Free Book Promo!

Since I enjoy giving books away, I'm running a promo this weekend for a free copy of Immortal Musings:

 Free for this weekend, Mar. 17-18.  Get your copy, tell a friend...

Staccato - A Mick Trubble Short

            I heard the staccato of her heels down the hall…

Smoggy days, rainy nights.  The windshield weeps under the glow of tacky neon lights.

The good thing about being depressed in New Haven is that you can always take a field trip out to a joint where you can feel even worse.  In this case it was the Gaiden, a high pillow Downtown nightclub that was celebrating its reopening.  Course, the irony of me being there was I was the one who burned it down in the first place.  In a roundabout way, of course.  Kinda the story of my life.

Everything I touch goes up in smoke.

I was on a case back then.  Along the way I’d gotten into a heap of trouble, but by the end I was out of a heap of debt.  I still didn’t know if the exchange was worth the cost.  ‘Course if I had to do it again, I don’t guess I’d change anything.  It’s not as if me and trouble haven’t been acquaintances for the longest.  In this town I’m known as the Troubleshooter.  The name strongly implies what it is I do.

I'd been nursing a shot so long at the bar so long that Ed the barkeep threatened to charge me rent.  For a synthetic humanoid, Ed was a real wise guy.  Synoids must be getting sarcasm upgrades these days. 

I tapped a few buttons on my holopad and mumbled something far less eloquent in reply.  Dibs exchanged, and another whiskey floated to my spot, making Ed and me friends again.

The joint was set just right for my state of mind.  Dim lights where gasper smoke created a haze that made it easy to fade into the background.  Quiet, private booths where cool cats and smooth dames made coy exchanges between martini sips.  On stage Fats the Jazzman wept into his sax while this skinny dame in red poured her soul into the microphone, crooning of lost love and broken spirits.

The only thing missing was a complimentary handgun to blow your own brains out.

But that was ok.  Me and depression are old friends.  Can’t remember a time when he wasn’t around to sucker punch me in the gut.

She walked in around the time when sane people sleep and ghosts wake up yawning.  I saw her silhouette in the grainy light and recognized her instantly.  The recollection sliced through the alcoholic fog like a razor through wrists, bleeding memories on the floor.

“Do you think it will always be like this?”

“No.”

What a fool I was.

~*~

I worked a case two years back.  Don't recollect too much about it, but I remember her with photographic clarity.  Some rich frail thought her old man was cheating on her (he was), and paid well to keep tabs on him.  They have synoids that do surveillance, but they’re easy to spot.  Some gigs just need that human touch.

Seems he spent a lot of time at the Ritz, which meant I spent a lot of time at the Swiss, the joint across the street, trying to get the shot I needed to get the old moll her proof.

That was when I met her.  She worked at the front desk, wearing on of those cute hotel uniforms that summons thoughts of kinky sex to a dirty man's mind.  And mine has never been clean. 

A few exchanges, a dab of charm, and we were soon doing a lot more than seeing each other on the pass.  I thought she was just another skirt I’d toss while I was on the case, but after I wrapped it up we were still spending our nights in that room on the fifth floor.

I wish I could say it was just the sex, but that would be a cop-out, and I'm not too fond of cops.  There was something about her eyes when she laughed, the way her hands gestured when she talked, the peaceful look on her face when she slept. 

I couldn't find the words when I wanted them, when I wanted to tell her I had to move on.  I was just a drifter back then, same as now.  Couldn't be boxed in.

I needed to roam again.

"Do you think it will always be like this?"

"No."

I remember the hurt in her eyes at the abruptness of my response.  The way she recoiled like I struck her.  The stiffness in her back when she left the room.

The staccato of her heels down the hall…

~*~

"I heard you come by here sometimes."

"Only when I can't sleep."

"How often is that?"

"All the time."

She smiled.  It was a sad smile.  The kind that lingers when all reasons for smiling have died.  She took the glass out of my hand and set it on the counter.  I was struck by how her eyes were the same color as the whiskey.

"Dance with me."

"I've been doing some kind of drinking, darlin'."

"It'll be a slow dance."

She led me to the floor.  The joint was almost empty. Only a few boozehounds and ghosts were left. 

And us.  Fats the Jazzman had turned to pack it up, but I caught his eye.

"One last song, Fats."

He nodded. 

The mournful wail of the sax floated us across the floor for a few melancholy minutes.  She pressed her cheek against my chest with her eyes closed, like the time between us had never existed.  My hands started at the safe zone above the small of her back, but as the sax played on they drifted, much as we did.  Across memory, across streams of unforgiving time.

"Do you like dragonflies?"  Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"As much as the next mug, I guess.  Why?"

"That's all the picjector plays on the walls of my hotel room."

~*~

I wasn't ready for the aggression, the almost hostile manner of her lovemaking.  Ok, lovemaking ain't exactly the word for it.  Lovemaking involves tenderness, affection displayed through pleasure.  Soft moments combined with hard movements.  The things we did in that hotel room of ours back when time didn’t exist. 

That wasn't the case this time.

There was a sense of determination in the motion of her hips, an intent look in her eyes that never left my face.  As holographic dragonflies flitted around us, she stayed on top the entire time, as if switching positions was a sign of weakness.  She came on like a force of nature, like she was a solar storm and I was the hapless planet that happened to be in the way.

Only when my muscles stiffened, when my hands clenched the sheets and a groan grated through my teeth; only then did she slow down, let the tempest inside of her pass on like the whisper of distant thunder. 

Only then did she let me hold her.

Hours passed.  The autotint in the windows glowed with the promise of morning.

I opened my eyes and she was leaving. 

It's funny.  It's not the sex that stands out clearly about that night.  It's the profile of her slender back, the hair that fell across her face as she pulled on her stockings in the blush of the early sun. 

"You don't… have to go.  Stay.  Stay with me for a little while.  We… we haven't even talked…"

"I have to go.  It's ok.  It's better like this."

I felt the flush of anger scald my face.  "What's the point, then?  Why look me up after all this time?"

She turned slightly.  Shadows brushed stripes across her face.  "I… wanted to see you again.  Think of it as a thank you."

"For what?"

"For being the only honest man I've known."

Depression stepped up once again to punch me right in the kidney.  Whoever said words don’t hurt should be beaten bloody with sticks and stones.

"Remember what you told me when I asked you if it would always be like that?"

"I remember being bad news.  I didn't mean…"

"You were right.  I didn't know it at the time, but… you were right.  At least you knew.  At least you could tell me the truth."

I looked in her eyes and saw other men.  Men who'd expressed their insecurities with fists to her face, who'd promised her love and given her lies, men who'd taken her self-worth and ran over it with a cement truck. 

"Baby, listen.  If I had known…"

"You don't have to apologize for anything.  What's happened has happened.  But sometimes… I think of you, is all."

I couldn't think of anything to say.  Words weren't strong enough to cross the gulf of time and circumstances that separated us. 

The sadness in her smile spoke enough for us both. 

"I got what I came for.  Maybe I'll see you around."  The door closed off any chance of reconciliation.  Any promise of second chances.

And she did get what she came for.  She had taken something from me, something I'd carelessly left rusting somewhere; one of those neglected valuable things you never miss until it's gone.  I only felt it when the door closed, when she tucked it under her arm as a keepsake of bygone times.

It’s funny how you measure your self-worth.  A lotta mugs judge themselves off of how many dames they’ve pulled, or the dibs in their account.  I always thought it was my ability to survive.  I don’t allow myself the luxury of feeling. 

I know the damage it can do.

But when she walked away, she took that feeling of invulnerability with her.  I’d been tagged like a down-and-out boxer meeting the ring floor for the first time.  The soapy smell of her skin clung to me like perfume; the impression on the bed mocked me like a vengeful ghost.

She was gone.

I try not to think about her; try to forget that night she walked in through a veil of smoke and blues.  But every now and then I get struck by a thought of her.  When I hear the saxophone wailing.  When metallic dragonflies dance in my mind.

When I heard the staccato of heels down the hall…

A Pitch is Worth a Thousand Words

If you're one of the three people who keep track of what I do creatively, then you know that I've tossed my literary hat in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest with my novel The Troubleshooter: New Haven Blues.

If you don't know anything about the contest, then here's the general idea:  People from all around the world enter into two categories (general fiction and YA) to try to win a publishing contract from Penguin Books.  Two people will win.  The rest won't.


There's more to it, but that's the gist.  Part of the entry form is to write a pitch up to 300 words.  Your pitch is ultimately what will get you into the first round of the competition.  No matter what kind of marvels wait to be discovered in your manuscript, the bottom line is that if your pitch doesn't make the cut, then you're out before you can get in.

Let the nail-biting begin.

The whole 'pitch' thing sounds suspiciously like a query letter.  I'm not all that great at query letters, if my past success at arousing interest from agents is an indicator.  It's strange that many writers can spill entire worlds across endless pages, yet find it so hard to nail down an interest-rousing, gotta read this right now kind of pitch for their own novel that they've bled years of their life into.  A paradox, perhaps?  Who knows?

So there I am, racking my brains on how to explain my take on a hardboiled detective story set in a desperate future.  I may not be the first to write such, but I'm pretty sure I'm the first to come up with the name for it:  dystopian noir.  Patent pending.

Fortunately for me, the main character of my novel stopped by, smelling of cigarettes and Jack Daniels.  He took a glance at my dilemma and smiled that wry, 'take it on the chin with a grin' type of smile.

"Step back a sec, kid.  It's my story.  Lemme tell these mugs the way it is."

And so I did.  He had a point, after all.  So without further ado, here is the pitch from Mick Trubble.  Let me know what you thought about it.  I'll pass it on the next time he stops by for a card game.

 The Pitch:

Most people have issues.  I have problems.  Mainly two: I gamble, and I lose.  Badly.  So when a mysterious dame approaches me with a gig too profitable to refuse, I figure it’s the perfect opportunity to get the price off my head so I can get back to my normal life of hard drinking and skirt chasing.

The name's Mick Trubble. The letters on my office window say ‘Troubleshooter’. I guess when times were civilized my occupation would have been a private investigator. Times change. When people got nowhere else to turn, they give me a call. I do pretty much what the name implies.

I shoot trouble.

And you’d think that would be enough to keep me ahead of the game, but in New Haven trouble is waiting for you every time you walk out the door.  Sure the world may have basically ended in the Cataclysm, but in the Havens life goes on as normal.  I guess the word to describe it would be ‘dystopian’.  Because it sure as hell ain’t no walk in the park.

It rains every day in New Haven, and every night the dark and desperate haunt the foggy streets. It’s a melting pot of bad men and cool dames, mean gangsters and slick hustlers. There are secrets buried in the shadows behind sealed doors and the minds of high hats who won't hesitate to kill in order to protect them.

So when I take the dame’s case I’m prepared for anything.  Like being blackmailed, tailed, threatened, shot at, and forcibly abducted.  What I don’t expect are memory blackouts, psycho ninja goons, prototype synoids, or chasing down a highly coveted secret that just so happens to be tattooed on a dame’s missing leg.

Looks like it’s gonna be one of those days.

The Art of Staying Busy

Life as an unpublished writer can be filled with a lot of 'what do I do now' moments.  I remember when I 'completed' my first novel.  A large accomplishment, yes.  The impact of said achievement, however, wasn't exactly long lasting.  Once a project is finished, the Great Void opens, where the writer faces the Unknown, that vast wilderness of choices and decisions that awaits.

This is where many of us falter.

I certainly did.  Let's say you write a book.  You edit it to the point of exhaustion, to the point where you can't possibly do any more to improve it.  So... you send query letters to agents.  Submissions to publishing companies that you know have at least six months of slush ahead of your submission on the pile.  You do your research; try to hit the markets most appropriate for your work.

Now what?

It's the same with entering contests.  You work hard at your entry and get it in before the deadline.  Judging will take 30-90 days before you hear anything.

Now what?

I've had many a nail-chewing, anxiety-raising moment waiting for word back from a publisher or contest.  I've ghosted the forums, tried interaction with my competition (which doesn't work for me -I'm trying to beat these bastards, not befriend them), and waited.  And waited.  And waited.

Finally, my rejection letter/e-mail arrives.  What a relief.  Now I can get on with my life, move on the the next thing.  I've found it's not so much the rejection that hurts: it's the waiting for the rejection that does.  I decided I had to either change my tactics or invest in some serious ulcer medication.

So... I keep busy.  Try new things.  Explore new options.  I'm at the point now where I always have a potential rejection on the horizon, but don't waste time knocking my knees over its arrival.  Ever try short stories?  No, but let's give it a shot.  Ever worked on a screenplay?  No, but I see there's a contest, so why not?  Ever try self-publishing?  Doesn't seem like my thing, but let's experiment, shall we?

I stay busy.

As writers we sometimes get too attached to our work.  We clutch it tightly to our chest, recognizing its value, the time invested, the spouses ignored, the spare time sacrificed.  But in the end, those birdies have to fly or die.  I had to readjust, rethink, and change plans accordingly.  Constant rejection from my novel attempts made me look at my approach.  I decided to try short story contests for a while.  Get some recognition.  Something on the resume.  Interaction with fellow writers introduced me to the Amazon Studios contests.  I just learned how to format a screenplay.  They have monthly contests, which means I have something to do.

I fear nothing except anonymity.  I dread nothing except failure.  So I stay busy.  Try new things.  Explore new options.  Writing is only half the battle.  The other half is what happens after.  

The Lonely Road

Being a writer is very much a solitary occupation.

And that's not bad, because as a borderline schizoid I require a lot of inattention.  More than I manage to hoard, in fact.  Therefore I have no problem with the invisibility of writing.  I say invisibility because no one cares about the unpublished writer.  I normally don't like discussing my writing because the average person only listens to be polite, and can't wait for the conversation to move to other more relatable topics like Charlie Sheen or the price of gas.  They will smile and tell you that your stories are fantastic even when they're not, just to appease your ego.  After all, how can they understand?  You have to be a writer to understand another writer, and half that time that's equally frustrating because writers are crazy.  The status of the unpublished writer is even worse, because until there's an audience for your work, everyone naturally assumes that your little hobby is something that they can easily take precedent over.  After all, it's just a spare time thing, right?  No way that you seriously think you can make a living doing that stuff.

I live in a world full of words and phrases, of characterization and plot details.  It's a mad, strange, enchanting world that I wander in.  It's a world where I know characters better than real people, where I raise entire worlds from nothing and topple kingdoms with a keypad stroke.  Yet it is not enough to simply create without purpose.  This is where frustration slowly grows like vines to climb the walls of my contentment and remind me of my purpose.  I hone my craft like a student of martial arts, unable to leave the temple until I have proven myself a master.  And time is short.  No, time is infinite.  No, there is no time.  There is no spoon.  There is only I, alone with my words. 

I walk the lonely road...

The Introduction

And so I have chosen to collect my thoughts in blog form.  The reason is simple:  should I fall to the embrace of dust before I become a nationally bestselling author, this may be the only place where lemmings and zombies can gather to read my sagacious and avant-garde thoughts, musings, and ramblings.

And how could I deny you that honor?

A little about me since I obviously didn't leave much bread crumbs on my profile:  I am the immortal consciousness that resides in the shell of of one who eventually came to be known as Bard Constantine.  It's a bit much to take in and sure to be dismissed as inconsequential nonsense besides.  No matter.  I am a fledgling writer of books not yet published, and a bard of poetics that some consider somewhat talented.  I have been seriously writing for several years now, learning the craft through trial and error, through assembly of words in the hundreds of thousands, through slash and burn editing and rewriting.

I am almost ready.

Ready enough to enter the Writers of the Future Contest, where my aim is to crush the competition and bask in the undying adoration of the legends who came before me.  From there I will set my sights on publication of at least one of the novels I'm currently revising, and enter the much larger contest of success in publication.

I'm kidding about crushing the competition and all.  Somewhat.  After all, if one aims to win, it is always at the expense of the others who lose.

And I despise losing...