ruction |ˈrək sh ən| noun informala disturbance or quarrel.• ( ructions) unpleasant reactions to or complaints about something: If Mrs. Salt catches her there'll be ructions.ORIGIN early 19th cent.: of unknown origin.
For a flash, Handsome's gaze roved over Jay's body and face
as if he was seriously considering his options. "No drinking on the
job," he said.
And what job would that be, Jay wondered.
"Are you a cop?" he asked.
The guy gave him a crooked half-smile. "Do I look like
Jay made a show of surveying him. Nice build, dark hair
peppered with silver around his temples, eyes sharp as black diamonds. A scent
of danger--Jay had a nose for it. The way Handsome held himself spoke of
self-confidence, but the vibe he gave out was not a cop's. "No. You look
like trouble," Jay said truthfully.
gibbous |ˈgibəs|adjective(of the moon) having the observable illuminated part greater than a semicircle and less than a circle.• convex or protuberant : gibbous eyes.DERIVATIVESgibbosity |giˈbäsitē| noungibbously adverbgibbousness nounORIGIN late Middle English: fromlate Latingibbosus, from Latin gibbus ‘hump.’
The man opening the door radiated a presence more intense
than a triple chocolate fudge cake. Seeing him up close, Denton decided B.
Maurell couldn't be called traditionally handsome--all his features were too
strongly drawn for it--yet the whole package together had Denton engrossed.
Sharp cheekbones and a prominent nose contrasted with sensuously full lips. The
heavy dark eyebrows and shoulder-length, lightly wavy hair lent him a saturnine
air, but his eyes made the biggest impression on Denton. They were as dark as
the deepest trenches of the ocean where the sun doesn't penetrate, and strange
creatures dwell. They also seemed to accuse Denton of unspeakable crimes.
Catnapping to begin with.
Eager to prove his innocence, Denton held Murry in front of
him. "I have your cat. He must have jumped from your balcony to my fire
escape. I found him sitting on my feet when I woke up."
Murry dangled between them like a furry peace offering for a
couple of beats, before his owner reached out and took him. Those eyes focused
on the cat for a moment, then back on Denton. "You fed him."
For absolutely no reason a shiver run through Denton, but he
heroically ignored it. "It seemed like a polite thing to do, and it's
daytime. I didn't let him get wet."
B. Maurell either hadn't seen Gremlins or had no sense of
humor. "He's on a diet." The warm baritone of his voice undermined
the gruffness of the words.
"What kind? If it's Atkins, all's fine--I only gave him
tuna, no carbs." Denton meant it as a joke, and grinned like an idiot to
bring the point home, but he only received a stony silence in exchange. Tough
If common marketing wisdom can be trusted—and who'd dare to
question it—I'm a failure. I'm supposed to be blogging, twittering, and filling
Facebook with outpourings of wonderful me. The problem is, I'm a grouch, and
social media wakes up my antisocial tendencies. Also, unlike Neil Gaiman, I live a boring life. All
the drama and action happens in my head—just the way I prefer it.
I've been writing—two-thirds through a trio of short stories
about a skinny necromancer with penchant for body piercing, whose new neighbor
turns out to be a (male) witch with a secret. I took a break from it to pen a
short story, which I plan to put out for free.
Short stories take me a disproportionate amount of time.
They require the use of a different set of writing muscles, and it can be a
challenge. Some are on the opinion it's impossible to tell a satisfying story
under twenty or thirty thousand words, but anyone thinking so only need to read
Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman. A Study In
Emerald especially blew me away. After finishing it I was saddened by the
fact that I'll never be able to read it for the first time again.
Oh but I should be talking about me, not blasted Gaiman. Another short of mine, Tomfoolery has stuck to
the top twenty of Amazon's freebie GLBT romance listfor over three months now. I'm proud of the kid—it gets
knocked off time to time, but claws its way back. Meanwhile Jo Myles' Pole Star seems firmly stuck in the #7
position. At least, I designed the cover for it.
Speaking of short shorts, and not the kind Kevin Kline wears
in The Big Chill, one of mine will be
appearing in an anthology by Cleis Press.
Sexy Sailors is available for pre-order, although the
release date is not till November. I think. Jo Myles has a story in the
collection, and I think JL Merrow too. I don't know who else, but it's edited
by Neil Plakcy. It's all erotica, not romance--you've been warned.
Next up: I need to plot my third paranormal story. I think
frogs will take center stage. Or maybe toads. Since Last Stop I've been writing plottier stories, and I'm still amazed
every time that I manage to come up with mostly coherent scenarios. Going on a
hike, away from the internet, and other distractions has proven very fruitful.
Otherwise I'm a lot like Lisa Simpson in The Book Job. It's one of the best
Simpson episodes in a long time, and not because that blasted Gaiman plays
himself in it.
Curse you, Neil Gaiman, curse you!
PS. This is the point where I'm supposed to tag my post with
Neil Gaiman, so all those innocents looking for him get lured into my web of
hairy man-love. I will refrain.