My Interview with Sonya Clark
Sonya Clark interviewed me about Rogue’s Curse. Come see! Come see! I express my undying love for maenads and all things Michelle Forbes.
The “Name Your Pet Clovort” Contest
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| Peaches |
Rogue’s Curse is available for download at Lyrical Press and Amazon.com, but I’m itching to email one shiny copy to someone. This is my first contest, so I’ll make it simple. And no, I’m not giving away a pet clovort. That would be illegal. Clovorts are nasty monsters with a taste for human flesh. They’ll eat anyone—and I mean ANYONE—which makes them efficient disposals of homicidal evidence. So yes, they come in handy. But no, you can’t have mine.
What does a clovort look like? Well, Oompus is the first clovort you’ll meet in Rogue’s Curse. He stands 8 feet tall and weighs 600 pounds. Here’s an excerpt describing his entrance:
“The clovort’s bull-like head quivered and his lips parted, revealing jagged yellow teeth. His face was bumpy, as if layered over solid bedrock. His bare, squat legs rippled with muscle at the calf, but were fleshy and gelatinous at the thigh. Oompus’s hoofed feet, obscured by long ankle hair, clopped against the floor, barely supporting the extraordinary weight of his naked frame.”
Cute, huh? Here’s how to enter the drawing:
STEP ONE: Comment on this blog post with an answer to “What would you name your pet clovort?”
STEP TWO: “Follow” or “Like” me on at least one of these:
If you already do, then you’ve already completed this step.
That’s it. I may even use your pet clovort’s name in the sequel to Rogue’s Curse. You can comment as many times as you’d like, but you only get one entry. If you’re feeling creative, tell me who you might feed to a clovort, how you would dress it, etc.
On Monday, September 13th, I’ll throw all your names in a big imaginary top-hat. Either my pet clovort or my six-year old daughter will pull one out. Completely random. I’ll announce the winner the same day. You tell me what format you want the eBook in and I’ll email it to you.
Thanks, and please spread the word!
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The Shoe Fashionista in 101 Words
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| Yes, this is Jo Anna’s actual foot. |
Jo Anna Guerra: shoe fashionista by day, writer by night. You can find her at http://saiaandchago.blogspot.com/. Go check her out. Wonderful mom and a great writer.
And If you’re looking for “Hardcore Jo Anna,” visit her hilarious blog: Digressions of a Mad Lesbian.
She contributed the most to my 101-Word Daily Stupor. And instead of digging through the comments, I thought I’d share her lovelies here. Every story is 101 words, and she used all three keywords in each one.
And If you’re looking for “Hardcore Jo Anna,” visit her hilarious blog: Digressions of a Mad Lesbian.
She contributed the most to my 101-Word Daily Stupor. And instead of digging through the comments, I thought I’d share her lovelies here. Every story is 101 words, and she used all three keywords in each one.
Enjoy!
YOU SHOULDN’T BE PARADING AROUND LIKE THAT
(Keywords: Clarinet, Wrestling, Eskimo)
They sat on the curb, arm in arm. Pinky toes wrestling on the asphalt. The sun warmed their glistening summer skin like the sugar-toasted top on a perfect crème brulee. They could hear the music blaring. Just around the corner the crowd began to stand. They leaned in at exactly the same moment to take a bite of the Eskimo Pie. Their eyes met. Their foreheads bumped. The flag girls swept by, followed swiftly by the flutes and clarinets, humming and buzzing right into their moment. The world stopped spinning. The ice cream puddled at their feet. And then they kissed.
PRETTY PRANCING PONIES
(Keywords: Umbrella, Inebriated, Carousel)
When she asked me to dance, I immediately refused. My eyes shifted towards the floor. I stared at my gorgeous Manolos. Ooh, is that a scuffmark? I shuffled my feet. Admired my new pedicure. Then tossed my hair in that open invitation way that all girly-girls seem to know from birth…or three, when your locks are actually tossable. But when I looked up again, she was already walking away, making her way to the next pretty pony on the carousel. And they glided onto the dancefloor, circling the room in inebriated waves and swirls, like Chinatown umbrellas. And I couldn’t breathe.
AUGUST IS AWARE THAT IT’S NOT SEPTEMBER
(Keywords: Gobble, Milk, September)
August is National Breastfeeding Awareness Month, which really has nothing to do with September, except that it happens to be the month prior. But August is also Cataract Awareness, Children’s Eye Health & Safety, Eye Injury Prevention, Immunization Awareness, Medic Alert, Pain Awareness, Psoriasis Awareness, and Spinal Muscular Atrophy Awareness Month. Who the hell knew? And does anyone really care? Because for 30 days we can all feign enough interest, gobble up the mass distribution of regurgitated info, and allow La Leche League to preach from their breast-vs-bottled milk soapbox, but then it’s another month. And what was the point?
August is National Breastfeeding Awareness Month, which really has nothing to do with September, except that it happens to be the month prior. But August is also Cataract Awareness, Children’s Eye Health & Safety, Eye Injury Prevention, Immunization Awareness, Medic Alert, Pain Awareness, Psoriasis Awareness, and Spinal Muscular Atrophy Awareness Month. Who the hell knew? And does anyone really care? Because for 30 days we can all feign enough interest, gobble up the mass distribution of regurgitated info, and allow La Leche League to preach from their breast-vs-bottled milk soapbox, but then it’s another month. And what was the point?
EATS SHOOTS AND LEAVES FOR THE GOLDEN COAST
(Keywords: Ink, Hamburger, Koala)
Driving up El Camino Real through San Mateo County, you can’t help but notice an inordinate number of eucalyptus trees majestically lining the sides of the road. Their trunks stretching up through the soft, wet blanket of fog, branches reaching, leaves pleading, trying desperately to find their way back home. And you wonder, how the hell did you get here, in this place with no koalas without zoo parking? You with your fibrous shedding bark. Your fragrant healing oils that flow like ink and smell like rain. Australia is worlds away from California. Oooh, look, an In-and-Out, who wants a hamburger?
Driving up El Camino Real through San Mateo County, you can’t help but notice an inordinate number of eucalyptus trees majestically lining the sides of the road. Their trunks stretching up through the soft, wet blanket of fog, branches reaching, leaves pleading, trying desperately to find their way back home. And you wonder, how the hell did you get here, in this place with no koalas without zoo parking? You with your fibrous shedding bark. Your fragrant healing oils that flow like ink and smell like rain. Australia is worlds away from California. Oooh, look, an In-and-Out, who wants a hamburger?
O-S-C-A-R M-A-Y-E-R
(Keywords: Bologna, Crater, Abstain)
He stood before the bathroom mirror. His mother’s make-up lights glaring at him unflatteringly, making him squint and illuminating the craters mapping the topography of his adolescent face. The peach fuzz above his upper lip, which had begun to tremble slightly, glistened as the tiny beads of sweat pooled at the corners of his mouth. Abstain? he thought. He unbuttoned his jeans and slid his hand inside. I can’t even get her to look at me. He wiggled his fingers, searching, reaching. What’s wrong with me? And he pulled out the wad of rolled bologna and flung it onto the floor.
CROUCHING AESTHETICIAN, HIDDEN DOMINATRIX
(Keywords: Fungus, Pencil, Brazilian)
“What I do for you?” she yells, straddling her pedicure stool, pencil behind one ear, and up to her elbow in other people’s fungus.
“Oh, I just need a wax,” I said, kinda whispering that last word, which you only ever do when you’re not talking eyebrows.
“Your lip?” she yells back. All heads turn toward me.
“Well, no,” I respond, self-consciously raising my hand over my mouth. Heads volley back to her.
“Arms? Legs? Back?” she yells again, eyeing me up and down.
“No. No. And no, thanks.”
“Ooooh,” she says with a sadistic gleam in her eye. “Brazilian!!”
“What I do for you?” she yells, straddling her pedicure stool, pencil behind one ear, and up to her elbow in other people’s fungus.
“Oh, I just need a wax,” I said, kinda whispering that last word, which you only ever do when you’re not talking eyebrows.
“Your lip?” she yells back. All heads turn toward me.
“Well, no,” I respond, self-consciously raising my hand over my mouth. Heads volley back to her.
“Arms? Legs? Back?” she yells again, eyeing me up and down.
“No. No. And no, thanks.”
“Ooooh,” she says with a sadistic gleam in her eye. “Brazilian!!”
MOCCA-CHOCOLATA-YAYA
(Keywords: Marmalade, Potent, Hypnotic)
Voulez-vous coucher avec mois ce soi? wails Lady Marmalade, as the strobe lights flash in epileptic waves of hypnotic bumps and grinds. [What does it even mean?] She twirls and raises her hands towards the exposed ceiling pipes. [The speaking French, that’s totally hot.] She shimmies her shoulders and runs her hands through her hair. [And she obviously wants to do him.] She shakes her head to the potent rhythm as the fog oozes onto the floor. [But she’s a hooker.] The stranger behind her thrusting his hips into her as she instinctively pushes back. [What’s so sexy about that?]
THE OPTOMETRYST
(Keywords: Bagel, Optometrist, District)
When I walked into her office, I should’ve known what to expect. But she came highly recommended by four friends who I would definitely let buy my lingerie in the dark. “I. M. URS, OPTOMETRIST,” read the goldleaf letters on the beveled glass door. I rolled my eyes, cursed my BFFs under my breath, shoved the bagel in my mouth, and gently squeezed the tacky brass handle. The room was heavily incensed, almost as much as I was, and if I wasn’t already positive that I was nowhere near the red light district, the pow-chicka-wow-wow décor almost certainly belied that truth.
ROOM TO BREATHE
(Keywords: Counterfeit, Frog, Dirigible)
She blew out the last of her air bubbles, sat flat at the bottom of the pool, and looked up at the glassy counterfeit sky ten feet above. The ripples across the water looked like dancing hula-hoops. Or else the 7 concentric circles of Hell. She wasn’t really sure. Her lungs began to tighten and burn. A yellowgreen frog float slowly sailed overhead casting an intimidating shadow on the pool floor like a German dirigible at twilight. She swallowed what breath remained. Her heartbeat pounding now behind her eyeballs. Trying desperately to drown out the muffled sounds of her mother’s screams.
LIKE A TIGER FROM A TOP HAT
(Keywords: Boisterous, Abracadabra, Golf)
The view from the 18th hole of Half Moon Bay Golf Links is neither easily described nor easily forgotten. Standing tall amongst the cypress, hunched over and scraggly, like wise ancient women, beside the white tees, of course, driver in place, squinting against the sun so jealousy enveloped by the clouds. Surrounded, by sight and sound and smell, on the one side by nothing but water. Boisterous oceanic waves. Cliffs. Sky. Fog. And then…you swing. And it’s a magical moment. A moment that just hangs in utter silence. True suspension of disbelief. And it just disappears. The very definition of abracadabra.
FRIDAY IS FOR FOREPLAY
(Keywords: Scone, Linebacker, Aphrodisiac)
Saturday mornings are the aphrodisiac of Sunday.
Time slows down somehow between the hours of 5 and 9am. The sun rises later. The air stays crisper longer. The sheets and blankets are suddenly the perfect combination of coolness, softness, and weight. The comforting smell of warm nutty coffee and sweet blueberry scones wafts over the entire neighborhood.
And then come the buzzing sounds of lawnmowers and weedeaters wielded by bronzed linebackers that seduce the air with the aromatic flavors of fresh cut grass and fallen flowers, teasing and wooing all five senses at once.
But Sunday mornings. Nothing short of. Heaven.
HE NEVER FELT A THING
(Keywords: Sweatshirt, Cowboy, Vitriol)
She sat in the lobby of the veterinarian’s office, her grey Stanford sweatshirt stained with blood and tufts of fur, trying to ignore the stench of reptile aquariums and bird cages, and trying not to cry. The receptionist, whose vitriol could clearly not be contained, reminded her, yet again, that there were tissues in the restroom. She rose to her feet, shuffling slowly towards the exit, thinking only of her poor Beaux, his big brown eyes, his silky coat, his cowboy charm. The assistant came out from the back with a ziploc baggie. The collar inside read: My family lost me.
THE ONE WITH THE TRUE LOVE’S KISS
(Keywords: Brie, Cadence, Metallic)
Her breathing had slowed to a measured cadence. The baked brie oozed onto her plate in a rapturous puddle of rosemary and grapes. She swirled her syrah, plunged her nose into her glass, and immersed herself into the metallic twinges of clove and cardamon and pluot. She raised her eyes, flecked with gold and copper, and looked across the table at the cerulean pools staring back at her. A swift but audible sigh escaped her lips. And for just a moment she felt exactly like Sleeping Beauty. Suddenly awakened. Suddenly blinded by a beautiful bright light. Suddenly thrust back into life.
Jo Anna is available for tweeting at: @joannaguerra
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