Will Wonders Never Cease….

Amazingly enough, a small press by the name of Gypsy Shadow Publishing has opted to publish my novel, Fortunes Told. It is now available for purchase as an ebook on their website for the incredibly low price of $4.99. Hopefully it will become available in print before too long.

This book took me about three months to write (minus re-writes and editing) and three years to find someone willing to put it out there, a story I’m sure many of you are familiar with. For that matter, it is not my first novel, but my third (hmmm….what’s up with the number three?) Falling into the genre of Chick-Lit, Fortunes Told is a story about love, best friends, relatives, luck, humor, and choices. Mostly, though, it’s about second chances, something I’m happy to say I personally know a good deal about.

Click here for details if you’re looking for a fun and sexy read. For those of you who purchase a copy, my many and sincere thanks in advance.

Happy reading!

Haiku# 30: My dog, the teenager

At first, a Mohawk
Then clothes, showers, chewing gum
Now, the dog wants bling.

Dead landlords, parties and movie stars…

My landlord has disappeared. I haven’t seen him in days… The truth is, it’s going on weeks.

I wondered at first if he’d merely holed up to escape the deluge of rains we’ve been assaulted by lately. Then other scenarios presented themselves. Was he sick with H1N1? Engaged in an illicit affair with a former Hollywood starlet now down on her luck and just out of rehab looking for a ‘real man’, whom he met on eHarmony.com? Perhaps he was hard at work on some top secret government, high-tech assignment. Of course, he could just be on a vacation, the spontaneous, drop-everything kind.

Then finally the truth emerged, coming to me as I slept. I woke up knowing with certainty that my beloved landlord was dead. Poor Frank, I thought. He was such a likeable guy! And when it came to being a landlord, you really couldn’t ask for better. And yet…

Now that he’s dead, I couldn’t help but surmise, that rent check I put in his mailbox last week will never get cashed. For that matter, my rent won’t come due next month or the month after that. Furthermore, his now empty house, so much bigger and newer than my itty-bitty little cottage, is just begging to be occupied. I could simply take over his lease, I figured, and pay for it with the rent I’ll collect from the tenant behind me, and the new tenant who’ll take over the lease on my place.

It all seemed so simple, so obvious… I mean, times are lean. You’ve got to grab hold of opportunities when they present themselves, right? It was what Frank would have wanted, I was sure. I smiled through my tears of grief.

I wasted no time moving into Frank’s house. “You take that room,” I told my son. “And Mugsy can sleep there.” I pointed to a large empty corner near a window. “And if you want to play video games or listen to music, you can go into that room there and shut the door, so I won’t have to hear you.” In our itty-bitty cottage, there was no real privacy or solitude to be had. “Let’s have a party!” he suggested, and for once I agreed with him. Why not? I thought.

We each invited a few friends, but somehow the word got out that a party was going on and became exaggerated in the process; rumors spread fast that wild sex and an unlimited supply of booze and drugs were to be had. Before long the place was packed, and I was scrambling to keep snack bowls and drink glasses filled – thank goodness Frank had a liberally stocked liquor cabinet – when I looked up to see Charlie Sheen walk through the door. I watched in amazement as he made himself at home, chatting casually with people I’d never met before. Within the hour he had two beautiful women on each arm and the mirror in the guest bathroom had mysteriously disappeared. Music blasted from the stereo and my son was standing on top of the dining room table in his underwear singing Karaoke to a ‘Disturbed’ song. The alcohol had almost run out and I was just thinking that was probably a good thing when the sound of blaring sirens invaded the street and parked in front of our door.

An officer charged in. “Whose house is this?” he demanded. None of the strangers seemed to know, and thankfully no one who actually knew me spoke up either. The officer herded us all out though the front door with warnings to go home immediately or be charged with disrupting the peace, and locked the door behind us. My son and I skulked back to our itty-bitty little cottage and collapsed into our itty-bitty little beds, where I tossed and turned till dawn, then finally got up and made myself a cup of coffee and turned on my computer. Checking my email, I was aghast to see a message from my landlord. “Something came up and I had to leave town suddenly,” it said. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning, hope all is well there!”

Groaning, I quickly tossed a few cleaning supplies into a bucket, threw a bathrobe over my skimpy nightgown and headed into Frank’s back yard, where I propped a ladder against his bathroom window. Carefully, I pried off the screen, pushing open the window he’d left slightly ajar. As I descended head first toward the tile floor, I heard a rustling sound, followed by soft, rhythmical snores. I froze in my handstand, my feet still jutting out the window. Who could it be? I gently dropped onto my hands and knees and crawled slowly out of the bathroom in the direction of the sounds. As I rounded the corner to the back bedroom, I caught sight of a blanketed figure curled up on the floor in a fetal position. I moved closer until I could see a face. It was Charlie Sheen!

As I got to my feet he stirred, then stretched his arms over his head and yawned. His eyes opened and he met my gaze. He yawned again, accustomed it would seem to waking up in strange places in the presence of strange women. “Where am I?” he whispered.

I swallowed hard. “There was a party last night,” I began. “I guess you must have passed out.”

He nodded and closed his eyes again. When he opened them, he seemed to take in my scantily clad appearance for the first time. He sat up. “Did we, you know, do it?” he asked.

I didn’t hesitate for a second. “Twice,” I replied. “You said I was the best you ever had.”

He frowned slightly and scratched his head. Before he could say anything else, I plowed forward. “You also read my screenplay. You said it’s fantastic. Actually, I believe ‘stupendous’ was the word you used. You said you can’t wait to produce it.”

“I did?” he asked. I nodded in reply.

He studied me for a moment, then threw the blanket aside and got to his feet. Stark naked, he walked over to me. His bewildered expression softened as he pushed the thin fabric of my robe over my shoulders.

As it fell to the floor, I considered my options. Time was running out.

Charlie pulled me close, his mouth hovering over mine. I closed my eyes, quivering in anticipation of the moment. What the hell? I thought, throwing caution to the wind.

My voice sultry with desire, I whispered in his ear. “What a shame you’ve got that important meeting to go to this morning.”

His eyebrows knit together as he struggled to make sense of my words. “I do?” he said. “What kind of meeting?”

“You didn’t say,” I replied. “But I seem to recall the name Steven Spielberg.”

He nodded his head and sighed, as if it were all coming back to him. Was it possible he actually did have a meeting with Spielberg today? I scampered over to the pile of clothes on the floor, scooped them up and pressed them into his arms. “While you’re getting dressed,” I said, “I’ll just run and get that screenplay.”

I started for the door then turned back around. “Can I get you a cup of coffee for the road?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “I never touch the stuff.”

Snip

I started small
Just an inch or two

It felt good so I asked for more

Keep going, I said
Are you sure? He asked
I need it, I said

Please continue

So he did and
I felt myself
Growing lighter

My heart beating faster
My breath coming quicker
Gazing in wonder as
He worked his magic

So many years in the making

With every successive
Touch of his hand
I moaned louder still

Take it off! I begged
Off it came

Cascading
Onto the floor

The whole thing was over
In a matter of minutes
Though the memory is
With me still

Every time I look
In the mirror

I can see his face
Smell his cologne
And hear the sound
He made

Snip
Snip
Snip …

As he expertly
Cut my hair

Move over, Veronica Lake (ie, Is that seat taken? I’m exhausted!)

The other day I went to the property management company to pay my rent. I handed my check to one of their part-time employees. Albert is a struggling photographer with his own business but does odd jobs on the side to pay the bills. As I was preparing to leave, he called out my name. When I turned around, he surprised me by asking me if he could photograph me sometime. “I find you beautiful,” he said.

The last time a stranger said something like that to me, I was 18 years old and flying to France. He was from Syria and had a name I forget, but it sounded a lot like Sirhan Sirhan. I’m 44 now, and Albert is far from exotic, but he did seem sincere. So after scanning the room carefully for lurking 18 year olds and assuring myself there weren’t any, I narrowed my eyes and gave him “the look” (the one that says, “If you have lascivious thoughts in mind, faget about it!”)

“What do you think?” He asked.

I got right to the point. “With my clothes on, of course,” I said.

He confirmed it

That settled, I asked the next obvious question. “Would I get paid?”

“A bit,” he said. He explained that every time the photo is used, I’d get a percentage.

“Think about it,” he said. “You can let me know.”

I said I would. Then I went home and looked in the mirror. The closest I’ve ever come to being photographed by someone who actually makes money with their camera is having my picture taken every year in grade school by a guy with a squeaky toy. I figured I’d practice a bit, so I styled my hair, touched up my makeup, styled my hair some more, and pretended I was Veronica Lake. Two hours and 145 crap digital pictures later to get 2 that I considered acceptable, (ie, somewhat flattering), I was done.

Do I look 18???

Am I on my way to France? Is your name Sirhan Sirhan??

I’m not likely to threaten Ms. Lake’s legacy as one of the all-time most photogenic beauties America has ever produced.  It was kind of fun, however, to vamp it up a bit, even though my sole appreciative audience consisted of, well, me. But if today’s session was any indication, I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a photographer’s model. I mean, really, a little posing goes a long way. My hair is killing me…!