One of Those Days

books by dellani oakes 1It’s the perfect day to write and you have plans to finish that novel that’s been pending now for six months. You sit at the computer to write and the phone rings. It’s nothing important, but it interrupts the flow of creative energy, so you fix a cup of coffee. That accomplished, you sit back down & the doorbell rings, your child vomits, your spouse can’t find his car keys – or any number of other interruptions break into your routine.

It’s gone. The idea, the energy, the creativity, the muse – call it what you will. And your coffee is cold. After that long, imaginative string of swear words ends, you realize the day is over and you accomplished nothing.

With variations on details, we’ve all had days like this. Not much is more frustrating than getting to the end of the day with absolutely nothing on paper. Do you stay up late and work after the house is quiet? Do you sneak off to your happy place and count butterflies? Do you let it get you down, become depressed and wonder why you ever took up writing in the first place? How do you cope with days like this?

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Writing to a Formula? No Thanks!

Dellani Oakes with glasses smallerI stopped reading a book today. I set it aside and vowed not to read anymore. Just like that. Why? Because I saw where it was going. Not only that, I realized that it was something I wasn’t going to enjoy.

Anyone who has read my books knows that I don’t write to the standard romance formula: boy meets girl, boy kisses girl, boy & girl fight, boy hates girl, then they figure out they’re in love, but won’t talk about it and fall in love despite themselves.

I don’t like that plot line. Isn’t the whole point of a romance for the couple to fall in love and be happy? I read books like this one and I wonder how they are going to get along later and how soon after the wedding will they get divorced? I give it six months to a year.

In my romance and romantic suspense novels, the characters meet, feel that spark of attraction and move heaven and earth to get together. They may be foiled by circumstances, driven apart by conflict—but it’s external, not between them. I use adversity to bring them closer, to face their problems together.

Having a couple fight through two thirds (or more) of a novel doesn’t interest me. Having some roué sweep an unwilling ingenue off her feet isn’t seductive, it’s insulting. This scenario is most often used in historical romance novels. I find it offensive. In my historical romance, the hero does get a little ahead of himself, but his intended puts the brakes on. Realizing that it’s not the time to consummate their love, he respects her innocence and fears rather than playing on them. He doesn’t want to, and I’m sure it’s pure torture for him, but he loves her enough to stop.

In my contemporary writing, the pace of the romance varies, depending upon the characters. Sometimes it’s weeks, sometimes it’s only a matter of days, before they get together. They come together by mutual desire and lust, neither one of them forcing the other into bed. And they don’t fight afterward. Usually, they enjoy it so much, they do it again!

Granted, I have tried the other formula for a novel. It doesn’t work well for me. I can’t stand to see my characters miserable. That’s not to say that my characters don’t argue or have misunderstandings, but they resolve their differences. They talk about it and get their feelings aired. I know not all couples do this, but my husband and I do. We try not to argue, though we do exchange heated comments from time to time. Then we take our neutral corners and discuss something when we can be more calm and cool headed. It’s worked for over 30 years, so I guess we’re doing something right.

Getting back to the book I mentioned above—the reason I got so annoyed with it was that the male lead had just trashed the hopes and dreams of the young woman. She goes outside, weeping piteously. He hears her and goes outside to see what’s wrong. (Huh?) He just destroyed her emotionally and he doesn’t know why she’s crying? (Dumb ass)

Next, he—who has just devastated her—gives her comfort, his arms and lips seeking hers—and all that crap. She—whose life has been destroyed by this hedonistic, self-centered, egoist—falls into his arms. He’s just ruined her last hope of getting control of her life, and she’s drawn to him, kissing him in passion. (Oh, yes, she’s a virgin.) She’s allowing this total bastard to ravage her. I got to the point where he bared her breasts and stopped reading.

Really? She hates him. He’s taken possession of her home, is turning her and her little brother out without a cent and she’s letting him do the nasty in the garden at night? I couldn’t stand it. If I believed in burning books, this would be the first one in. I’m not offended by the sex. If you’ve read my books, you certainly know that. I’m offended by the abject stupidity of the characters.

He’s a jerk with his own agenda. She’s a helpless little twit. I want to box their ears and shake them until they get some sense—or their brains scramble. I don’t care which.

I know this formula is an accepted plot line for many a romance novel. I want to assure my readers that you’ll never see it from me. And if you do, you have my permission to shake me until my brains scramble, because I’ll obviously have lost all my sense.

© Dellani Oakes 2014

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Winter doldrums and writing. by Karen H. Vaughan.

People handle the winter blahs well or NOT. Some use the angst of the long cold days and bury themselves in their offices and create. I wish I could do that. The stress I was feeling had me blocked creatively. I could not string two sentences together and my characters were avoiding me.  I am over it now but it was frustrating at the time.  How do you deal with stress and the business of writing?Does it flumox you? Do you weather through it like a trouper and create angst ridden stories? I wish I could do all this. My brain shuts down and I wonder why I started writing in the first place. It’s not a great place to be so I decided on days I was anywhere near stressed I would avoid writing entirely.

The Maker – Book 3 of the Lone Wolf Series by Dellani Oakes

414BKu5bOdL__BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA278_PIkin4,BottomRight,-62,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_I’ve been working on edits and, while I’m still in my write mind, I thought I’d share an excerpt from The Maker, coming later this year (I hope) from Second Wind Publishing.

This sci-fi/ action/ romance novel is set in the distant future around the year 3036 in a part of space so ancient, it’s the stuff of legends. The planet they live on, Shakazhan, is virtually dead above ground. Underneath, it teams with life–all of it dangerous and deadly.

Wil & Matilda VanLipsig, along with their friends Ben & Marc, are chasing the beast, Surau after he escapes from his prison inside Shakazhan.

The passage grew increasingly dim as they went further in. They had never been so far from Sentience and her repaired networks before. They initiated their Kindred suits as the air around them thinned and grew stale.

The dark men surged down the tunnel after them, unable to use their spears. Their numbers were overwhelming. Ben and Marc formed a wall, with Wil directly behind them. He tried to contact the ship to teleport them out, but there was too much interference. Backing slowly as the men advanced, Marc picked off two with very carefully aimed shots. Ben joined him, taking out a couple more. Their weapons were set to stun, but to the dark men, their comrades appeared to be dead.

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000035_00022]Instead of stopping, the dark men grew more determined, advancing rapidly. Suddenly, as one, they lunged forward, making a grab for the small, retreating party of humans. One grabbed Marc, who crushed the dark man’s skull with a blow from his gun butt.

One held Ben, who summarily broke his arm, yanking it from the socket. The dark man screamed in pain as Ben’s blow to his head killed him. Wil kicked another one in the teeth, aiming down the tunnel, attempting to determine which was the leader.

His kill shot was true, the men stopped advancing as their leader’s head exploded. With a mighty roar, they made a last, monumental attempt to grapple with the humans. Wil pressed his wife behind him, trying again to contact the ship. There was a crackle of static and a faint acknowledgment from Hammer.

“Smith, get us the hell out of here!” Wil roared into his com.

The dark men gathered their dwindling numbers, preparing for a final assault. Growling angrily, they reformed their ranks around the fallen, glaring at the humans with hatred.

Wil shouted to his wife, “Run, Baby! We’ll catch up to you! Run! Run!”

Matilda hesitated a moment. The passageway was dark, she could feel it surround her. Even the Kindred suit couldn’t compensate for the complete lack of light. The nightmares came back, freezing her in place.

“Wil, I can’t! I can’t see a thing! Oh, God, Wil, I’m so scared!”

“Baby, it’s okay. Hammer has us. He’ll get us out of here. Please, keep going a little longer.”

Hesitantly, she picked her way along, the floor sagging beneath her feet. The ceiling was lower with so much debris, she had to stoop to move. The others were engaged in combat, she could hear it. All her instincts screamed at her to go back, to fight beside her mate.

Wil’s voice echoed down the passage, “Run!”

One of the dark men broke through their line, scrabbling over the stones, nearly on top of her. Matilda knew Wil was aiming at him. Flattening herself against the wall, she pressed back as far as she could.

“Now!” she screamed. “You have a clear shot!”

The weapon fired as she ducked, turning further away, sensing the electromagnetic pulse from Wil’s gun, hit the dark man in the back, hurling toward her.

She tried to dodge him, but a hand shot out from his dying body, clutching at her flowing dress, dragging her with him. The floor collapsed beneath their combined weight. The man fell like an anchor into the nothingness below her. Kicking wildly, she scrabbled for a hand hold, screaming hysterically.

Wil heard her scream, felt the give in the floor and ran full speed down the passage. The ceiling collided with this forehead, the sides of the passage snagged his clothing. “I’m coming! I’m coming! Hang on!”

“Wil! Oh, Wil! I’m falling! Wil!” A scream ripped from her throat, fading away as she fell.

Wil reached for her a second too late. He saw her falling into the bottomless pit. His cry of despair turned into a howl of grief unmatched by any sound Ben or Marc had heard. Then he grew fuzzy. They lost sight of him and a moment later, found themselves on the bridge of Hammer. Matilda wasn’t with them. Wil lay on the floor, still as death.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “Oh, God! No!”

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Troubling Questions for Authors (Like Me)

Dellani Oakes with glasses smallerWhy do you write?

I dunno. Why do you breathe?

There are a lot of questions authors don’t like being asked. Why? Because we don’t always have a satisfactory answer. At least, it’s not satisfactory for the person asking the question. To us, it makes perfect sense. I’ve been asked the above question and, at the time, couldn’t really see giving the answer I first thought of (my response, also above). It didn’t seem quite the thing. So I came up with something a little better. Next time I’m asked, I’ll use it.

Why do I write? Because I can’t imagine myself not writing. I can’t even think of giving it up. It’s as much a part of me as breathing. If you can stop breathing and survive, I’ll stop writing.

Where do your ideas come from?
Everything.

Here’s another hard one. I can get an idea from a TV commercial, a movie, a song, a random conversation in the grocery store. I’ve even been inspired by a mud puddle. Sometimes, I get inspiration from a wild thing that happens – for example, the motorcycle convoy in The Ninja Tattoo. That was inspired by something that really happened to me.

Inspiration is a tricky beast. It can creep up on an author and leave him/ her scrounging for paper and a pen in order to write it down before it escapes.

How’s your book coming?
Which one?

Some authors, like me, work on more than one book at a time. I have a very schizo muse. She hops around from story to story. Once in awhile, she allows me to finish, but mostly she keeps feeding me new ideas and doesn’t allow me to complete them. I don’t know if she’s crazy or simply sadistic. I have more stories than I know what to do with. Yes, I’ve finished some, but others, no.

So when a well meaning, non-author, friend asks me, “How’s your book coming?” I can’t really formulate a complete reply. I have no idea what book I was working on the last time they asked me. Generally, neither can they. Many times, they are asking simply because they don’t know what else to say. They might genuinely be interested, but that flags when I tell them the plot. Not everyone can follow my rapid fire narrative. I’m more interested in getting back to work than I am in telling them about what’s already on paper.

Some people can’t follow the plot and ask so many questions, I lose track of what I’m saying and never finish. I have to keep in mind that they aren’t immersed in the story the way I am. But why ask if they aren’t going to listen? That’s not being polite, it’s wasting my time.

So, are you still writing?
Well—Duuuh!

Of course, I’m still writing. You’re still breathing, aren’t you? Obviously so, because you asked me the dumbest question of all. You’re wasting my time and breathing my air and I want you to go away. People who ask this question need to go sit in the Zen garden and contemplate how stupid this is. I’m awake, therefore I write.

Statements I Have No Patience For:

I had a great idea for a book once. And they proceed to tell me the worst idea EVER.

I thought about writing a book, but I don’t have time. If you really wanted to, you’d find time.

I think writing a book would be fun. I’m told that bungee jumping is fun too. I don’t think I want to try that, though.

You work at home. You have plenty of time to do {Insert Annoying Activity Here}. You mean all that fun writing I’m doing is going to miraculously complete itself? Hooray!

Anyone can write a novel. Oh, really? So I guess you could sit down and write a best seller in no time? Go for it.

Are you going to put me in your book? I will if you keep annoying me. I’ll put you in my book—and kill you.

In all fairness, some people generally are interested. They’re trying, but they can’t possibly understand a writer’s mind unless they are also writers. We don’t think on the same wavelength as non-writers. We aren’t wired the same way at all.

Keep the following in mind:

A conversation with a writer WILL end up in a book some day.

If you do something foolish and tell an author, it WILL end up in a book some day.

You’re a complete tool, you WILL end up in a book one day, probably as the villain or a murder victim.

Remember, the next time you speak to your favorite author, ask her/ him something and really listen to the response. Don’t just ask to be polite, because it’s not, it’s a waste of their time. Writing isn’t easy, though it may look like it to an outsider. Brain surgery isn’t simple either, but a trained surgeon can make it appear easy because s/he practices. No, I’m not comparing what I do to brain surgery. Obviously, that’s like comparing grapes to kumquats. The point I’m making is, it’s not as simple as most authors make it look.

I think I can best sum it up like this: Authors labor and in the end, a book is born.

© Dellani Oakes

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Call me #crazy by Karen H. Vaughan

keep calm and write on

 

So who exactly is driving your creative bus?  Where do those ideas for what you hope will be the greatest novel you will ever write come from?

Call me #crazy but I dreamed the premise for DEAD ON ARRIVAL. Yep that was from the warped recesses of my #quirky imagination. Pretty trippy huh? I guess I must have been thinking of all the weird things that can happen to a person on a momday morning. Bad enough to wake up and accidently flush your tooth brush down the toilet or over fill the coffee maker and end up with a flooded kitchen of your last dregs of #maxwell house coffee. That would suck for a normal person. I had to have my character trip over a corpse. Thanks to my overactive imagination she has become what I have termed a corpse magnet. Laura sees dead people because the badasses in my brain give me plots that involve murder.

Did you hear the one about the guy who slashed a bunch of comedians because he missed the deadline for getting a sense of humor? Yes that was my muse behind the wheel on that plot too. I had always liked stand-up comedy and my muse seemed to think mixing comedy and murder was a swell idea and thus was born DEAD COMIC STANDING.

On another note, in the romance department I have had different ideas for stories because my muse decided I needed a break from  murder and mayhem. She decided the comedy was a good fit in the story so like Laura in my series Sam is a sarcastic divorcee in A BOTTLE OF RED( a WIP) who finds love at a class reunion.

I take a lot of plots from different aspects of my life. The angst filled moments of my teen years –Like I really wanted to revisit that -worked there way into Sam’s back story. I also work aspects of me into Laura and my other characters and different life experiences pop up in my plots.  I must be a tad nuts to take things I don’t want to relive into stories. Maybe the muse driving the bus thinks its a form of therapy to take these things and mix them with a quirky murder and equally strange characters and oddball villains.

Some people would say my muse needs a serious psychiatric check up but I like my nutty muse as she dares me to go where no writer would dare to go and imagine situations that are amusing and are entertaining. That’s one of the best things about being a writer: reach out and touch readers minds and give them some respite from everyday life.

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Skirnir’s Christmas Hunt

wind face and torsoMy husband and I have played a wonderful online game called Istaria Chronicles of the Gifted, for a number of years. They had a Christmas story contest a few years ago and I entered this tale. It didn’t win, but I’m very pleased with how it came out. The characters of Skirnir and Wind are ours. I’ve changed the names of the others.

Wind Dancer hummed Christmas carols as she decorated her home, oblivious to the effect it was having on her husband. Skirnir muttered and fiddled about with various tasks she set him to, but failed to accomplish much. He was too worried about what to get her for a present.

“Oh, Sweetheart, I’ve already gotten all your gifts. No peeking now while I set them under the tree!”

“Has to rub it in every year,” he mumbled angrily. “Every bloody year it’s the same bloody thing. Always does her shopping early, never waits to the last bloody minute – like me. Bollocks!” Throwing things about, he managed to get himself sent away, which was exactly what he wanted.

Heading to Bristugo, he chanced to meet Zex. The adult dragon looked at the tiny dwarf and controlled himself so it wouldn’t lick his chops. Zex was hungry, and it had been a long time since he had eaten dwarf. But Skirnir was a friend. One refrained from eating friends.

“Zex, my friend, I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

“Emm, pickles,” said Zex. “Sounds tasty. I like dill. Which do you prefer, Skirnir?” Meanwhile Zex was wondering how pickled dwarf would taste.

“No, no, you giant scythe toed lizard. I’m not a pickle, I am in a pickle. I’ve got to find Wind a present that’s equally as amazing as what she’s gotten me!”

“What has she gotten for you then?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” he grumbled, kicking a hole in the dirt outside the guild house owned by his niece. “She always manages to get me something far better than I get for her. It’s getting embarrassing.”

“What did she get you last year?”

“A full set of mithril armor. It’s quite comfy, and a lovely shade of b

lue.”

“And what did you get for her?” The dragon stared at the dwarf expectantly.

Skirnir kicked a bigger hole, knowing his niece would probably raise all kinds of cane with him for doing it. But he didn’t care. He was mortified by his own inadequacy and hoped no one else was in hearing distance when he muttered to the dragon what he’d gotten Wind for Christmas the year before.

horizons_1184520049

“A sewing needle,” he muttered.

Zex blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“A needle. I got her a ruddy sewing needle. Lovely shade of blue….” he mumbled, kicking dirt back in the hole he’d made.

“I see.” But Zex didn’t see at all. Somehow it didn’t seem quite the thing, but how did one say that to a friend. “I think that I’m not the best judge of such things. Perhaps you’d do better asking Kara’s opinion. Being a female, I am sure she would know what Wind would like better than I.” Whew, Zex thought. Got out of that one! Before Skirnir could object, the dragon took flight and didn’t look back.

“Bollocks and barnacles,” Skirnir cursed loudly. “I’d best ask someone else. Blinking dragons, can’t trust em.”

He set off to visit Kara, thinking Zex had at least gotten that idea right. Kara would know what to do. She wouldn’t laugh at him for his choices in the past, but would suggest the perfect gift.

“You got her what? A needle? What were you thinking?” She cuffed him sharply on the ear. “Leave it to a man to think a sewing needle was a good gift. Idiot dorf!”

“She needed the needle. It was nicely teched and had a gem or two set in it. Lovely shade of blue….”

“Skirnir, a sewing needle hardly compares to a suit of armor, does it? You must do something really special this year to make up for it.” Putting a finger to her cheek, she thought long and hard. Eventually, a thought emerged.

“You will do what you do best,” she told him with a happy grin.

“What? I do so many things, and all of them well, I might add…” He looked dwarfishly proud of himself.

“Heal.”

Skirnir jumped into position behind her.

“The kind that makes you feel better, you dolt. Not H-E-E-L, H-E-A-L!”

“Oh. Sorry.” He looked chagrined. “I don’t think I follow you.”

“Hasn’t she been working on Chaos Warrior all this time?”

“Yes, but I still don’t…..”

“And you, selfish man, have been crafting, leaving her to hunt alone. How can she hunt and heal? Use your head, you dolt! Take her hunting, help her get that rank in Chaos Warrior she’s been wanting.”

“I could do that….”

“Of course you could!”

“But how to I wrap that up? I can’t put heals beneath the tree.”

“I’ll make a box of potions. You put those beneath the tree. With a card…. Yes, that’s the perfect thing. I’ll even write the card for you. Oh, this will be such fun! Better yet, a scavenger hunt! You wait, Skirnir, this will be the most perfect gift ever!”

Giggling happily, she started composing the clues for the scavenger hunt while Skirnir went out to gather the ingredients for the potions. It wasn’t that he minded doing that, not exactly. But it did seem rather like he had suddenly become less important in this equation than Kara and that bothered him. Where did he fit in? Sighing heavily, he dragged his disk and started gathering wisp essence for the potions.
“Bollocks and barnacles,” he mumbled. “I hate chasing wisps.”

By Christmas Eve, everything was in position for the scavenger hunt. With the help of Kara, Zex and various family members, Skirnir had put together an entertaining romp.

Christmas morning dawned bright, clear and cold. Even the shores of Carmo, which were usually warm, were rimed with frost. Skirnir could see his breath as he prodded the reluctant fire to life. They emptied their stockings, ate breakfast, and waited for the children to arrive before opening their special gifts to one another.

Wind had surprised him with a new shield and a cunningly crafted war hammer that was nearly as big as he was. They were both dyed to match his armor. Filled with anticipation, he handed her the first clue.

“Neath the giant tree wilt thou find me.”

“What’s this? Is this my gift? A poem?” Wind waved the card under his nose.

“Last year it was a needle. This year it’s a couplet?”

“No, no, my sweet. It’s a clue!”

“To what, Pa, another needle?” Their son William scoffed at his father’s efforts.

“Enough of you,” Skirnir scolded. “Trust me, love,” he told his wife. “I know I’ve disappointed you before. But not this time.”

“Giant tree? What tree? There must be hundreds of giant trees.”

“Biggest one I know is near my home in Bristugo,” her niece, Reanne said softly.

“Could be, could be!” Skirnir blustered. “Why, it’s worth a try!”

“All right. I’ll go look!” Wind recalled to her bind spot in Bristugo and ran to the base of the tree. There was a small box beneath it. Inside, she found healing potions and another note.

“In the air find water fair.”

Puzzling over it for only a moment, she thought of the one place she could find water in the air. “Floating Island,” she decided. Gating over, she wondered what she would find there.

In one of the ponds was another box. This one held a new weapon for her Chaos Warrior school and another note.

“Midst snow and ice is something nice.”

“Snow and ice? We’re covered with it!” But there were places where there was snow and ice year round. Putting the two gifts with the location, she could think of only one spot – Island of Ice.

It took a few minutes and more than one gate, but eventually she arrived on the Island. The north wind scurried across the barren, icy land, whipping snow into her face. Squinting, she spotted another box by the gem cutter’s shed. Unfortunately, a peridot and emerald golem were standing by, ready to fight. Taking a deep breath, she attacked the emerald golem. Of course, once the noise of her spells got its attention, the other joined it.

Caught off guard for a moment, she lost her footing and was forced back a few steps. The golems continued to pound at her relentlessly. Suddenly, she felt refreshed and noticed a healing aura round her. Skirnir stepped out from behind the gem cutter’s shed, healing her and rooting the peridot golem, he waved his broad hand at her.

“Hello, love. I knew you’d find your way here. Hit him again, he’s nearly done for.”

Doing as he bid her, she killed both golems with ease. They hunted awhile longer, finally stopping when they got too cold to continue. Laughing and joking, they went home to a hot fire. The girls had cooked a big dinner, the dragons had build up a bonfire, and Skirnir’s cousin Reebdoog had tapped a keg of his famous ale. Many friends dropped by to wish them Merry Christmas. It was a delightful day.

As the sun set on yet another Christmas, Skirnir and Wind sat staring in the waning fire, arms entwined.

“That was a lovely present you gave me,” Wind told him softly.

“Aye,” her stubby husband answered with a yawn. “And I’ve another for you.”

“Really? Where is it?” She asked him, looking around for a box.

“Upstairs,” he chuckled. “Come to bed, my wife, and wish me Merry Christmas.”

© Dellani Oakes

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Do You NaNo?

As some of you are aware, November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) authors from all over the world take this personal challenge to write a 50,000 word novel in the 30 days. Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000035_00022]Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, but you never forget your first (second or third) NaNo experience. What do you get for winning? The satisfaction of a job well done and bragging rights.

I’ve been participating in NaNoWriMo since 2007 — and won. Since then, I’ve participated and won every month, generally finishing early. (This year I was done by November 17)

My first year, I did a prequel to Lone Wolf – my sci-fi novel/ series. It’s called The Wall of Time and it discusses the backgrounds of several characters, expanding upon their experiences. I’m very proud of this book. When the rest of the series has been published, I’ll add it.

There are any number of challenges that NaNo participants can 414BKu5bOdL__BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA278_PIkin4,BottomRight,-62,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_add to their work. One of these is the Cliff Brooks challenge. You name a character Cliff Brooks and kill him off. You can also give random words or phrases to your group members and challenge them to add them to their stories. For fun, I decided to post this excerpt. It contains several of the challenges given that year.

Wil smiled. Not everyone would consider it to be one. It was the kind of smile that made honest men wonder what they’d done to deserve God’s wrath and guilty men remember how they’d earned it. It was the expression on his face when he was anticipating something incredibly exciting, or terribly unpleasant. In this case, it was probably both. Whistling tunelessly, he requested permission to land.

He hit the atmosphere of Aolani and landed at the spaceport. With his ship secured, he walked to the Whips and Chains Bagnio. It was the worst establishment on the planet. Their whores were dirty, drug addicted and disease ridden. Only the really sick or twisted would work there. Eboneé had enjoyed her position for five years, longer than anyone else.

Making his way through the crowded streets outside the bordellos, drug emporiums and bars, he saw a clutch of people outside the ‘Dirty Seadog Pub and Massage Parlor.’ He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a bunch of dwarfs dressed as clowns. They were singing an old rock ‘n roll song slightly off key and rubbing peanut butter on a group of unhappy aliens who looked rather like giant slugs. As he passed them, he noticed the distinctive, fruity odor of cheap, diet Cheerwine. No wonder they were so boisterous. Diet Cheerwine was the poor man’s all purpose mind altering drug.

A scrawny man in a dirty black leather thong and studded dog collar answered the door. He had a name tattooed on is skinny chest: Cliff Brooks. Cliff escorted Wil into the lobby and told Eboneé she was wanted below. The whore took her time, making sure she was perfectly attired for her new playmate.

When she arrived at the head of the stairs, she had on a skimpy black leather outfit that barely covered her breasts and crotch and didn’t cover anything else. Her thigh high black boots had metal heels and she wore gloves with metal spikes. Chains adorned every available surface and a nasty looking black snake whip hung at her hip. She was the epitome of the S&M Dominatrix.

Wil had to do his best to hide his snarl with a smile. She was so overdone, so full of herself, it was almost painful. Eboneé might think she was tough, but she had just met her match. Wil had dressed just as carefully for his visit. Wearing an ill fitting, wrinkled gray suit, dingy white shirt and a bland tie, he stumbled clumsily up the stairs. Not even the clothing could disguise the magnificent physique under them. Eboneé liked her job, she liked men, especially good looking, strong men. This one was going to be a treat. She led him to her room, decorated with a wide variety of sex toys from all over the galaxy. Humans were not the only ones who liked it rough.

Wil smiled as he walked through the door. This expression wasn’t frightening. He did his best to convey a man who was excited as hell to be in her presence.

* * *

(I skipped some because it was a long excerpt)

Yelling obscenities and banging on doors as he clumped down the hall, Mozzimo disturbed the entire establishment. Cliff came up behind him to find out what the trouble was. Without thinking, Mozzimo spun around and shot him right between the ‘f’ and the ‘B’. Cliff scrabbled at his chest, coughed once and died.

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