Thursday, May 27, 2010

Dara, The Oak King's Daughter speaks

Emily had some family issues this morning, so I, Dara, had to wait for her to allow me to speak. Emily sends her deepest apologies for the delay.



Hello, I am Dara, the Oak King's daugher. Emily has prevailed upon me to speak with you and share my tale. My father is Dairmuid, I only call him by his given name when I am angry with him. There is a new mage at court, his name is Tinne and he is everything my dreams could ask for. The first time I saw him was in the dining hall, he entered by the east door just as the sun was rising. He strode into the room on the rays of the newly risen sun. He is tall and broad through the shoulders, the light created a nimbus of gold around him. When he moved further into the hall and I could see him better, my heart stopped in my chest and I forgot how to breathe.

It is like that sometimes, my mother told me once, that the night she met my father was the day her life truly began. So it is with me. Tinne is all I desire. Even if I were to put aside the knowledge that he makes magic when he sings and harps, it is not his talent that draws me. Rather, the very essence of who he is holds me captive. A very willing captive, I might add.



Dairmuid forbids me to be alone with Tinne, he prattles on about me duty to the Oak Kingdom and how I must be pure so he can sell me to the highest bidder, like a prize broodmare. (my words at the end, not his). That assesment may be a little harsh, I admit. I know he wishes me to marry wisely in order to strengthen the alliances that ensure the security of the Oak Kingdom. In my head, I understand the importance of making the right choice for the benefit of all who dwell here. It is my heart who does not want to hear any talk about honor and duty. My heart wishes to have Tinne beside me for eternity.



We have managed to steal some time together, alone, Tinne and I. His kissed inflame me; I dissire to allow him access to all of me, body and soul. Especially my body, if you know what I mean. I have felt the steel of his passion against my quivering thighs and the symphony of his hands as they stroke my willing flesh. Tinne is the strong one; he halts our ardour before it carries us past the point of no return. I confess, I find his chivalry quite tedious. I am young and the sap flows hot in my veins. I wish nothing more than to quench the heat of my loins. To feed that fire until it burns itself out in the fierceness of our passion.

I vow by all that I hold holy, that I will find a way for us to be together in every sense of the word. And soon, otherwise I feel I will burst into flames.



As I said earlier, Emily asked me to share this with you. She is having quite a time keeping Tinne and I aparr until she demms the time is right. I am most impatient, both with Emily and Tinne. I''m sure that you can understand my frustration. Please entreat Emily to allow Tinne and I the pleasures we so desire.



I leave you know, and extend to you an invitation to attend the Mabon Ball within the sacred Grove of Oaks. I look forward to greeting you there. Keep in mind that Tinne is off limits to you or you shall feel the wrath of the Oak King's daughter.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Where to Squat

As a writer, one of the hardest things I have to decide is where my muse's words belong. Are they mild and for the general population, or here, where one must go through some extra layer of screening....I hope I have chosen right for this short...VERY short story.



THE END
By
L.J. Holmes

With a flick of her wrist, she opened the barrel. Carefully she removed the spent cartridges, letting them drop to the floor where they ricocheted off in all directions. The box of new bullets was on the table to her right. She reached for a handful, lining them up, sentinels of power, destruction, and release, on the coffee table in front of her.

For a long minute she stared at them, her tummy fluttering, her heart beat thundering inside her chest, her resolve, supreme. Taking a deep, steady, methodical breath into her lungs, she picked up the first bullet and slid it into one of the six chambers.

The sound of metal scraping against metal seemed loud in the deafening silence surrounding her. Her mind was empty. She did not think. All thinking had been exhausted hours, days, weeks, months ago.

The second bullet penetrated the waiting chamber in the barrel.

She’d already dispensed with six of the lethal projectiles, but was confident no one would learn of her perfidy until she had completed her mission. Her stomach muscles contracted and fluttered.

She spread her hand across the slight curve; wishing things could have been different, but accepting the reality of what was.

Her fingers shook ever so slightly as she placed the third bullet.

She would not think! She could not undo what had already been done. Retreating now was not a possibility because she could never again be the woman she’d been just a few short months ago.

The fifth bullet slid in with a bit more decisiveness than had the one before it.

The clock on the mantle bonged the half-hour. Thirty more minutes to go. She had to be ready.

Bullet six filled the barrel. She closed it with a soft, but final snick, placed the loaded gun onto the coffee table, rose to her feet and headed for the bathroom.

She stripped the bloody clothes from her body, leaving them in a careless pile on the tiled floor.

The shower cleaned her, leaving her body scented, not in spattered metallic blood, but in the rich perfume of her favorite liquid soap.

This was the part she had not planned for because she had not meant to get blood on the clothes she’d worn for the first phase of her mission.

What would she wear for the final confrontation?

Her closet was not huge, but it held an ample wardrobe to choose from. Should she dress in silk and satin, or appear as usual when at home, denim and fleece?

Comfort won out over elegance.

She brushed her long golden brown hair until it crackled. Laying the brush back on her vanity, she surveyed herself in the triple mirror. She looked peaceful as she pushed the pale blue studs into her earlobes. How deceptive, she thought, rising to her feet with practiced grace.

She looked around her bedroom, not allowing herself to see anything but her possessions and effects.

For the last four months she’d forced herself to continue living here, but hadn’t been able to feel at home here. That feeling had been ruthlessly taken from her, and nothing would ever give it back to her.

Flipping off the light she returned to the living room. In the corner sat her computer. She went to it, booted it up and then called her last word processing file to the screen. She needed to check it for spelling and grammar errors.

There were none.

Her eyes went to the clock above the mantle. She had five more minutes to go. She knew she should be nervous, scared even, but she wasn’t. All she felt was relief. Soon she’d be able to put it all behind her.

She went to the couch, settled herself so she was looking directly at her front door. Her belly fluttered. She ignored it, reaching for the gun. The metal felt cool against the palm of her hand. She removed the safety and waited.

The clock struck the hour. She lifted the gun, aimed the sight at the target, and pulled the trigger.


A 911 call by a neighbor had the police there within twenty minutes. The suicide and confession note she’d typed using her word processor was found blinking on the screen of her computer.

The note read:

In my bathroom are the clothes I wore when
I shot and killed John Latham earlier tonight.
Scattered on the floor of my apartment are the
spent cartridges from that murder.

Four months ago, John Latham broke into
my apartment and savagely beat and raped me.
Now I’m pregnant.

John Latham, a known and repeat sex offender,
was caught and admitted his crime, but the
District Attorney’s office reduced his charges.
He served EIGHT weeks for destroying my life,
and the lives of the other women he raped before
Me.

Something HAD to be done.

This child growing in my stomach carries
Latham’s seed. Living with the memory and
emotional death of what John Latham did to
me is more than I can handle. A child conceived
in that violence and Latham’s light sentence
were the final straws.

To that end, I determined that the best thing for
the three of us, John Latham, the habitual
predator, myself, changed forever by what he
did to me, and this child, who very well might
grow up to be the next generation of John
Latham, was to take our lives.

I feel no remorse for killing John Latham.
He was and always would be an animal
feeding off of the fear and harm of others.
I did what the law refused to do. I
PERMANENTLY ended the crime spree of
this sadistic beast!

I chose not to be found wearing the clothes
I wore when I killed John Latham because
I did not want to die with his blood tainting
my body.

I wish the Law had done its job, but since it
refused to, I had no choice.


Sincerely,
Senator Elizabeth Ann Morrow
Fifth District.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Tears on a Tranquil Lake now has a cover!

By Marsha A. Moore

I'm very happy to be working with MuseItHot Publishing on publication of my book, Tears on a Tranquil Lake. The release is tentatively set for February 1st, 2011. The cover art is completed and I'm so pleased! Big kudos to artist Delilah Stephans.


Being a cross genre work, fantasy erotica, means a lot is happening in the plot. A young woman is unknowingly transformed into a mermaid by a lonely merman and then perseveres to find true happiness amidst confusion in her new world, wooed by both him and a smooth-talking pirate captain. This cover does a wonderful job showcasing tension and action of Tears on a Tranquil Lake.

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Tuesday, May 11, 2010

And in this Corner is Doug

When Fire Hydrants Dream

I have been asked where my ideas come from. Because I have a bit of a quirky sense of humor, they can come from just about anywhere.

I live in a huge apartment complex that was purchased by a new owner about six years ago, and he has done back flips sprucing the place up.

One morning, though I went out to take my trash to the dumpster and on my trip back I noticed the fire hydrant right near my front porch had been painted sometime over that weekend.

Most fire hydrants are painted a blazing red, or a nondescript red...not ours. We now had fire hydrants throughout our entire complex painted to look like Dalmatian fire dogs...and of course mine talked to me, and began to tell me his sad story. It's a story worthy of sharing, so sit back, put your feet up and be prepared to weep long into the night:



Doug The Wishful Fire Dog

By L.J. Holmes


Meet Doug The Fire Hydrant, as you can tell by how Doug is dressed, he has fantasies about joining our local Fire Company. Problem is, Doug's hose isn't long enough. 'Tis a tragic thing to be a Dalmatian with an arrested hose.

He vowed to make his grow, so every time a car went by, he tried to swing it out and lasso onto that vehicle believing that the forward motion of the cars would make his hose grow. But so far it's sorta backfired. Look carefully at this picture. What's missing?

Yep...!!! The hose!!! The last vehicle he tried to lasso was an eighteen wheeler...snapped that little hose right off! Last time it was seen doing eighty down the interstate still lassoed onto the tailpipe of that beast.

Now tell me true, don't you just want to sit there and bawl a bucketful for Doug and his long gone hose?

So as you can tell, story lines can come from the most unexpected places and when I am minding my own business just carting a bag of trash to the WM dumpster. In other words, my muse is never sleeping...not even when I am sleeping, and definitely not when I am just doing the average things we all do.



Honey I'm Home!

I am thrilled to be here at Muse It Hot.

Recently, on May 7th, I did an interview with Roseanne Dowell on her blog introducing the writer in me and two of my upcoming stories.

I want to thank her for her generosity in letting other authors come onto her blog and be interviewed thoroughly so we new writers have a forum for letting the world learn who we are and how we write.

I have been in awe of writers all my life. The magic they create by weaving words together in intricate details that can leave us breathless and profoundly changed always amazed and impressed me. They are the TRUE stars of the world to me..all too often the unsung stars.

I remember in eleventh grade having a substitute English Teacher when the regular one was in a car accident. Mrs. Whitney came into our class and assigned GONE WITH THE WIND as our reading assignment for that quarter. I remember taking it home, crawling into my Bentwood Rocker on Friday night and not surfacing until I had read it cover to cover, Sunday morning. I was enthralled and in Mrs. Whitney's debt.

Since Mrs. Whitney opened the covers of powerful fiction to my eager eyes, I have avidly sought out and devoured literary genius. My tastes are fluid. I can gush quite eloquently about Glenn Kleier's THE LAST DAY and with equal fervor bemoan the loss of Mary Janice Davidson's King Al of the Country of Alaska.

I sorely miss Anne N. Reisser and wish she would write more books. I just got Charlaine Harris' latest Sookie Stackhouse book in the mail this week that I will read in one sitting this coming Saturday. I tried to unravel the mind defined in HELTER SKELTER and have a symbiotic relationship with everything I can find about Pompeii, and Herculaneum. I have a book of Magic Names throughout the centuries from all myths and legends that I adore and refer to quite frequently, and I will mourn Robert B. Parker's passing forever. (No more Jesse Stone, Spenser, HAWK!...Oh the tragedy of it!)

So here I am, joining the ranks of my heroes moving back and forth between the two sides of my new house. I am honored to now be in the family of writers that I have held in such high esteem for so long, and want to thank them one and all for giving me such great role-models to build my own Muse's voice upon. I hope I do you proud.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Meet Chloe Dunn from A Taste of Terror


My name is Chloe Dunn and I am one of the main characters in A Taste of Terror. Is that title appropriate or what? As if working in the E.R. wasn’t stressful enough, my author turned me into a werewolf. That’s right, you heard me…a werewolf! And to top it off, my maker took off the night he turned me so now I have no idea what I can and cannot do or what I should or should not do!


It was like Chas, that’s my author’s name-Chastity Bush, just looked at me and said, “Let’s put you through hell.”


But it’s all right. She did do one good thing and that was pairing me up with the sexiest man ever, Cole Douglas. Cole is not a werewolf like me, he is something called a Guardian. Yeah, I had never heard of a Guardian before either but woo mama, is he hot! Tall, muscular with blond hair, and emerald green eyes. I could kiss Chas smack on the lips for making me his mate. Cole is also a big time rogue hunter but from what he tells me, most Guardians are.


Things were heating up pretty good between us but again, Chas had to throw me a curve ball. It turns out the specific rogue Cole was sent to find and kill just so happens to be my maker, Logan Mahoney. Apparently, Logan has been going around town turning women and leaving them to take care of themselves.


But I am different. Logan wanted me for a mate and had been stalking me.


Want to know more? Well, I can’t tell you. What I can tell you is that you will not be disappointed with my story or any of Chastity’s stories for that matter. She puts us through hell but what happens to us in the end is worth the trouble.


I must warn you, Cole and I can be a bit naughty! But who can blame me? Cole is just too good to resist.


I hope you enjoy the story, I know I did!



Friday, May 7, 2010

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

I'm Pleased To Be Here

Hi all. My name is Kat Holmes and I just signed my very first contract with Muse It Hot. I am so pleased to be part of this wonderful company. My story entitled "The Lighthouse" has a tentative release date of January 01, 2011. This is a double bonus for me because my birthday is in January so it's a great birthday gift.

The Lighthouse is a paranormal romance/ghost story. This story is especially close to my heart because I have a deep love of Lighthouses. Everything from their history and their deep rooted mystery to their roles in modern nautical uses.

I want to give a huge shout out of thanks to Lea, our amazing publisher. I look forward to many adventures with you.:-)

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Hey, Emily here. Dara, the heroine of The Oak King's Daughter, has indicated that she would like to visit with you all sometime soon. She has some insights into why she behaves the way she does. I am in the process of collecting information on the Oak King, Dairmuid, as he would like to tell his side of the story as well. Exciting times in the Kingdom of The Oaks.

Til next time
Emily