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Through the Fourth-Wall & into Underground with K. Gorman & Mieshka

Posted by on Apr 26, 2013 in Authors, Fourth-Wall Friday, Guest Posts, The Indie Exchange | 1 comment

Underground - Fourth-Wall Friday*Splashing in rain puddles as I skip into Pioneer Square* Oh! Hi! Welcome to Fourth-Wall Friday everyone! Today I am broadcasting from Sunny Seattle because I could not get a visa so China so I could  hide in the shadows waiting for a breech into the Underground to follow K. Gorman and see where she goes today. I am hoping, however if I go on a Seattle Underground Tour today I may be able to hitchhike into someone elses “doorway”.

I was bent over a notebook, elbow-deep in various textbooks, papers, medications, small arms deals—everything that had accumulated on my desk over the past week. With strategically placed socks—clean socks—protecting my elbows and wrists from the hard desk, a heavy set of headphones dragging down my head, and a habit of accidentally swiping bits of debris—pen caps, highlighters, the occasional hairbrush—into the nearby garbage can, I wasn’t going anywhere.

The outside Kunming sun, which had previously been baking the washing-room tile floor, had been replaced by the drizzly grey light of cloud cover. My only reaction to the increasing gloom was to hunch further over the paper, looking less like a bird on prey and more like a chiropractic patient.

As an older Massive Attack melody pulled me from my dormitory room, the drawn-out rumble of thunder crackled lazily through the clouds. I stooped my head down, clicked more lead into my mechanical pencil, closed my eyes…

…and felt the walls open.

It was like waking up in a dream. Darkness crowded my vision, blotting a patch of India ink into the center of my vision. The cold came next, pulling the warmth of Kunming’s Spring away from my skin. I swayed, distracted by the mild vertigo that came with switching worlds.

The pencil and paper were gone. As was the desk and the clouds. The air tasted old, stale, and slow. Slowly, that black blotch in my vision bled out. I strained to see my surroundings, tensing against the continued chill.

Cracked and peeling linoleum slowly faded into view, along with a jagged line of dark and broken storefronts to the right. I glanced backwards to the light source.

More than 100 yards away to my left, a line of incandescent bulbs followed another line of storefronts away, its jerry-rigged wires naked and inconsistent. Between me and the lights, a grimy Pexiglas barrier protected me from a dark hole in the floor. The aluminum-pipe top of the railing gleamed with a dim yellow light in places.

Ding!

I knew where I was.

I was Underground. Not just underground, but Underground. The fictional city beneath my other fictional city. Although, as the cold pressed through my clothes, it was becoming less and less fictional.

Underground City

Original image source – Fotolia © Savu Razvan [ link ]

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Fiction and Taxes: Is there a difference? by Carolyn Moncel #indieexchange

Posted by on Apr 16, 2013 in Authors, Books, Giveaways & Contests, Guest Posts, The Indie Exchange | 3 comments

This post was written and scheduled prior to the event and tragedy in Boston yesterday. and while April 15th will never be remembered just “tax day” out of respect to the  author, who wrote a fantastic post, I’m airing it  with note and with both mine and Geoff’s greatest condolences to people of Boston and those with friends and family there.

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K is for KIWI!! Vickie & Kiwi Fourth-Wall Friday #atozchallenge

Posted by on Apr 12, 2013 in #AtoZChallenge, Books, Fourth-Wall Friday, Guest Posts, The Indie Exchange | 1 comment

Kiwi and me

VJ-001Today I’m in the green field behind Amy and James’ house, the two young stars of the Kiwi in Cat City series. While they’re cool, my favourite character is the magical cat, Kiwi, who was inspired by a kitty I used to have. She didn’t know how to shoot ice from her eyes or turn children into felines, but, hey, I loved her to bits. Today I’m really excited because Kiwi 2, the magical version, is taking me to Cat City. I’m especially thrilled because she is going to have to turn me into a cat! Meow! I’m ready to earn my feline stripes!

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Double Take Tales – #WeeklyShorts Review & a Recipe

Posted by on Apr 7, 2013 in Authors, Books, The Indie Exchange, Weekly Shorts | 2 comments

#WeeklyShorts No.6 – 2013 (No.29 over all)

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Charlie the Great & Queen Asrielle take over the Cabin (A Cat Reviews Man vs Cat)

Posted by on Jan 17, 2013 in Books, Giveaways & Contests, Guest Posts, Humor, Indie Projects & Promotions, Reviews, The Indie Exchange | 6 comments

At this point I think it is safe to say Man is not even close to winning … the cats have taken over, I am throwing in my towel (but I have it tethered to my wrist so no worries I know where it is Natasha), and with Charlie explaining not only his role, but Asrielle reviewed David M. Brown’s latest, a journal of such a disturbing nature despite the fact I laughed so hard I think I may need to get checked for a hernia… *shaking head* brilliant, bloody brilliant. So no liquidsyou have been warned.

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Leanne Herrera’s Intergalactic Kitchen Show! – A Fourth-Wall Friday Special

Posted by on Jan 11, 2013 in Books, Cabin Cooking, Dessert, Fourth-Wall Friday, Guest Posts, Indie Projects & Promotions, The Indie Exchange | 3 comments

Fourth-Wall Friday Cooking!

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Drifting through the Pages… Fourth-Wall Friday with Cynthia Hill

Posted by on Nov 30, 2012 in Authors, Fourth-Wall Friday, The Indie Exchange | 0 comments

Welcome to a Fourth-Wall Friday Night Special!

Tripping, I look down to make sure I avoid what I assume is a tree root.. wait a hose? Looking up I see a house.. OK wait… there is a close caption TV in the middle of the yard… with an easy chair, OK it is a Friday night special, popcorn? *a bowl popcorn arrives through a sudden mist* OK salt? The

The house is seemingly empty. This is never good.

No wonder I’ve been feeling so restless, so out of sorts. I look into the parlour, but no one is there. I never feel comfortable in that room; it’s dusty, musty, and gloomy. The windows are shut tight, with the heavy velvet curtains drawn across. The air feels heavy; I shut the doors and leave.

I decide to check the kitchen. There is still no sign of life. I peek into the pantry, with its well-organized shelves: tins of flour, of sugar, and of tea, wait for someone to need them. I look at the mixing bowls, the wooden spoons, and the shiny pans, and wonder how many meals have been cooked here.

I sit at the kitchen table for a few minutes, trying to figure out what to do next. A few minutes turns into an hour before I even know what’s happened. I’m at a loss: where can they have gone? I walk upstairs and check all of the bedrooms, but there is no sign of life. I feel like crying.

Then an idea hits me, and I go running down the stairs.

The library, of course.

He turns and smiles at me as soon as I walk through the door. “Wondered when you’d get here,” he says, his dimples as mesmerizing as ever.

“I didn’t know where you were,” I answer. “I’m so glad that I finally found you.”

“I’m glad that you’re glad, but you shouldn’t be looking for me.”

I feel my eyebrows furrow together. “What? Why not? I need you. Do you know how long it’s been?”

“I know, it’s been a while, but I can’t come with you. I’m not who you’re looking for. You’re done with me.”

I sink down on to the sofa, and lean my head against the back. “But I like writing about you. You’re my muse.”

“I can’t be anymore. Really, I haven’t been for a while. You know that.”

I smile sadly, and he sits down beside me, putting one arm around my shoulders. I feel safe, secure, loved. “I don’t want to leave, “I tell him. “Couldn’t I find a way to write about you again? A sequel… something like that?”

“It wouldn’t work. You told my story already, through Tara. I know you’re thinking about my side of the story, but you need to move on,” he explains, although I already know it’s true.

I gently kiss him on the cheek, inhaling the scent of him, and wondering if I really have to leave. Finally, I force myself to stand up, and reluctantly go to the doorway. “Goodbye Aidan,” I say, and then quickly turn away before I once more get lost in those beautiful eyes.

musical lines divider

As I walk down the hall I hear classical music being played on the piano. The notes draw me back to the parlour. The doors are still closed, as I had left them, but I open them, and see her, lost in her music.

I wait until she has finished, fingers still over the keyboard. “Hello Lillian.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, without even turning around.

“I’m beginning to get a complex,” I say. “Every time I walk into a room I’m told I shouldn’t be there. Let me guess: you aren’t my muse anymore, either?”

“No. It’s time to move on.” She begins to play again, as if she has already dismissed me. I walk over to the piano and place my hands over hers. She looks at me with dismay. “I loved him, you know,” she tells me.

“I know you did,” I reply.

“He was everything I wanted, even before I knew what that was.” She pauses. “Please, let me go now. You need to move on, and I need to be alone; I need to get this piece right.”

“You play beautifully,” I tell her. “I’ll miss hearing it.”

“You’ll find music somewhere else,” Lillian answers.

“I don’t know where to look,” I say. “I don’t understand: other writers only have one muse, why do I have so many of you?”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re the one who insists on changing all the time. It’s not our fault that you’re flighty.”

“Thanks for that,” I reply. “So where do I go now? There’s no one else here. I can’t find anyone.”

“If you can’t find what you’re looking for inside, sometimes you just need a change of scenery,” Lillian tells me, then turns back to the piano.

I start to ask what she means, but it’s clear she’s done talking to me. I shut the parlour doors behind me, and walk back into the foyer. The front door is wide open, so I walk outside, into the sunshine and sweet-smelling air.

Outside, I can hear the creek going by, the water rustling as it zips around and sometimes over, the rocks. The sun is shining, the air is warm. It’s such a beautiful day that I could easily forget the reason I came outside in the first place. I find a spot on the creek bank, and slip off my shoes, dipping my toes into the water. It’s absolutely heavenly.

I lie back in the grass, closing my eyes. Sleep threatens to overtake me, but, sensing something approaching, I turn my head to look.

I can tell it’s a human form, but the edges are blurry, the facial features unfocused. I can’t even tell if I’m looking at a man or a woman. It is frightening, and yet strangely compelling at the same time. It’s unearthly, and yet completely grounded in reality. He – or she – sparkles in the sunlight. This better not be some kind of dumbass sparkly vampire muse, I think to myself.

“You were looking for me?” the person (for I know that it is indeed a person, I just don’t know who it is) asks.

“I hope not!” I say, then, “No offense. It’s just that I can’t even tell who you are, or what you look like. I need more than that if I’m going to tell your story.”

“That could be a problem,” the person agrees.

“So who are you?”

I hear a laugh – maddening in its ambiguity. “Who do you want me to be?”

“Oh no,” I say. “This is not Pretty Woman and you’re not Julia Roberts; that’s not how this works. You show me who you are, then I write about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What’s your name?”

That damned laugh again. “Block. Writer’s Block.”

“You’re not funny.” I roll over in the grass, facing away from him… her… it…

“You’re being stubborn. You’re looking at this all wrong,” it says.

“I’m not stubborn. You’re being obtuse,” I reply, without turning over.

“That’s not the right word,” it tells me.

I sit up, and turn towards the misty, floaty person who is causing my blood pressure to skyrocket.“I don’t care! See what you’ve done to me? I haven’t written anything decent in two months. This is ridiculous! I’m a writer: I’m supposed to write! Would you just help me out here?”

It kneels down and puts a hand on my shoulder. “One day, when you least expect it, you’re going to look over, and you’ll see me – all of me, in such vividness you’ll wonder how you couldn’t see me before. And then you’ll write, and you’ll write, and you’ll show that picture to the people who read your stories.”

“You know I don’t go for this new age, feel-good stuff,” I say bluntly.

“Maybe not, but that’s the best you’re going to get from me. Stay here for a while. Close your eyes. You never know what will happen here.”

With that, it stands up, and starts to walk away. I watch, and as it walks, I start to see the sway of a woman’s walk, the curve of her hips.

At least it’s a start, I think.

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Inzared: Riding more than Elephants – Fourth-Wall Friday with L. Leander

Posted by on Nov 30, 2012 in Authors, Books, Fourth-Wall Friday, The Indie Exchange, Writing | 0 comments

Welcome to Fourth-Wall Friday

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Fire & Water Combined, a Sizzling Serial Story – Two Moons of Sera

Posted by on Sep 30, 2012 in Authors, Books, Indie Projects & Promotions, The Indie Exchange | 4 comments

Two Moons of Sera, a Serial Story by Pavarti K. Tyler ~ A girl born of water and a boy born of fire; ensorcelled by the aspects of the land and a war neither of them understand. ~ 

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How do you procrastinate? I support Indie Authors!

Posted by on Sep 8, 2012 in Authors, Books, Indie Projects & Promotions, The Indie Exchange | 15 comments

So this morning I looked at my to do list and sighed. I have a bunch of reviews I need to flesh out, graphics for my new Virtual Book Tour company to make, and ad campaign to create and make banners for and well, I just have not been motivated. So what did I do? I wrote a poem, I took photos of the frost that formed, and when my blogger buddy, Amanda of Living, Learning and Loving Life asked if anyone had a button that said “I SUPPORT INDIE AUTHORS”. I did not hesitate, just said SURE! Went and stalked some stock images, found a couple I liked, downloaded them, made a cool word cloud and here is the final version! ENJOY!

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