had been something else.

“So what do you see?”

“Nothing… just an office chair.  What the hell is that doing in here anyway?”

“You really are a bachelor.  That’s her make-up chair.  Look at the counter.  Is there an open space underneath the counter?”

DeWayne checked with the flashlight.  “Yeah.”

“She sits there and does her make-up.  Probably didn’t put it back after and you ran into it, boys first.”

“But I could swear—”

“Don’t start.  What makes the most sense?”

Had to check himself.  Mel was right.  Sometimes he tended to go off on tangents, she liked to call them mini-conspiracies.  DeWayne never had the evidence to support them, but believed all the same.  It had to have been the chair.  If he didn’t know better he would have thought there was somebody in here with him.

“All right.  I’m back on the job.  Call you back.”  He ended the call and slid the cell back into its holster.  He slid the backpack off and unzipped it.  Out came the sack he would put all the goodies in and he could use the pack for heavier stuff.

A pair of eyes stared at him from the bathroom.  DeWayne jumped, reaching for a weapon he didn’t have on him.  Wait a minute.  Was that one of those foam heads?  The thing on the bathroom counter had a roughly drawn pair of eyes pointed in his direction.  It had a curly-haired wig on it and someone had even gone to the trouble of giving it acne-pitted cheeks.  DeWayne narrowed his glance and sidestepped.  Thankfully, the eyes stayed put.

A rack of some kind with necklaces on it set next to the head-thing.  He carefully removed each one and dropped them into the sack.  There was a closet on the other side of the bathroom and he poked his head in.  Expensive-looking clothes and shoes.  On a high-up shelf there were a couple picture frames.  He reached for them and scanned through with the flashlight.  Nobody important.  He always checked photos.  DeWayne had gotten lucky on a break-in once and found a signed picture of some old guy Mel had told him was pretty rare.  It had a personalized signature, so she didn’t take it, but she did kick him an extra twenty bones and told him to keep it up.

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AMC Slammed By ‘The Shield’ & ‘Sons Of Anarchy’ Creators After ‘Walking Dead’ Showrunner Glen Mazzara Leaves Series | The Playlist

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Hay-Zeuss is Watching, pt 1


DeWayne shut the door behind him quietly and got into a low crouch.  This was the tricky part—making sure there really was no one home.  He was ninety-nine percent certain, but he couldn’t count out the possibility they’d just dropped the dog off to have some alone time.

He made his way over to the wall directly ahead, making silent note of the flat screen television and expensive-looking leather couches.  A quick check with the flashlight and he saw the thermostat was off and turned all the way down.  They wouldn’t do that in the middle of winter if they were still here.  DeWayne had gotten the layout of this apartment off the complex’s website.  The guest bedroom was around the corner to his left, the master bedroom was around the corner and down the hall.  DeWayne stepped quickly into the guest bedroom and glanced around.  No one.  But they had a frilly princess bed on the floor that must have been for that dog.  Disgusting, but all the more reason for him to be here.  These people just had too much and needed someone to take some of it off them.  He turned around and crept down the hall toward the master bedroom.  There was a painting on the wall just past the door to the main bathroom.  He caught a glance of a smiling, bearded dude in a robe with flowing locks in an ornate frame and immediately dismissed it.  It was weird, didn’t fit in with the décor.  Didn’t seem to—

What the hell?

DeWayne spun and looked back at the painting.  As he was passing he could have sworn the eyes of the thing were really locked onto him, swinging from right to left as he went by.

It was staring blindly ahead into the kitchen with a dumb smile on.  DeWayne turned and peeked into the bedroom.  Bed was made and two pairs of slippers underneath.  Nobody home.  He whipped out his cell and speed-dialed Mel.

“’lo?” came the gravelly feminine voice.

“I’m in,” he said.


“Don’t know yet.  Just stepped in the bedroom.”  There was a silver jewelry box on the end of the dresser closest to him that looked like it could fit a bowling ball.  DeWayne lifted the lid.

“Yes!” he said.


“Mother-lode.  Probably can get a couple thou in this jewelry box alone.”

“Check the bathroom,” Mel said.


“The bathroom.  Take a look.”


“I’m a woman, so I know things you don’t.  Sometimes we keep valuables in the bathroom too.  Make sure to check the bathroom closet.”

“Okay.”  DeWayne would have bet she knew a lot of things he didn’t.  Mel was at least fifteen years older than him, but she was still sexy as hell.  She still wore her wedding ring, but her husband had died last year in prison.  DeWayne’s girlfriend was two years younger than him, but she couldn’t come close to Mel.  She was all skin and bones, but the older woman was… what was the word?  Oh yeah, zaftig.  DeWayne had never been one for big words, but when he’d learned what that one meant he’d immediately thought of the older woman.

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An Ingenious New Nonprofit Proves That Maybe You CAN Buy Forgiveness

Found this as I was cruisin’ the interwebs for social media ideas:

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Keepsakes, pt 2

“Of course,” George had said.

“Of course,” he said now, reminiscing. He felt himself bristle with anger and pulled one more time as hard as he could and it seemed to give somewhat, but George would never know for certain because in the next instant the barbs extended to spikes, impaling George’s hands.

He pulled his hand free and fell on his butt for the second time, holding his hands up as the blood flowed freely down his forearms. He blinked twice, the pain running past the wounds to his elbows.

Thump. George looked up at the cabinet door by the sink. Thump. There was something in there, brushing against the door. George got up on his knees, ignoring the pain. He crawled over to the door and pulled it slightly ajar. The spill of light revealed a few golden strands of… something. He pulled it open slightly farther and the wedge of light revealed more golden strands. He could see something round and glistening on the surface, but the thing in front of him was a mass of parts to him.  It was slow in becoming a whole.

“Carol?” he said, yanking the cabinet door open.

Carol’s head lolled out of the cabinet, skin shriveled in patches and one remaining eye sunken and fogged over.  The other socket was a hole, the artery hanging loosely over the cheek. There were a few straggling strands of her blonde hair left, clinging to her bare skull. Her lower half was gone and what was left looked picked bare.

“Carol, no,” George whispered. His mind raced as tears filled his eyes, wondering when he had done this. His hand was cradling the back of her head, propping her up.

Thump. Carol’s head fell free from George’s hand. He scooted away from the other cabinet door and slowly pulled it open.

Thick green tentacles burst from behind the door and wrapped firmly around George’s forearm. He heard the bones crack as they began to pull. He screamed as they relentlessly drew him in, slapping his free hand above the door and pushing. George felt his shoulder jolt out the socket and his clenching muscles begin to give way. He caught site of the potted plant above the sink one last time before he was pulled in. The bud had burst open; the issuing flower turned toward him.  It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He still struggled half-heartedly, recognizing the animal grunting as his own voice. His body shook from the effort as he felt the tentacles wrapping around his thighs and waist. The plant lifted him and pulled him in except for his arm and head. He cried out one last time before his face smashed with a sharp crunch and neck and shoulder were nearly torn off as he was drawn in. His fingers hooked the cabinet door and shut it behind him.

Did you miss the first installment? Click here to read part 1

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Keepsakes, pt 1

I said I might have something new for the blog around this time and I found and oldie I wrote somewhere around 2000-2001.  A group of us all wrote stories with the same title, “Keepsakes”.  I don’t remember exactly what it was for, but I think it was one of my first stories after “Night of the Loving Dead”.  There’s an story that goes along with that one I’ll share sometime about the whole submission process and the ensuing 9 month waiting game with Cemetery Dance, but just enjoy this first part for now and the second part will be up sometime later today- let’s say… 8:30ish?

George sat and stared at that stupid potted plant. He plucked his thumb out of his mouth and fresh beads of red immediately sprouted up. The pain was unbelievable when he’d tried to pull that thing from the windowsill.

He stood and approached it, tentatively, wondering how it had rooted to that one spot. Carol would have enjoyed seeing this. Running off the way she had, she hadn’t meant to do anything but hurt him. She was always so selfish.

George had gotten his revenge, though. Carol had left everything behind. Her clothes, jewelry, her cat, Gus- everything. He’d taken his time, destroying it all. George relished the pain of Gus’ claws raking his arms for the last time right before he’d gone into the dishwasher. The platinum pendant went on top of the pyre of her clothes he’d set fire to in an abandoned parking lot.

“Friggin’ Robby Keller,” he muttered to himself as he examined the potted plant. “What he have I don’t?” There were tiny razor thin barbs edging all the way around the saucer underneath the pot. George sucked on his thumb again, carefully circling his other hand around the top of the pot. Those barbs had hurt so much he’d stumbled over his own feet trying to get away from them.

“‘He listens to me’,” George mocked. “‘He cares about me as a person.'” He tugged on the pot but it didn’t budge.

“What the hell?” he said. He gave it two more tugs, wrapping his wounded hand around the other and put his knee onto the cabinet face for leverage.

The plant had been his special project. He’d been ready to chuck it as far as he could when he decided to do something different. Instead, he poured everything in it he could find. Bleach, mouthwash, spoiled milk and beer when he was home alone drunk- anything, so long as it wasn’t water.

The damn thing hadn’t died, though. It didn’t grow, either. It was always looking like it was ready to bud, but that was exactly how it looked the day Carol had brought it home.

“What is it?” he asked her, annoyed.

“I don’t know, but it’s exotic!” she said, looking excited. Carol was always into ‘exotic’. That’s why George had to waste so much money on jewelry. She was so inconsiderate she’d even waited until he’d slipped the engagement ring on her finger before telling him no. Before telling him she was leaving him for Robby Keller. He could take care of her the way she deserved to be taken care of, she’d said. He knew how to treat a woman, she’d said. He was a real man, she’d said. Her bags were already packed- when George had seen them he had assumed she was going to visit her mother again.

The things she’d said to him then. George knew he wasn’t the brightest man or the best looking, but he didn’t deserve how she’d made him feel. He didn’t even want to think the words she’d said, they burned him so.

George was aware of his imposing size, his mother always said how he had to be careful with people and Carol being as small as she was, he knew better, but… there’s only so far a guy could be pushed. He immediately regretted it after, wanted to run after her when she fled the room, but was too afraid of what he might still do.

He heard her screaming and knocking around in the kitchen, probably destroying it, but as soon as the anger rose up in him to run downstairs he would see that wounded face again. He couldn’t take that face again.  George sat and began to weep.

It wasn’t long before the noise stopped. George didn’t have his watch on, but he didn’t think it’d been that long, anyway. He could have blacked out for a little while.  He did that sometimes when he got angry.

“Carol?” he called. “Carol?” He crept downstairs, afraid to face her. “Carol, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I understand if you want to leave me.” He didn’t understand, but you were supposed to say stuff like that to get people to forgive you.

Of course, she was gone.

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End of Year Sale

Let me edit for you-

As I’m sure many of you who are reading this are either budding or established authors, a great many of you probably need an editor for your upcoming project.  Have you considered Razorline Press?  Our editing is not only fast and affordable, but now it’s on sale.  Authors who reserve before the end of the year will get 20% off their total bill.

Take a look at the editing page.  If you have a 50,000 word title your total would be $750 for full copyediting, but  knock 20% off that and you’ll be paying only $600 for a fully-edited manuscript.

Slots are first come, first serve, so reserve today.  Even if you aren’t done with your draft, 10% down locks in this rate.

I also have a few added bonuses I throw in for free.  Like tips on how to create a really good-looking cover for less than $80, how to buy an ISBN for your printed book, and how to publish on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords without the headache.  I’ll also give you a couple tweets and post on my Facebook pages.  I currently have just under 15,000 followers on Twitter.

My dance card is going to be full really soon, I hope you’re on it.

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I think I Know How Dexter Will End

I have to revise my presumption of the series finale of Dexter in light of the closing events of the season 7 finale.  I think after listening to Darkly Dreaming Dexter is how I came to the conclusion LaGuerta would die.  And I also think how she died was intentionally copied from the book.  I wish I was more familiar with the books, but I still hold by my original theory there is going to be a killer very similar to Dexter who will bring unwanted attention to him.

I’m not sure if Dex’s girlfriend is going to play a part next season.  Lumen never came back.  But there is definitely going to be a rift between Deb and Dexter and the only way to ‘mend’ it will be for him to die.

Everything is going to appear to be falling apart for the both of them.  They won’t be as close to each other as they have been and there will be palpable awkwardness between them.  Batista will not retire.  He will seek out Maria’s killer, making it his mission to bring this person to justice.  With every suspect who comes into view for the department, Debra’s guilt will ratchet up.  Oh, and combine that with the fact she will be the acting Captain, taking the place of the woman she killed.

Dexter will be building.  He will want to kill, but more than ever, he will not want to kill.  He will throw himself into his job, making sure he puts together murder scenes as effectively as possible to create lock-tight cases.  But a suspect will fall through the cracks and Dexter will give in and stalk the murderer only to find him after he has already been killed in a manner very similar to how Dexter kills.

There is a purpose to this killer other than the obvious.  This new killer will at first be labeled a copycat, but Dexter will see him as an escape; a person his murders can be pinned on.  Except, LaGuerta accusing Dexter of being the Bay Harbor Butcher will point Batista in his direction, tightening the noose with each of the copycat’s kills.

The only way out will be for Dexter to find the evidence that will lead to the real killer’s capture, leaving it for Debra to find after he has become the killer’s last victim.  Except the new butcher won’t be his killer.  It will happen in a place exactly like where Dexter was reborn, where Debra was remade and where they both of them will complete their circles as he leaves her no choice but to kill him.


Think you might like to read more of my stuff? Check out The Butterman Cometh on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords.

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Looking for Something New?

I have a short in mind I’m going to blog in the days leading up to Christmas. It has to be short because I’m in the middle of about three things, but if you like a free read, stay tuned starting December 22nd.

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The Ancient Texts- Take 2

Ancient Texts

As has been pointed out, my prior post on the story I wrote back in the 8th grade didn’t exactly post the way I intended.  The link above should guide you to the whole shebang.


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