Here’s something that has significance in regard to the Blood & Chartreuse novel. I won’t explain in greater detail, because I don’t want to give anything away, but the story addresses the general issue of extraterrestrials visiting Earth who may blend in with the human population, for various reasons. Take it with a grain of salt or start stocking your underground bunker – either way is fine with me. My only reaction to this article was that it provided some excellent back-story to a project I’m already working on. Make of …

Neither the hand of God
Nor the touch of angels
Not the turn of good luck
Nor the prayers of the faithful
Have brought me to this moment
Where I breathe and consider
The simple act of being.
Neither divine providence
Nor positive energy
Not tears of the mothers
Nor intercession by preachers
Have brought me to this moment
Where I breathe and consider
The simple state of being.
I am here because I’m here.
No soft, lilting song
Can surmise my longevity
Nor raise inspiring cadence
To describe this very moment
Where I breath and consider
The simple intent of being.
I am here because I’m here
And today that’s enough,
To …

I submitted Blood & Chartreuse to WordHustler’s Literary Storm novel contest today. It’s something I’ve been building up to for awhile, but I finally got the first three chapters of the novel submitted, with a few days to spare before the deadline. I wrote write much about this, other than to add that I’ll keep my fingers crossed. This is, by no means, the only place Crewe’s book will be going. But I may just wait and see where this goes first before sending it anywhere else.
Update
The novel didn’t win. …

The doors were locked at Cebo’s Tapas Bar & Restaurant. I tried not to be annoyed. It was typical for Marcos to be late to a meeting he scheduled. One took it in stride. A price of doing business with a colorful character. I’d never begrudge Marcos the opportunity to make a grand entrance. But I wasn’t happy about standing outside of a closed business, banging on its security gate, when everyone in the area knew it was closed. It didn’t look good. I didn’t like being remembered. I knocked …

“Another hot dog?” Tommy asked me.
I shook my head at the old man. I’d had three of the damned things already. Each one had been like a log. Tommy loved them, but they were wasted on me. I was more convinced than ever that professional chefs shouldn’t make hot dogs. They turned out beautifully, but I never knew whether to eat one or have my picture taken with it. I rubbed the angry, sore wound on my chest and wondered if I really wanted to add on layers of heartburn.
Tommy …