You

I know you’re out there. I can feel you being.

We’ve never met before. Perhaps we never will. I’d rather believe we can. There’s more to this world than meets the eye. We have computers, technology, industry, airplanes, astronauts, lasers, and legends. We have more. An ethereal energy flows through us both. It told me about you. Told me you’re strong, but could be stronger. Told me you long, won’t wait much longer.

I’m the same way. All my trials and tribulations have brought me this far for a reason. I’m a broken whole, shattered together; a felled tree, restructured for new purpose. I’m a phoenix fleeing the ashes and taking to the sky. Flying, searching for you.

We both know this ache inside. The one that visits when you’re most alone. The ghost no one else can see. The demon lurking behind you, and me.

Though this may be a test of mettle, I for one am inclined to settle. To cling to the best bit of driftwood I find and hope the tide carries me ashore. I was floating once, and then drowning. Now I’ve learned to swim.

I’m hunting for you in the dark of night, by the light of day, at work and play. I’m prowling, seeking, looking, peaking. I’m the wolf in man’s clothing, scrabbling at the door.

Just breathe. Just be. I’ll hear you. I’ll find you. It’s our destiny.

Keep waiting.

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Nightime Parkour with the Pixie

“Come on,” the Pixie insisted, “this is almost the best part.” She whisked me out to the front of the house where the guys in loose shirts and shorts were still piled against the door, and we raced across the street in a dead zone beneath a burnt out lamp like twin shadows. I followed her up the ramp of an abandoned manor-house whose disheveled sign labeled it as a former home for the physically disabled. The funding for such programs in Murderville had fallen through long ago.

The Pixie squared to a halt opposite the railing atop the ramp and swooshed her cape back the way most women flip hair off their neck. She placed her pink-gloved hands atop the rusted black bar and leaped onto it, then sprung forward onto the high fence that surrounded the property’s sides and back. She landed like a cat on all fours atop the fence and straightened up, taking a couple tottering steps sideways and using the branches of an overhanging tree for balance. Her feathers bent against them in a most amusing way as she looked back at me expectantly.

The hell with that. I thought. I kicked one long leg up and over the railing and stepped over it with a wide wave of the other leg. I bent my knees and arched my back as if preparing for the leap, and then just hopped down the ground and walked to the base of the fence where I could see up the Pixie’s rainbow skirt.

“You’re no fun at all.” She announced, and then raced along the fence as quickly as I could follow on the ground in my crocs. The top of the fence was a fairly sturdy two-by-four, but even still her balance and dexterity amazed me. As we reached the backyard she jumped over my head and skipped off the back deck’s wooden railing and landed with a purple and blue flourish in the center of the big old porch.

I walked around the deck and climbed the stairs and came to rest in front of her. The tiny pink fists on her slender waist could not have been made cuter by the scowl she wore.

~

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Hostile Takeover (Pixie’s Paramour Excerpt)

We entered the kitchen cautiously but found it quiet and empty. Three well-oiled money counters sat empty upon the cheap table. The counters and sink were covered in dishes. The cabinets were all closed, some missing handles. I didn’t care for the smell. From the back room I heard a round of laughter from the three guys echoed by tinny laughter from the studio audience on SNL.

“She must have gone upstairs,” the Pixie whispered, “unless she’s back there with them. What do you think?”

I shrugged, surprised at being consulted.

“I’ll go in full force and take down whoever gets up the fastest. You cover the rest.” She could hardly disagree with that plan. I crouched and edged along the wall toward the back room, the Pixie nearly crawling behind me.

I passed the empty staircase, and then I could see them between the bars of the wooden banister. Three guys, all from the market square shooting. The baby-faced scarecrow and the rugged runty bruiser who’d been at the bridge and a third guy who looked a little more clean cut and better fed and all around more dangerous. I held three fingers behind my back to let the Pixie know it was just the three of them. And then I waited.

The sketch on-screen progressed to a punch line and the studio audience exploded, surround speakers flooding the room with sound. The guys on the couch guffawed heartily, leaning forward with their eyes glued to the widescreen.

I stepped out of my crocs and stalked silently over the shag carpet barefoot, moving swiftly to beat the ebb of laughter. I reached the back of the plush leather couch and grabbed baby-face by his long hair and runty by the collar of his army-surplus jacket and smashed their head together three times as hard as I could, like a mad ape opening coconuts. They fell in a heap in front of the couch with a leathery whisper.

The blond guy with the crew cut leaped up and away from me, fumbling in his long khakis pants. He was swearing and shouting but I didn’t make out many of the words. I was too busy getting the baby-faced guy’s hair out from under my fingernails. I moved around the couch as the tough guy drew a balisong blade and flicked it open with practiced ease.

“You think that’s the good idea?” I asked as I stepped within striking distance. The guy was about my size but more muscular and looked like he knew how to handle himself, but I had the Pixie at my back.

His gaze wavered over my shoulder and then he attacked with a long low lunge meant to slice out my innards.

I pivoted off his center line and elbowed him in the face at the same time as my left hand grabbed his right wrist. My right hand joined it and I shouldered him back to the wall and aimed the lethal blade at his thigh with my two-on one hand control. It was the same movement I’d used with the shotgun. Self defense boils down to some pretty basic concepts; don’t get shot, don’t get stabbed, are among them.

The muscle guy tried to beat me one-armed for a moment while trying to backhand me in the face but gave up and tried to switch the knife to his other hand.

I swatted the balisong at its midpoint and it skittered away across the floor. I brought the same hand back and elbowed the guy in the solar plexus. He doubled over and I caught his neck in a crushing guillotine and pressed him against the wall leaving no escape. I watched his hands fumble for his pockets. They went limp before they got there. I held the choke a few extra seconds and then dropped the unconscious man on the floor and turned to see what the Pixie had been up to.

She twirled the butterfly knife thoughtfully as she stepped daintily around the couch and kicked the stirring runty guy at the base of the skull. He must have had a harder head than baby-face, but he went to sleep swiftly enough.

~
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First Blood (Excerpt from The Pixe’s Paramour)

Good evening readers! Both because I’m nearing the end of the novella and because page views have been way down recently, I’ve decided to switch from posting almost every day to every 2-3 days. As I mentioned before the excerpts will be brief but potent, and focused on making you itch to buy the awesome and affordable book that will be available in paperback and ebook format this summer. For anyone on Facebook following the Pixie, I would love to have your support at The Pixie’s Paramour Facebook Page. Thanks for stopping by 🙂

And now…

The Breach (Previous TPP Excerpt)        

~*~

“Get ready!” She hissed.

I flattened myself low against the outside wall so as not to throw a shadow in the peephole’s line of sight. I leaned in and put my ear on the door and my hand on the knob. The chain rattled and then the deadbolt slid out of place. The knob turned under my light grasp.

I yanked the door open and seized the short barrel of the guard’s weapon with both hands and charged inside, headbutting him in the nose and forcing the dangerous double-barrels toward the blonde on the stairs all in one motion. I changed direction and drove him against the wall, putting my shoulder in his neck and my forehead on his jaw and continuing to twist the shotgun. It wavered between his own body and the girl in the strangely lethargic girl in jean shorts and a white tank top.

“Hey,” the girl said sleepily, “who are you? Hey, help!” There was little energy in her cry, but she took a deeper breath and then The Pixie had her.

The guard let go with his left and backhanded me in the ribs. He was looking for space to call for help and he found none, and his hand went back to the gun to fire a warning shot. Too late.

I wrenched the weapon sideways and backwards with all of my force, breaking the finger in the trigger guard and taking the weapon away. I clubbed the guard in the temple with the remainder the sawed-off shotgun’s wooden stock and then soccer-kicked his head before it struck the ground. He slumped down against the wall, laying oddly straight with his arms rested in front of him. He would be there awhile.

The Pixie stood proudly next to the girl in the tight top and jean shorts, who appeared to have given in to her former sleepiness and naturally drifted off, curled up in the corner by the stairs.

The Big Cheese’s House (TPP Sequel Excerpt)

I tried not to laugh too loud as a rubber weight on a long nylon rope sailed over the railing. I could not fathom how she’d gotten ahead of me. I caught the weighted ball on reflex, figuring it must have an iron core or something, and looped it several times around two separate sections of the railing and held on tight.

“Come on up and find out,” I called, trying my best to sound like a goat, which wasn’t much different than my normal voice.

Within seconds the Pixie fluttered over the railing like a purple blue and pink butterfly.

“It’s not far,” I said, leading her over the bridge and down the first street, avoiding the spots of light cast by streetlamps as much as possible. “That’s the one,” I said as we neared Tegan’s house, approaching on the other side of the street.

“You take the north side, I’ll take the south.” She said, giving herself the more covered route, which made sense because of her costume. The south side of the house was lined with hedges and small trees that led to a small forest adjoined with other properties out back. I removed my leather gloves from a navy cargo pocket and put them on deliberately.

“Are you worried about fingerprints?” I asked.

“Not at all, boop!” She replied, tapping me on the nose. I noticed a difference in the texture of her skin. There was something transparent and rubbery stuck over her fingertips. I shook my head.

“Maybe I should call you the girl scout,” I joked as we parted ways.

We surveiled the house for fifteen minutes, checking the windows and doors from shadowy angles. I looped around the back and met the Pixie in the bushes on the building’s south side. The whispered tally was in our favor; A guard and his girlfriend with a sawed-off in the front foyer. The Big Cheese in the kitchen counting money, and three of her boytoys in the back room watching SNL on a widescreen. No lights on upstairs, no lights on downstairs, but as we plotted our approach the Pixie filled me in on Tegan’s criminal enterprise. She’d built a comfortable life off the profits of prostitution and slavery.

Filth.

I took a step straight toward the kitchen window. A leather gloved hand landed lightly on my shoulder – four ounces of padding concealing metal domes. I turned and the Pixie met my eyes and took my face in her hands. She leaned close.

“We’ll breach through the front,” she whispered in my ear.

Through Murderville (TPP Excerpt)

“Do you have a name?” She asked slowly, blowing air through pursed painted lips.

“Tegan Labelle is the-” I stopped talking because the flow of air out the Pixie’s lips expanded and then ceased. She straightened the utility belt concealed beneath her rainbow skirt and moved close enough I could smell her familiar perfume. She looked so small up close.

“Tegan Labelle is one of the worst sex-offenders in town,” the Pixie whispered tensely, “she runs a rape house out of the west end but I’ve never tracked down her headquarters. Are you saying you found-”

“Her home,” I nodded, “so far as I could tell she lives there with some guys for security. Guys I recognized from the shooting at the square.”

The Pixie took two steps away from me with the poise of a ballerina and then turned batted long lashes behind painted lids.

“How many guards?” She asked.

“Three, at the most,” I replied, “maybe as little as one. I chased two guys I recognized from the shoting there after an… incident.”

She glowered but smoothed her gloves and uniform, obviously thinking hard.

“You have a way in?” She asked?”

“I should be able to crack the lock, I brought a bump key.” I showed her the mostly smooth fresh key and file I’d already used to give it a few shallow ridges. I’d gotten a good look at the front door’s lock on my walk-by and done a little research on the lock’s generic make.

“Good,” she said, smiling approvingly and leading me to the arena’s east wall where the reinforced drainpipe stood, nearly invisible in the darkening night. “I’ll follow you from cover, you lead me to Labelle’s house. And try not to start any fights,” she added admonishingly as I swung over the building’s edge.

Following the same path Woody Mcrgroe had led me on for a few blocks, I turned toward the river early between two ramshackle buildings. I heard the odd scamper from above, the kind of sound I might usually attribute to a squirrel, but knew it was the Pixie in close pursuit.

I walked down the alley between the two brick flophouses, avoiding variously stinky and messy porches extending from the buildings’ side units. My crocs squished or stuck occasionally, but as I exited the narrow space my navy cargo shorts and a loose black t-shirt fluttered in the breeze. The humidity in the air had my hair curling more than usual, or maybe it was just anticipation. I threaded my way between cars in the barking lot behind the strip.

As I stepped onto the footbridge a strangely disguised female voice hailed me from below.

“Who dare cross over my bridge?” The Pixie demanded in her best troll imitation.

~*~

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Atop the Arena Again (TPP Excerpt)

Hello readers, a big thanks to everyone who has liked The Pixie’s Paramour Facebook Page. As I’m nearing the end of the novella excerpts will become shorter and scarcer, so to keep interest going I’ll be running some contests for free books or collaborative opportunities through the facebook page in weeks to come. If you’re a fan of the Pixie, check it out!

And now…

~*~

I resisted the urge to smoke through the pack of cigarettes the Pixie had left in her dozens of purses strewn across the arena’s roof. The soldier girl had never showed again at the gym, and after waiting half an hour on the arena I began to worry I’d come too close to discovering her identity, and she decided to avoid me. Or perhaps her unit had just shipped out. My mind raced in circles until a familiar voice hailed me.

“You look more concerned than a housewife who’s lost her pies,” The Pixie joked as she clambered over the arena wall. She seemed a bit slower than usual, but most likely she had just given up on being so showy all the time. Parlor tricks are only impressive twice at most.

“You on the other hand,” “I replied sternly, “are late.” We faced off on the rooftop, me in my green crocs and khakis shorts and an army-green polo, her in her usual costume of purple, pink, and rainbow. She planted tiny pink fists on her hips.

“How do you know I wasn’t working on our adventure?” She asked over her shoulder as she strode gallantly about the rooftop swishing her cloak back and forth.

“Because I’ve already decided on our adventure.”

She stopped and turned slowly to face me. Nothing moved except the breeze stirring her cloak and the feathers atop her mask.

“What adventure is that?” She asked sharply.

“I know where,” I said, taking a slow step forward, “and I know who. And I know how.” I took another step. “We can take down the crew that shot up the cops after my… incident at market square.”

“Do you have a name?”

Sequel to last Pixie’s Paramour Excerpt!

Thanks for your patience readers, I’ve had a lot of freelance work and other commitments commanding my time… but I’ve kept on schedule, and tonight’s excerpt will be short and sweet. If you haven’t read the prequel to this excerpt you can find it here.

~*~

I crossed the old parking lot on slightly shaky legs and beeped my chevy open with the FOB and ducked into the driver’s seat and dumped my bag in the passenger footwell. I fiddled for my water bottle as I got the engine going and drained the last of it and then dropped it atop the backpack. I pulled my phone out of the bag and pulled up my frequent contacts and called an order in to my favorite local eatery. After several swiftly exchanged sentences I put the blue sedan in gear and three-point turned out of the parking lot.

The streets were quiet, more pedestrians on foot than people in cars on such a nice night uptown. I drove a short distance north with the windows down, enjoying what passed for fresh air and the freedom of a functional vehicle. As I neared a traffic light I ticked my left signal on and changed lanes and turned early into the lot outside the only restaurant I frequented uptown.

The beat up old chevy chugged on worn rockers and grated horridly as the brake pads ground down. The long, low sedan shuddered to a halt in the last available slot outside the Grassfed Burger. Of course it would be busy. I shouldered the door open and swung my feet onto freshly swept pavement. A shiver swept up my spine as I stood straight and slammed the door. With any luck the line would be clear when I walked in, and my order ready, and I could be back in the shoddy if warm chevy and on my way home. Unless you cut little brunette was working. Then maybe I would sit and pick at my house-made fries and chat her up again.

I crossed the lot and pulled open the heavy glass door and found that the line was clear, and the cute brunette was on cash… but I couldn’t see a single free table. I sidled up to the counter and gave the cashier my best smile and told her my pickup number. She already had it ready for me because she knew my order – a grassfed beef patty on a gluten free bun, lots of veggies, no cheese, a little ketchup, a little mayo and mustard. I’d ordered it with fries and a fresh bottle of water and accepted the large brown paper bag and bottle while I dug in my pockets for cash.

“How’s school going?” I asked, knowing she was studying Architectural Engineering at the local University from previous conversations we’d had. I always went for the smart ones.
“Great!” She exclaimed, playing her role as cashier/server with her usual energy. “There’s so much work but I’m in the top fifteen percent and I love what I’m learning about. How are you?”

“I’m well,” I replied, paying her with bills and leaning on the counter while she made change, “just came from the gym, figured I could use the protein.”

“Oh nice!” She said, brown eyes sweeping the eatery for signs of arriving or leaving customers. “Where do you work out?”

I told her and bit my lip at the way her pupils dilated. Even some smart women like fighters. It must be and evolutionary thing.

“I used to kickbox,” she told me, leaning forward over the counter and drawing me in with deep brown eyes, “before I got so busy with school and work and-”

The chimes above the door jangled as a family of four entered and the cut brunette sprang upright, welcoming them to the Grassfed Burger. I whispered a goodbye and left while my food was still warm.

~*~

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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!

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.