Quick Update on The Pixie and Murderville

Greetings friends, my writing on The Pixie’s Paramour continues at a steady pace and I’m confident I’ll have it available for purchase on paperback and e-book by early July at the latest. I’m more than 75% through the writing process but I don’t want to underestimate the time it may take to pick a publishing medium and edit everything to my own satisfaction. Luckily I’ve already got a few advance readers in mind who will help me make sure the final product is as professional as possible. I’ve also found a graphic artist to work with and should have some awesome original pictures to post over the upcoming months.

For anyone new to my blog, The Pixie’s Paramour is a violent thriller novel that brings themes of romance, mystery, and vigilante justice into a short exciting book packed with action. You can find lots of excerpts from it as well as more information on Murderville, the city the story is set in, by clicking on ‘The Pixie’s Paramour’ category tab in the bar on the side of the screen.

I’ve already finished planning the remaining chapters of The Pixie’s Paramour and am beginning a basic construction of the plot and new characters coming up in its sequel, which will be Book II in the Murderville series. However if the first book is a big flop I might re-focus my energy away from the series. I’m starting to get as much momentum as I can behind Murderville now so if you’ve enjoyed the recent excerpts please show your support by taking a minute or two to Like the Pixie’s Paramour Facebook Page. There will be contests and a lot of fun stuff going on there so it’s worth your while!

Thank you for reading and showing your support!


New Location, Fresh Faces (Pixie’s Paramour Excerpt)

Stepping onto the mats felt like home, and I leaned forward as if to kiss the ground and rolled over my right shoulder, and then my left, and again and again in a continuous tumble that rolled me almost all the way around the outside of the mats. I sat still for a moment, shaking my head and flexing my shoulders and then reversed my momentum and rolled backwards along the same path, over my right shoulder then my left. By the time I found my original position I felt loose and limber and put my palms on the mat and pressed into a turtle stand with my feet raised and flexed to form a triangle. I took several deep breaths and then pressed into a full handstand and tucked my head and rolled to my feet to find myself staring at the owner of the pink runners I’d noticed coming in.

She’d been sitting in the middle of the mats stretching the whole time, and though I’d noticed her presence I hadn’t really looked. She had short auburn hair – a clear military cut – and a slender bone structure covered by the kind of lean muscle every soldier builds in boot camp. She wore navy trunks and a short-sleeved army green rashguard so any doubts I had about her connection to the local military base rapidly diminished.

“Hey,” I said, sitting straddled in front of her and leaning forward to stretch my back and hamstrings, “you new around here?”

“My unit shipped in a few months ago. Shipping out late September.” She smiled down at me, green eyes twinkling. “I was about to ask you the same question. I’ve been here almost every day for the past two months.”

“I was out with a sprained ankle,” I said, “and then I banged it up just as it was getting better.” I indicated the last yellowy green remnants of the large bruise on my shin. She nodded, leaning over for a better look in a deep side stretch.

“What’s your unit?” I asked, making conversation as I brought my feet together for the butterfly stretch, leaning forward to stretch my groin.

“Rangers, Special Operations,” she grinned, “if I told you where I’m shipping out to next month, I’d have to kill you.” I laughed. She did not, but the grin and sparkling eyes stayed focused on me.

“Well then don’t tell me ’till after my workout.” I quipped, and then she did laugh, long and musically and falling on her back.

“That’s the best answer I’ve ever gotten,” she said, still rolling about in mirth, “and I say that to a lot of guys.”

We chatted about combat sports while we finished stretching, and then I tucked my legs into my chest.

“Wanna roll?” I asked. I wasn’t asking her out or inviting her to somersault. Rolling is the most common term grapplers use for sparring.

“Sure,” she said, sounding surprised. A lot of guys aren’t comfortable rolling around with women on the mats. Personally, I prefer it.

She got up on her knees and I stayed sitting with my legs in front of me. We slapped palms and butted fists and then she attacked like a muzzled wolfhound.

The soldier shoved both my shoulders to get me rolling back and then grabbed my legs, trying to underpass my guard. I rolled all the way through the shove, backward over my left shoulder, freeing my legs and snaring one of her ankles at the same time. She fell backwards and recovered to her knees in the same instant, and we found ourselves back where we had begun.

“You’re good,” she said, and in the instant I might have responded grabbed my head with both arms, cinching her grip toward my neck for a quick choke. I tucked my shin and drove my shoulder into her abdomen and picked her up like a wrestler as I came to my knees and stood. She rained light punches down on my back and wriggled like a fish on a line.

“Hey, I thought we were grappling.” I laughed, spinning around as if to deliver some helicopter WWE finisher.

“I thought we were fighting,” she growled in my ear. I made as if to slam her and she squeaked as I set her down gently and flowed into a dominant position. With my body perpendicular to hers and my chest pinning hers and my left arm hooked deep under her right shoulder, she had little chance of escape. As she shrimped and scooted I devoted my attention to isolating her right arm in an americana keylock. When she defended with her left I hooked her elbow and stepped over her head and leaned back to finish with the armbar. She tapped quickly and laughed – no ego to bruise.

“Nice one,” she said as we reset and slapped palms and butted fists and went again.


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Meet the Pixie Herself

The Pixie pushed past a loose horizontal grate and slithered like a sea otter into the murky waters of Murder River. She swam beneath thick algae and dispersed trash, invisible to any passerby who might glance down from the bridge above. Her oxygen supply tasted tinny but it was plentiful and she swam strongly for the far shore, letting the current pull in her favor.

Her neoprene and vulcanized-rubber encased hands grasped the rocks near the shore first, and then her feet found toeholds. With the current ushering her out to the bay she felt like a climber perched on a vertical cliff. Her mask slipped above the surface in the shade of a large pine.

The harbor’s long strip of land jutting out into the bay was one of the few places in Murderville old trees still survived. The waterfront further away from the Pixie’s position had even more foliage, but no covert access to the streets. Long docks jutted like a jack o’ lantern’s teeth from the far shore where a dozen or more sailboats still moored. The Yacht Club was the last bastion of the upper class within walking distance of the downtown core.

She stepped ashore and stripped out of her drysuit, hanging it across one of the pine’s higher branches. The Pixie unfurled her cape and pulled her mask from beneath her skintight purple shirt. She breathed in and put the mask on, and then breathed out and became a shadow.

The shadow moved from the shade of one pine to the next, never unveiling herself to the overcast day for more than a second. She sprinted past the old shambledown outbuilding that marked the end of Yacht Club parking and rolled beneath the bushes lining their barbed-wire topped fence. She crawled on knees and elbows beneath the neatly trimmed hedges, keeping her cloak wrapped tight. The fence ended at a short cliff overlooking shallow waters.

The Pixie scanned the area behind her and then peeked up over the hedges. Nothing moved except a bag blowing in the wind, caught in a tornado caused by the angle of a city maintenance building.

She took a running start and leaped out over the cliff feet first. The bare tips of her gloved fingers jutted painfully into the gap between the last of the fence’s poles and its metal mesh. She swung in a skillful arc around the fence and rolled down a strip of grass to put her back against the maintenance building. She followed the gaps in its security cameras like a well-marked trail and scooted safely across main street and into a darkened alley. She progressed like a doe alone in a meadow, on tip-toe with ears honed and eyes on the swivel. No one barred her path until she made it up to the boarded-up old pizza place. She tried to remember the smell of their freshly baked crust and secret house sauce coming out of the oven, but the overpowering stench of urine and mildew kept her locked in the present.

Gluten/dairy/sugar free Chocolate Cookies!

Quick note before we get started, by “sugar” I mean cane sugar… this recipe contains coconut sugar. Onward!

Ingredients / Things you will need

1/4 cup canola oil or other liquid fat
1/2-3/4 cup coconut sugar
2 eggs + one egg white (optional)
1/4 cup brown rice flour
1/4 cup all-purpose gluten free flour (I used one heavy on pea flour and potato starch, if in doubt just use more brown rice flour)
1 tsp xanthan gum
1 tsp baking soda
3-5 tbsp. cocoa, depending how much sugar you use and how dark you want your chocolate cookies

1 bowl
1 whisk
1 spatula (rubber)
1 spatula (metal)
1 cookie sheet
coconut oil or other fat to grease the cookie sheet


Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit
Whisk the canola oil and coconut sugar together in the bowl until they are completely combined
Add two eggs. If your eggs are small or you want extra protein, add an extra egg white. Continue whisking until combined.
Heat your cookie sheet by placing it on your ovens vent

Dump the measured flours atop the wet ingredients in a slight sweeping motion, creating a dry island
Supplement the dry island of flours with the xanthan gum and and baking soda
Whisk dry ingredients together and then combine with sugary wetness below
Switch to the spatula as the mixture becomes too sticky to whisk and add the cocoa

Trust your taste buds add additional cocoa and/or coconut sugar until the batter tastes like it will make delicious cookies.
Spoon large heaping tablespoons of batter onto t in a well spaced 3×4 pattern
Place cookie sheet inside oven
Reduce oven temperature to 325 degrees Fahrenheit
Bake cookies for 8 minutes if you want a cooked but gooey inside, 9 if you want them more solid. Careful! Overbaking will ruin the moisture balance that is so important in gluten-free baking.

Let cool on the pan for about 5 minutes and then remove with a metal spatula to a plate or cooling rack.

Wait another few minutes and they should be cool enough to enjoy!

The xanthan gum is the most key ingredient in this recipe. Most of the other ingredients could be substituted out but due to the amount of moisture from the eggs and oil we need to keep this recipe xanthan gummy. Happy baking!

Meet Mrs. Swinway (Pixie Excerpt)

No zen garden is gonna’ move this mood, Boris snorted as he twisted the front doorknob and entered his small mudroom. The chief was up his ass about the shootings and literal pile of missing persons reports, and damn it… Boris always asked her to keep the doors locked. Even in the county across the bay bridge from Murderville, home invasion was woefully high. Boris unlaced his boots and left them on the tray and pushed through the inner door that led to their wide kitchen. He dropped his keys on the island that dominated the room and took off his coat and dumped it on one of the polished teak-backed stools and opened the fridge and twisted the top off a cold beer. He took the first blessed sip as he closed the fridge door and saw his wife coming in from the living room.

She was a slight woman wearing long blonde hair that hung artfully across her royal blue evening gown. Her deep brown eyes opened up to Swinway and made him feel safe in a way that almost made him uncomfortable. He had put something clever about that in his vows, something the more literary types at the station had helped him come up with. She strode around the kitchen island, high heels clicking and blue dress swishing, and put her arms around him and kissed him like it was their last day on earth. Fuck the beer, Swinway thought, leaving it on the island and embracing her so forcefully her heels left the clean tiled floor.

They broke apart after several seconds, or maybe minutes, and he set her back down gently. She wobbled a little on her heels and punched him playfully.

“How was your day sweetie?” She asked, picking up the beer and pressing it back into his palm. His hands dwarfed hers. She was fine boned perfection, the kind of woman he’d never even touched before he met her. “There’s dinner in the fridge if you’re hungry. I made you lasagna.” She leaned in and whispered the last word in his ear like a spell, and it might as well have been one. If the woman wanted Boris to quit getting all his calories from beer, she’d chosen the right treatment.

“How did I ever get lucky enough to marry a woman like you?” He asked, touching his bottle to the section of back her dress left bare to make her squeal.

“You say that every day,” she smiled, brown eyes sparkling.

“Not every day,” he asserted, “only when you remind me. I’m going to microwave a plate of that-” he kissed her “-lasagna. Can I fix you anything?” He always asked.

“No thank you dear,” She always said. “I’m going to lay down, I have a headache from my meetings today.” She reached up and massaged angelic temples with fingers forged from ivory. “I might join you for a drink later though.” She said, lingering a moment in the doorway.

Mrs. Swinway walked down the hall to her bedroom as Boris rummaged in the fridge. She closed the door behind her and paced to the Styrofoam head that faced her dressing table and mirror. Slowly and graciously she pulled the blonde wig off and set it carefully on the Styrofoam head. She ran her fingers through the short dark hair that had regrown since her last chemo treatment and massaged her scalp. A quick lay down would do her a world of good.

Meet Det. Swinway I (Pixie Excerpt)

I thought we’d spend the next few excerpts getting to know Detective Boris Swinway a little better. For anyone following on WordPress, I would super appreciate your support in the form of liking The Pixie’s Paramour Facebook Page . You’re the greatest!


The bells above the Cafe Doux’s threshold jangled erratically as Swinway let the heavy glass door fall shut behind him. He half grinned-half grimaced at a handful of off-duty cops he knew. They lounged in easy chairs with steaming mugs on saucers in their laps or sat in groups at the short shiny-topped tables. It was a regular police hangout particularly during the day, and the one café in town where Boris knew the staff wouldn’t annoy him. They knew what he liked, generally speaking: quick service and limited conversation.

Boris waited in line until the barrista’s flashy smile and ornately piled blonde hair were right in front of him. He ordered a Redeye and watched the young woman fill a large ceramic mug with Ethiopian Dark Roast, leaving room to add a shot of fresh Espresso at the end. Something close to a genuine smile twitched Swinway’s lips as he exchanged a folded bill for the mug and tossed his change in the tip jar. A Redeye had all the rich flavor of his favorite dark-roast combined with more caffeine than any single cup of coffee could offer.

Just what the doctor – or in this case, his stomach – ordered.

Swinway sidled to his favorite easy chair at the back and settled into it. He picked up one of the local rags and took another sip of coffee, glancing down the length of the cafe covertly. No one was looking at him. He stood up and took the coffee and the paper and ducked through the open doorway that led to the restroom.

Inside the Sweetcafe’s mensroom was Swinway’s slice of heaven on the job. The coffee went on the homely ceramic sink’ flat top, the door stayed locked, and he sat on the john and unfolded the paper on his lap.

The rag was suitably called the Daily Journal because most of the stories in it seemed like they’d been scrawled in a sixteen year old girl’s diary. Swinway groaned, wishing he had grabbed something better. The Journal would do though.

The front page had an old stock photo of the Pixie dodging bullets – literally dodging them. Swinway had been there. Few good photos of the masked menace had been published since. It had seemed like a perfect storm… Swinway and his last partner and a whole team in riot gear had a good tip on a big drug deal, and got there just in time to bust both parties. The dealer’s had some heavy artillery and the damned Pixie had shown up in the middle of it and danced through their line of fire and disabled the punks with the automatic weapons. The story in the rag extolled the Pixie as a hero, but Swinway disagreed. He’d lost a good partner that night. Sighing, Swinway read the story.

In a shootout that took place outside local Bar & Grill Emira’s police faced off against members of the Feratria Cartel. Two officers were killed alongside several gang members, and were it not for the appearance of the Pixie the lives of more police officers might have been lost. According to witnesses the feather-masked vigilante appeared in a cloud of sparkles and–

Boris shook his head flipped a few pages and found a piece by the same reporter about a “knife assault” at the same tavern, Emira’s. He remembered that call coming in, but no one got killed or even seriously injured. Some drunk had pulled a knife, and some kind soul had put him down and took some minor defensive wounds in the process. Not the sort of the thing that came as high as his desk, but again the article glorified the “unknown protector” who had saved the night. Swinway smirked. There was always at least a half dozen big men ready to brawl at the City Tavern. They were lucky the drunk didn’t get in a good stab, and the drunk was lucky they didn’t beat him to death. Of course the reporter made it seem like the Feratrias must have connections at Emira’s. They did not.

The mug still felt hot as he palmed the off-white ceramic and lifted it down for a life-saving sip. Whoever discovered coffee was Swinway’s patron saint. Besides, hadn’t the introduction of coffee corresponded with sudden performance improvements in the military? He might have read that somewhere.

Sequel to Yesterday’s Excerpt from the Pixie’s Paramour

I’m really liking this theme, and while I also like talking to my readers, I’m feeling like it’s good to get right to the gravy when posting excerpts. And in that vein, enjoy.


We crossed the parking lot with the stone and iron lamp posts and scarce cars that separated the back of the strip from the river. As we approached the footbridge I spotted the group of men in hoodies and old sports jackets. Five of them, all within fifteen pounds of each other. The biggest was about my size, the smallest still much larger than Woody. The silvered man at my side seemed loose and confident.

“Evening, gentleman,” I said as we walked up the concrete ramp to the steel-railed bridge. It was about wide enough for two people to walk shoulder-to-shoulder and they were all crowded around the ends of the railings. The biggest guy stepped out to block our path. I guess they picked their leader caveman style.

“You two crossin’ the bridge?” The leader asked. He was actually an inch or two shorter than me, just standing higher on the ramp. Up close he looked shriveled and lean like the rest of his gang, bred down to bone and sinew by a hard life and a diet of coffee, cigarettes, and beer.

“We’re walkin’ that way.” I said as Woody and I stopped just short of the leader. He was in front of his buddies a bit so they made a rough triangle, like the Flying V in the Mighty Ducks movies. But I wasn’t looking for a puck.

“Then you’ll be happy to pay the toll,” the leader laughed, spreading his arms and smiling back. My own grin froze.

“Of course, friend,” I said, pulling Woody’s twenty from my pocket and offering it with a flourish, “thanks for keeping the neighborhood safe.”

As soon as he touched the twenty I released it and grabbed the back of his neck and stuffed my elbow in his throat as hard as I could. I stepped forward and shoved his head backward with a twisting motion and sent him sprawling into two of his friends who made feeble efforts to catch him.

I glanced over to see the other two guys rushing Woody. Their hoods had come down and I recognized them in the lamplight – I’d last seen their faces as they pulled off their masks next to Tegan after the shootout at market square.

Woody shifted his stance slightly as they neared to put one ahead of the other and then raised and lowered his hands in a fluid motion and thrust both palms out to strike the first man in the chest. The blow carried such force that the lean young man stumbled back into his buddy and the two took off down the bridge. One of the guy’s who had caught the leader moved toward me so I sidekicked his kneecap and backhanded him in the jaw. Then he became all about helping his buddy, or maybe just laying on the ground next to him. I didn’t see where the last guy went.

“That was incredible,” Woody whispered as if in a trance.

“Woody,” I whispered back, “we’ve got to get out of here. You go back to your car and drive home. I’ll take the streets back to my place. Better if we split up. And I figure I don’t need to say it but-”

“This never happened.” Woody McGroe said with a twinkle in his eye, and smoothed his silver beard. Then he patted my shoulder and power walked back the way we had come.

“Don’t forget to grab your jacket,” I called after him as I pocketed the twenty dollar bill that had started the whole mess.

I took a moment to roll the two guys still on the ground into the recovery position. They seemed more or less alive but they’d been two of the older ones and I sort of felt bad. My elbow to the first guy’s windpipe floored him and his breathing was ragged. The other had a glass jaw and probably lots of previous concussions, by the way he went out. And I think I heard a crack when I kicked his leg.

Ah well. Hospitalization and rehabilitation could only do good things for them.

Glancing around and seeing only stillness, I took off over the bridge and into Murderville’s west end. The shooters from market square only had a lead of a minute or two at most. And I had a good feeling where they might lead me.

Excerpt from The Pixie’s Paramour introducing a New Character!

I walked the streets of downtown Murderville, restless and unsure if I was looking for trouble. I’d worn my sturdy leather shoes.

A car horn hailed me, and the unfamiliar vehicle turned the next corner and pulled over as I whirled around. The driver’s door of the tiny fuel-efficient coupe flew open and out into the lamplight sprang Woody McGroe. A short spry man of seventy with enough energy to fill three toddlers, he closed the door and beeped the locks shut on his FOB and pocketed the keys in his tan overcoat. He hailed me by name and strode across the intersection at an angle, stopping traffic with raised hands and a wrinkled grin. The headlights lit up his short gray hair and beard and his dark slacks swished as he stepped onto the sidewalk next to me. He also wore sturdy shoes.

“I’ve been wanting to speak with you,” he said, which surprised me. Last I heard he’d run a great campaign for mayor and lost by a narrow margin. He’d certainly had my vote, and those of most people I knew. If he’d been elected he’d probably be in office right now.

“Always good to see you, Woody,” I said, displaying my teeth in the best smile I could manage at the moment. “What did you want to talk about?”

Woody glanced up and down the street and motioned for me to walk with him away from the only other man visible, a harmless workman trudging in the opposite direction.

“You remember the self defense concepts we discussed?” He asked nervously, eyeing a noisy pub as we passed by. Woody practiced Tai Chi and his daughter was a highly ranked instructor in several martial arts. She had a business in a better place. Woody and I had initially met when I transcribed some video footage of him and his daughter teaching a seminar on the applications of Tai Chi for self defense. I’d offered my two cents and we’d ended up sitting down over coffee and becoming friends. We certainly hadn’t spoken in some time.

“Of course,” I said, “it’s like riding a bike, only much more instinctive.” I laughed slapped one of downtown’s cheap painted lamp posts hard enough to make it rattle.

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something related to that,” Woody explained, gesturing at a wide breach in the buildings that led to the river. “Let’s talk here, he added.”

“Go ahead,” I said as I stopped next to him in the open space. I stood almost a head taller than the elderly gentleman. “You can trust me, Woody.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” he said, sounding more like he meant very accurate anecdotes from friends, “about a group of men bothering people.”

The furnace in my gut that never fully faded ignited and I felt adrenaline seep into my veins on a slow drip.

“Well, I’m a good person to talk to about this sort of thing,” I said carefully, and then “where?” as casually as I could.

“At the footbridge,” he said a little guiltily, pointing over his shoulder. The narrow steel-railed bridge in question was less than three hundred meters from the spot he’d “inadvertently” led me. “Four or five men it seems, some younger, some older. They make people pay a toll or they won’t let them cross.”

Trolls. I envisioned casting them all in the water with broken limbs or necks. And then I breathed.

“You think they’d be there now?” I asked. Two clumps of dense foliage and other garden shrubberies still grew around the mouth of the bridge, because the city still maintained them. Because churchgoers and senior citizens and fucking children used that bridge. I felt my fingernails gouge my palms and unclenched my hands.

“I’m fairly certain.” Woody said. The word fairly might as well not have existed.

“I’m glad you told me about this,” I said, and turned toward the footbridge.


If you enjoyed this excerpt from the The Pixie’s Paramour you can read the first four chapters HERE!

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Top 5 Inspirational Works for The Pixie’s Paramour

I’m playing around with different themes and I like this one, however it doesn’t seem to have an option for displaying feature images within the post. I suppose this isn’t too much of a problem, since it still shows up in the link when shared on facebook… let me know what you think.

Tonight I wanted to share some of the fictional works that most inspired me to write The Pixie’s Paramour. Without these stories brewing in my mind from an early age, I probably would never have created a place as deep or dark as Murderville.

And on to the list…

5. A Clockwork Orange (Film and Book)
Although I only read parts of the book long ago and remember mere snippets from the movie at this point, A Clockwork Orange was on my mind from the moment I re-read the first few paragraphs of Chapter 1. For a long time the best way I could describe the novella when people asked was ultraviolent, and though I hope I’ve swept into other themes since then the original path laid down by works such as Anthony Burgess’ novella and Stanley Kubrick’s film helped give me the confidence to write something this gritty.

4. Heroes (Television Show)
Although not my favorite I always enjoyed this series, and in particular its underlying concept. In Heroes everyday people find themselves endowed with (or as it turns out, naturally mutated to have) super powers. The Pixie’s Paramour takes a different approach to the same concept. Rather than suddenly allowing people to fly or never die we see individuals choose to become “super heroes” or “villains” through acquisition of goods and skill. But the same questions apply. When you begin to consider yourself above the law, how far will you go? These types of questions are addressed in the later chapters of The Pixie’s Paramour and will be further examined in Book II of the Murderville series.

3. Watchmen (Film and Graphic Novel)
I’ve never read the novel, and I didn’t even think of the Watchmen movie as an inspirational source until a reader mentioned that it reminded them of that. When I reflected I realized it’s true. Although I only absorbed the core concepts and action sequences from this film, they are quite apparent in The Pixie’s Paramour. By book III or IV of Muderville I’d like to have assembled a cast of characters that, minus the flying machines and overly advanced contraptions, looks similar to the Watchmen. I hope to read the novel soon as I’m sure it will be an even better inspirational source.

2. Batman (early comics and television shows, early and recent films)
Since childhood I’ve been a fan of the caped crusader… you may have noticed some similarities between him and the Pixie. In her early development I even thought of her as a Female Batman, a heroine who fights crime using only superior training and gadgets. Since then she has evolved into something much more complex, but I can’t say too much about that. But I can say that Batman’s style of street justice and general attitude on crime has inspired a lot person elements for the lead characters.

1. Sin City (Film and Graphic Novels)
After seeing Sin City in cinema as a teen I bought the DVD as well as Frank Miller’s novel The Hard Goodbye. So much of what I learned from these works and from the subsequent film inspired the writing style in The Pixie’s Paramour. The gritty inner monologues, the unapologetic scenes of horror and the unforgiving scenes of vengeance. I need to read more of Frank Miller’s work, and soon.

And that’s it! Soon I’ll do post about the top five literary works that helped inspire me to this endeavour. Thanks for following along!

To read The First Four Chapters of The Pixie’s Paramour click on link provided.

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Romantic Excerpt from The Pixie’s Paramour

Hey Readers, welcome to tonight’s excerpt. If you’re a regular follower, let me know what you think about the new theme. I’ll probably experiment with a few more, I’m not sure about this one. If you’re new, double welcome to you! I’ll throw some links at the bottom of the post that you might be interested in. Happy Friday Everyone.


“I already chose,” I told her, standing and following her along the arena’s protected roof, “that’s why I’m here.” I stopped and rooted my feet. “Because you’re better than me at this, and I need your help.”

“Who, me?” The Pixie batted her long eyelashes and flounced about like a schoolgirl that had just received a compliment from her favorite teacher. “What could I possibly teach you?” She asked, striking her favorite Peter Pan pose with both fists on her hips and chest thrust forward.

I breathed.

“Don’t fish for flattery, it’s unbecoming,” I said saucily, moving a step closer. We stood within a few yards of one another in the middle of the rooftop’s open space.

“But I don’t know what you mean,” she said, ever the comic. “What am I better at? I mean specifically? If you want me to teach you I have to know so–”

“Alright,” I interrupted, and took a deep breath, then another. “Tactics, for one thing, strategy, escape routes… fuck, even fighting. How did you knock down that big ox with one punch?”

“Well it was more an accumulation of punches,” she mused, striking a pose with hand on chin and arms folded, gazing into the hazy sky as if lost in thought.

“Look,” I said, “if you have bionic arms you can tell me. I promise not to–”

“I can teach you,” she interrupted, uncrossing her arms and skipping the odd step, “but those are difficult lessons, especially the ox-felling. It is all movement and–”

“Well I’ve always been a difficult student,” I cut in, mimicking her stance with my hands on my hips. I’d worn a similar t-shirt and pair of cargo shorts to the day we met so she would remember me on sight. The clothes I’d worn that day had burned in my bathtub and then been buried in my building’s dumpster.

How strong are your abs?” The Pixie asked, eyeing me critically down her nose.

“You want to feel me up?” I asked in disbelief. Some women got off raking their fingers up a six pack, but probably not the type who killed criminals while wearing a cape.

“No,” she laughed, “I mean, can you take a punch?” She removed four small domed plates from the knuckles in her left glove. They looked like a glassy metal, probably painted steel, for they were the same color as the fingernails she used to pull them from pockets hidden in the seams.

The plates were about the size of contact lenses but given their design I had a feeling getting hit by them would be similar to a blow from brass knuckles.

“Sure,” I said, shrugging, my arms spread, “I used to–”

The Pixie’s sucker punch cut off my story about winning the occasional shot-for-shot contest in college. She leaned in and delivered a sharp jab to my solar plexus.

I grunted and took a half-step backward to distribute some of the force. It wasn’t her hardest punch, but she’d put all of her weight and speed behind it. I began to feel the woman in front of me might be mortal after all.

“Now try to hit me back,” she taunted, skipping back and forth with her fists raised in an exaggerated fighting stance. Her feathered mask fluttered and its tassels swayed to and fro. The rainbow skirt swished up to her waist showing flashes of purple-clad thighs.

Hitting her wasn’t high on the list of things I wanted to do right then, but I had asked for the lesson and my abdomen still ached from the sucker punch. I dropped into a boxing stance and shuffled forward. Feinted a few times and then threw a tricky double jab followed by my favorite right uppercut. My fists moved fast but carried little power; I was ready to pull back the moment my knuckles made impact.

The impact never came, at least not on my knuckles. The Pixie swooped around my assault with an unnecessary twirl of her cape and hit me with the exact same jab in the exact same spot.

I sat down hard and barely stopped the back of my head from striking the rooftop. My stomach clenched around my solar plexus and my lungs heaved, searching for air that was no longer there. Rather than curl up I laid back and let my body find its breath naturally. The pain left before my wind returned.

“See,” the Pixie grinned, standing triumphantly over top of me, pink shoes planted either side of my hips. “When you’re moving it can double, even triple the force of the blow. And with my little stingers,” she patted the pouch on her belt where she’d stowed the plates fondly, “and taped wrists and good aim, I can fell even the biggest buffoon.” She bent down until her painted smiling lips and masked face were a foot away from mine.

“Okay I get it,” I groaned, and then sat up suddenly and grasped the collar of her cape. She squeaked in surprise as I rolled backward and lifted my shins, flipping her gently to the rooftop and sinking my knees past her legs so my hips pinned hers.

She looked at me like she might take my eye out but did not struggle.

“What happens when you can’t move?” I asked, leaning forward and collecting her hands one at a time. She let me pin them easily either side of her splayed tassels.

“I can always move.” She said with a wink.

I kissed her as swiftly as I’d swept her. Her eyes closed and she kissed me back with electric passion. I’d never tasted a sugar sweeter than her lipstick.

She raked her fingers down my stomach, over the shirt and then under. The mixture of sensations sparked by her fingertips and the leather gloves threatened to overload my nerves. And then she grabbed my belt with both hands and broke the kiss and bridged hard and scooted between my legs and out the back door.

I rose warily in time to watch her wrap the blue cape about her slight frame in a protective cocoon.

“Movement is only half of the lesson,” she stated, “the other half is timing, and yours is terrible.”


To read the first four chapters of The Pixie’s Paramour click here.

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