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book trailer for The Shadow Speaker and an excerpt for my forthcoming adult novel, Who Fears Death

Posted by Nnedi Okorafor on April 1, 2009 at 3:40pm
The paperback of my 2nd novel, The Shadow Speaker, was just released. My oh so talented brother, Emezie Okorafor, has done a brief book trailer for the book. View it hereAlso, along with an excerpt of the Shadow Speaker (read it here), I've posted an excerpt from my forthcoming novel, Who Fears Death. Read it here.Nnedinnedi.com
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THE BLACK PANTHER COMIC BOOK SIGNING

Posted by The Cushite on March 30, 2009 at 6:12am

Hudlin Entertainment, Golden Apple Comics, ComicBookResources.com and Christian GonzalezCordially invite you to attend"THE BLACK PANTHER COMIC BOOK SIGNING"Saturday, April 4, 2009@ GOLDEN APPLE COMICS7018 Melrose AvenueLos Angeles, California 90038http://www.goldenapplecomics.com2:00 p.m. - 4:00 p.m.EARLY ARRIVAL IS STRONGLY RECOMMENDED!Meet Reginald A. Hudlin, Producer/Director/Writer/Creator.Purchase his newest comic book series from Marvel Entertainment, "Black Panther",and get it autographed by the creator himself.http://www.hudlinentertainment.comhttp://www.imdb.com/name/nm0399737
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A little fun time

Posted by Night Manager on March 26, 2009 at 9:30pm
Just a little fun with the main character of my soon to be published book: The Serpent CultTOMCAT Verses...I take a deep breath, fill my lungs deep, and feel my tense pectorals stretch over my ribs. Then I let it out slow, pushing it through clenched teeth, and let my shoulders settled back into place. It helps, my mind is quiet and I begin to focus. Focus is of the utmost importance. Otherwise I lose and Rock City falls.The rotten floor boards push up against my feet. I can feel the give in the wood as I shift my weight. My laces are too tight, I was anxious when I tied my sneakers up. There’s a vein running across the top of each arch that pulses in rhythm, pushing blood under the taught laces. The bandages wrapped around each ankle expand ever so slightly in tune with the pulsing blood. It’s a good rhythm, it helps me focus.Focus is the key. Visualization… actualization.A warm Mountairy Rock breeze blows easily in through the broken windows on the west side of the building. It slides around my bare calves, pushes against my black denim shorts, and tickles the tips of my dangling fingers. My long field jacket is tied around my waist and it flutters and waves, pulling at me,forcing me to shift my weight slightly,pushing my toes against the soft wooden floor boards,that give just a little.Focus. Inhale again.I draw in another good breath and hold it for a moment.With focus I can visualize…Tension eases out of my neck as I exhale. I shift my weight and push against the floor. My calves flex, the muscles going solid and tight, and rise to tip toe. Then my thighs tighten and my heels come back down onto the wood, giving me my foundation; like the bottom of a mountain, unmovable.Visualize… a mountain… a billion tons of weight baring down… a billion tons of rock… of power… Focus. Need to focus.I’m only going to get one shot at a good first impression.The billion tons of power sits in my legs all the way down to my toes. I stack more on top; my butt clenches, my abs tightens, and I focus.Stack the power, tighten up my chest.I feel the billion tons of rock pushing against my lungs, making it hard to breath.I stack more on, my mountain gets bigger.My shoulders tighten, then my arms, and the billion tons pull at my neck but I still stack it on.I have to. Almost time.Focus…My hands clench into rock hard fists. A billion tons of rock pull down on them. The floor creaks beneath me.Hard to breath.My neck tightens, then my jaw sets hard. My lips draw into a sneer as tight cheek muscles pull on them. My nostrils flare, my eyes draw to slits, and my brow furrows; rock stacked on top of rock. My lungs can no longer draw breath. Almost time.Visualize.A billion tons of rock, stacked, pushing down… power. I use that power to draw breath…My lungs ARE rock, but they still draw breath.My muscles ARE rock… I draw my left fist up… the floor creaks as I shift my weight.Focus… visualize… actualize…I remember what she told me: “Nothing… nothing is beyond your power. If you can see it, you can do it. Focus is the key.”I can feel the power, and none too late. He’s here. I hear the cape first, fluttering as he pushes through the breeze at the window behind me. Then his feet come down onto the tenement floor...… Softly, he has a lot of grace for a being of such power. His breathing is even. Why should it be otherwise? He has nothing to worry about.He projects his voice well. It’s full of confidence, not arrogance, and that’s to be expected. The man has always won in the end. He does have the power of a mythic god.“I’m going to have to ask you to come with me sir.”“Sir”? He betrays himself, showing a little condescension with that. He’s here to imprison me, to help turn my city into a pit full of refugees and he wants to call me “sir”?I convert some power and turn my head 90 degrees to look over my right shoulder. He’s big, might be an inch taller than me. And he’s been flying for over a couple of hundred miles and his hair looks perfect…well, it looks done… what’s with that “S” curl?“Sir please”I don’t answer. Mostly because I don’t think I can even open my mouth right now, but it’s not like he deserves an answer anyway. I told him what I would do if he came here. He’s about to find out.Focus… don’t lose it now.He begins to stride forward in those ridiculous red boots. I never REALLY looked at this outfit before. Are those red “hot pants” over a blue leotard?“I’ve been asked by the President of the United States to apprehend you. You’ve been warned Sir that your actions are too…” I don’t get the rest of what he’s saying… I’ve got to focus. Get it right.A billion tons of rock. A mountain. A pressing great weight. An unbelievable amount of power. FOCUS.“… you’re coming with me to answer.,.”The rock that’s stacked, presses down, but it’s a simple matter to get it to press where I want it to. I convert rock to power and it rides from toe to ankle, from ankle to knees, from knees to hips, to shoulders, to arms, to fist.I turn and a mountain moves. Floor boards rip and splinter as my sneakers turn, digging into them. One arm… my right, drops and the other raises, with a fist sitting on its end.I’m bringing the mountain to Mohammed.He’s fast, no doubt, but overconfident. He simply raises a hand to catch mine. Hell, he’ll probably even give a little so as not to break my arm. Good of him to be as sporting as he attempts to make me a fellow slave.But the man’s not expecting a billion tons of rock to be sitting behind this fist. His palm catches my fist dead in its center, and is promptly snapped nearly in half as a billion tons of rock barrel through. The pain must the worst he’s ever felt. Not that he hasn’t been hurt before, but when something new happens to you it always seems to be a worse pain.But the hand was not my target and the billion tons of rock plow on until meeting him right in the middle of his face. Since he “knew” he was going to catch my punch, he never bothered to move or duck.I don’t get to see the damage. A billion tons of rock is a lot of force… I watch as he’s blown back out of the tenement and far into the night sky. I scream after him…“TAKE YOUR PUNK AS BACK TO METROPOLIS!”That had to shake him! But I doubt he’s done for any good amount of time. So now I move the mountain.Gotta make him earn it, keep him off balance. Must be perfect… FOCUS…Thighs made of a billion tons of rock shift and move, a billion pounds of rock lifts off of creaking bending floor one foot at a time and then slam back down in hammering succession. The old tenement groans in agony as I run for the west window and leap…A warm blast of Great Lake air greets me as I vault through the air between abandoned buildings. It’s so fresh, so clean, it reminds me of how much I love this place, of how much is on the line.Focus… convert…The window on the next building, an old warehouse, is still intact. A billion tons of rock cannot be stopped by glass and wood. There’s a wonderful explosion of shimmering, moonlight filled, triangle shaped blades of “used to be window.” Through a field of floating spinning mirrored reflections of myself I spy the floor rushing up.A billion tons of rock lands on hard tiled floor but only the falling glass makes a sound. Like the last burst of falling rain the window remnants settled onto the floor around me. As the room quiets I close my eyes and listen. It shouldn’t be too long now.I don’t hear it first, I feel it. My body is bathed in a sick kind of heat. The room is flooded with it. Word is that this guy can see through walls, this must be how. Somehow he irradiates an area, then “reads” the feedback. Like an X-ray…I wonder how low my sperm count just got.The “rays” cool off and I know he’s got my position. He’ll come at me now, but how? Probably have only a second to figure it out.Did I really nail him? Is he hurt? How much?He’s been beat on before, I’ve heard. He’s been pushed… but again; how hard?Was my sucker punch really in HIS league? Or am I just kidding myself?He comes from behind me. That means I did hurt him. Otherwise he would just confront me again, but he’s being careful.It’s sudden, right through the wall with a sound I would imagine a speeding locomotive might make cashing through a tall building. Debris flies all around me but none actually hits me. I guess he’s been doing this kind of thing for awhile now. The only thing flying at me is his fist.He’s pulling the punch, I can tell, it is way too easy to dodge. Still I take the gift and dive toward him instead of away. Timing and balance are important now, gotta keep him off balance. I see a blurry snapshot of his face and the blood splatter under his nose is bright and apparent. Got him good with that first punch.Focus, Visualize, Actualize…His steel fist rockets past my face at a speed that makes me reconsider his “pulling” of this punch. My hips swivel, my shoulders rotate, and I snap my right hand shut into a fist. FOCUS…Power isn’t what’s needed here… aim is. I bring that billion tons of rock around and swing it into the base of his jaw. There’s a loud “pop” and the man of steel crumbles in mid flight, and spins out of control into and through the far wall.Got to stay on him now, so I jump through the hole after him to find him on the floor holding his jaw with his good hand. Yeah… he’s almost beat. Still there’s work to be done.I didn’t break his jaw, and I didn’t really expect to. The broken nose and snapped hand I gave him were big wins but not ones that were likely to be repeated so soon. No, it didn’t break, but what happened was much worse. Funny thing about the way the jaw is made, it’s tough, hard, and in the case of a man of steel, virtually unbreakable. But with a enough leverage, or a blow to the right spot, that same jaw will pop right off its hinge.Supes is panicking right now, holding his loose, out of place, jaw wondering how the hell someone like me was able to do that. As much as he’s probably been through I bet he’s never had that happen. It shows… he’s all about his jaw right now. Not like it’s the worst pain someone could feel, to the contrary, a dislocated jaw doesn’t hurt as much as a severe headache, but it’s the strangest sensation for someone who’s never had it happen to them. It can feel like half your face is gone and every facial muscle that twitches seems to pull on it. Right now he’s all about the jaw.Now for my real problem; if I can finish it. I running so hot right now that I doubt I could get my focus back. So more than likely anything I try to do to him right now would only tell him that I’m not in his class. I don’t want that. So instead I try to psyche him out.I don’t threaten him. That would challenge him.I don’t boast. He may reflect and realize that he’s not that hurt.Instead I tell him about himself. I tell him about Mt. Airy. And I tell him why we don’t want him here.I tell him his body sucks the sunlight right out of the Rockwoods. Not true but he does absorb a good amount of Solar radiation, it makes him stand out against the warm summer background. Standing here next to him is like standing in a cold spot. I tell him his “alien” scent is disrupting the wildlife here. Maybe in a city like Metropolis nothing changes but the animals here in Mt. Airy are in a stir.His eyes flicker at that. Looks like I hit a nerve. Despite his predicament I can see that he’s considering what I’m saying. I wonder how much time he’s spent in rural areas. Maybe he never really paid attention to what was going on around him but he’s thinking about it now.He stands up, holding his out of place jaw with one hand. His bright blue and red outfit is covered in the dirt, filth, and concrete debris from the tenement. He stares at me and I know he wants to say something. Something about how I have to answer to the Government. How Mt. Airy Rock has to bend.I look him dead in his eye and tell him that whatever might happen, it will happen without him. I tell him not to come back. I tell him that he does not want to make this fight about him and I. Because I’m defending my home and that means next time he won’t get the free pass I gave him today.That last part wasn’t a threat to scare him, it was truth. Before this fight I got a couple of offers from others here in this city to help take him down. Another protector knew of a substance that he was vulnerable to. It was my hope that I could end this without grave consequences.Still a huge risk though he really is much too powerful to just let walk out of here. He could still come back. But I believe his intentions are good even if his actions would lead to the destruction of my home. So I let him go, knowing full well that if I see him again, somebody’s going to die. If he comes back here I will have no choice but to kill SUPERMAN.
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Starting a New Manuscript

Posted by Malcolm Dylan Petteway on March 24, 2009 at 5:37pm
I started my fifth manuscript today. It is different than the four books I wrote for the Osguards series. I'm trying to stretch my talent on this one and see what I can do. I don't want to say too much right now...not until I have a good portion of the manucript committed to paper. But let me tell you that it is tough switching gears and writing about another world after I've spent almost eight years perfecting the world I have written for the Osguards. I guess my question to the group is, 'How difficult do you find it to build different worlds and characters for different stories?"Malcolm "Rage" Petteway
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Shadow Speaker paperback soon available and some character sketches

Posted by Nnedi Okorafor on March 19, 2009 at 4:30pm
The paperback of my 2nd novel, The Shadow Speaker, will be available on March 24th, 2009. Please contact me through my Myspace page or website if you are interested in a signed copy.A little about the book:Niger, West Africa, 2070: After a nuclear fallout in the early twenty-first century, the earth's civilization has been completely transformed. Magic, mysticism, and mind-blowing technology now rule the world. In West Africa, fourteen-year old Ejii struggles to master her own magical powers. When her world is completely upended after she witnesses her father's death, Ejii faces a unique opportunity to explore her power and realize her destiny. But is she ready for the responsibility that comes along with that? Embarking on a journey across the Sahara, Ejii befriends new allies and battles dangerous foes. It soon becomes clear that her people need to be protected from a terrible force seeking to annihilate them. And Ejii may just be their last hope for survival. Fast-paced and full of tender friendships and thrilling action, this futuristic adventure heralds a bright new talent in young adult science fiction.It’s easy to name a dozen fantasy novels set in England but, save for Nancy Farmer’s futuristic book “The Ear, the Eye and the Arm,” difficult to think of one set anywhere in Africa — just one of many unexpected pleasures in Nnedi Okorafor-Mbachu’s novel “The Shadow Speaker”...This novel — like the author’s first, “Zahrah the Windseeker” (2005) — leaves little doubt that Okorafor-Mbachu’s imagination is stunning.-- The New York TimesHere are a few character sketches that my illustrator brother (Emezie Okorafor) did of Ejii Ugabe, Dikeogu Obidimkpa and the mysterious and tricky Desert Magician:

EjiiAfter witnessing the beheading of her father, she was appalled to realize...she was happy.

DikeoguIf you'd been through what he's been through, you would dispise chocolate, too. And you would also fear the skies.

The Desert MagicianHe finds water where there is none.Watch for the book trailer for The Shadow Speaker in a few days, also designed by my brother.Buy The Shadow Speaker at Anderson’s Bookshop, Barnes and Nobles, Amazon, Powell’s, and many other book-loving places.
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Older Writers' Grant Looking for Applications

Posted by Malon Edwards on March 18, 2009 at 6:01pm
The deadline for the Speculative Literature Foundation's Older Writers' Grant is fast approaching! The grant of $750 is available to any writer of speculative literature of 50 years or older at the time of application who is just beginning to work professionally in the field. There are no restrictions on the use of the grant money.Applicants are asked to submit a brief autobiographical statement, a writing sample, and a bibliography. For full details on how to apply for the grant, please see the SLF web site: http://www.speculativeliterature.org/Grants/SLFOlderWriters.php, or email olderwriters@speclit.org. Applications must be received by March31st 2009. The successful applicant will be announced on June 1, 2009.
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Penelope & Otto review the Watchmen and Interview scifi author Valjeanne Jeffers 11pm CST Tonight!

Posted by Penelope on March 9, 2009 at 3:23pm

THE FLYNN-TERVIEWS

Sci-Fi Novelist Valjeanne Jeffers joins Penelope & Otto on "In Like Flynn"
11pm CST Saturday March 7, 2009

Listen to In Like Flynn on internet talk radio

Valjeanne Jeffers is a science fiction writer and the author of the post-apocalyptic tales, IMMORTAL and IMMORTAL II: THE TIME of LEGEND. Published in Revelry 2006, Drumvoices 2007 & 2008, The Ringing Ear: Black Poets Lean South 2007 & Pembroke Magazine 2007; Jeffers was chosen as semifinalist for the Rita Dove poetry award 2007. Her poems will appear in Little Black Book: Bedtime Stories for Lovers Vol 2, Making Sense of the Madness & Liberated Muse Vol I: How I Freed My Soul.

Among other issues, Jeffers will discuss her cross genre novels that give an erotic twist to a post apocalyptic totalitarian society populated with beings whose abilities set them part as potential heroes and victims.

Immortal (2nd edition)
 Excerpt: Karla stood on the porch, dressed only in her nightshirt. How had she come to be here? Was she still dreaming? Yes, that was it. It felt like one…more like a dream than any she’d had in years. The buildings around her were cloaked in mist, the streetlamps, lifeless globes. The night moons encircled with a silver nimbus of clouds. The smell, what was that smell?

So familiar? So enticing? She saw now that the fog was tinged with red and green smoke. Rush smoke…! I’ve been breathing it! But for how long? Her body answered her. Every nerve ending in her body seemed to come alive. A surge of desire so intense, it was almost painful, rocked her senses. Her nipples grew hard beneath her gown. She could feel the dampness between her thighs.
Karla gripped the railing, trying to steady herself, while a voice from deep within her, cried out in protest...

Immortal II: The Time of Legend

Excerpt: Without warning, a growling fury sprinted into their midst on all fours. Thick black hair covered the creature’s face and body. Her ears were pointed and furry. Her eyes, bright yellow and outlined in black. Black talons gleamed at the ends of her fingers and toes – limbs that bore closer resemblance to a wolf’s paws. Karla snarled, revealing wickedly pointed canines. As she neared the officer torturing Estella the lycan rose and leaped:...




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Introduction of the Osguards

Posted by Malcolm Dylan Petteway on March 8, 2009 at 7:43am
Hello,My name is Malcolm Petteway and I'm new to the group. It is wonderful to network with other Black Science Fiction fans. I am a up and coming science fiction author, who has written four novels and published three of them through the "small press" Iuniverse. Presently, my novels are not available while I again search for a traditional publisher.Let me tell you my first search for a traditional publisher was frustrating. All the rejection notices had the same theme; 'there is no market for a science fiction novel with Black protagonist.' One publisher even offered to take another look if I made the characters White.So I went the self-publishing route, and did faily well with the first book. I had a small fan base of White consumers. So that only goes to show, that a good story crosses all racial barriers. Unfortunately, I had a smaller fan base of Black consumers, which supported the rejection letters.Now I am represented by Tee C. Royal of Royal Literary Management and we are tackling the traditional publishers again.Let me tell you about my Novels. It is a four book series called the Osguards. Osguards is a gripping ride through time and space detailing the horrors of American slavery, the rise of racism during the post reconstruction era, the grit of U.S. urban life at the turn of the century and ultimately the terror of an escalating war played out in the heavens—all surrounded by complex military and political stratagems for power.Osguards contains flash and technical wizardry, thrilling suspense, and historical intrigue. The difference from other books in this genre is that Osguards revolves around the present day with African Americans as the lead characters. The historical subplots are critical, giving birth and allowing resolution to the main characters' inner and outer conflicts.The Osguards are descendants of twin princesses from the planet of Chaktun. Over one hundred years ago, the sisters escape to Earth, a former Kulusk prison planet. They arrive in the state of Virginia, just prior to the United States Civil War. The sisters, Laurona and Nausona Osguard, are enslaved, beaten and raped prior to their rescue and return to their home planet of Chaktun. Unable to save their children, they leave them to mature in the post-civil war United States. Michael Genesis and his cousins are the present day descendants, who have become the leaders of their ancestors' organization, the Universal Science, Security and Trade Association of Planets (USSTAP). Each Osguard is a Commander and Chief of an individual galaxy with signatory planets to the organization.If you want to learn more, please visit www.osguards.com.I'm looking forward to being a member of this group.ThanksMalcolm "Rage" Pettewaywww.osguard.comwww.malpetteway.blogspot.com
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Call for information: SciFi and Fantasy

Posted by Carole McDonnell on March 6, 2009 at 9:14am
Call for Information: Sci-Fi and Fantasy-- Publishers Weekly, 3/2/2009 12:31:00 PMFeature: Science Fiction & FantasyIssue: April 13Deadline: March 20Needed: Publishers’/editors’ written comments on the state of this category: latest trends, bestsellers, effects of the recession, etc. Particular attention to themes of apocalypse/dystopia/global warming etc.; non-white and non-Western authors and characters; and short-story collections and anthologies. We’ll be looking at titles pubbing between March 1 and November 30. Story and sidebar ideas are welcome. E-mail submissions strongly preferred, to rose.fox(AT)reedbusiness.com; or mark packages "SF/Fantasy Issue" and send to Rose Fox, PW, 360 Park Ave. South, New York, NY 10010.http://www.publishersweekly.com/article/CA6641114.html
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Lost

Posted by Malon Edwards on March 5, 2009 at 1:54pm
Last night's episode of Lost was my favorite of the series so far. I have yet to discuss it here because it's such a complex television show and I wouldn't even know where to start, though I'm sure if you ask some of its more avid fans, they might say otherwise.For me, Lost's appeal is its storytelling. Yes, Evangeline Lily is cute, yes, Terry O'Quinn can act his ass off, and yes, Harold Perrineau is versatile as hell, but it's the storytelling that gets me. It inspires me.Interestingly enough, ER used to do the same thing. Back in college, Thursday nights used to be my "writing nights" because ER aired on those nights (it still does). Back then, after watching an episode of ER, my creative juices would get going and I'd want to write.I've never talked to another writer about this, so I don't know if other writers have experienced something similar. I know athletes experience something similar in sports, though. In high school I played football--tailback--and was on the track team--shot put and discus. When I saw the other team's tailback rip off a long, spectacular run, or a thrower pop a nice one, I'd get a little amped up. The adrenaline would start flowing, I'd get all tingly, and I couldn't wait until our offense stepped onto the field or I got into the ring so I could do my thang.Watching ER then and Lost now is kind of like that. But don't get me wrong. It's not that I want to "out-write" ER or Lost, it's more like I'm feeding off the wonderful creativity of the shows. In other words, I see a well-crafted creative piece on television, and I say to myself, "I want to write a well-crafted creative piece."Has anyone else experienced that?
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Irony -- Short circa Summer 2006

Posted by VD DeVau on March 5, 2009 at 12:32am
As promised many moons ago, I am going to start posting some of my short stories and scraps. Please let me know what you think.Irony by VD DeVau...Ronnie ate the apple in small deliberate bites. Her stomach clinched and released with each swallow. It didn’t taste like much, but she wasn’t used to eating. Funny things you can stop getting used to doing.Her arms ached and her legs were jelly when she tried to get up off the cot. Some tubing in her nose kept her from sitting up farther than the nurse had adjusted the makeshift hospital bed. Her vision was as keen as ever and in the dark she could see Pearson lying almost too still on the next cot. She waited to make sure that his chest was rising and falling before she threw the apple core at him.Pearson kept right on sleeping. She didn’t risk calling out his name. Too many people packed too close together, she didn’t want any of them to wake up if she could help it.The room was a drab green; she remembered that from yesterday when they had wheeled them in from the operating room.Ronnie touched the lump just underneath the swell of her right breast. The device was firm to the touch but she was not sure of its shape. Her fingertips told her it was oblong and thicker than her thumb, but her fingers weren’t to be trusted. The tips of them had been sliced to pieces and scarred over so many times that her sense of touch had begun to atrophy. She used her palm. It was cylindrical and harder than her fingers suggested. Metal she deduced. A battery her brain screamed.Getting caught raiding the court holding area should have meant death. Personally she’d taken four pulses from the Policia’s gun before she fell and knew that Pearson had taken more. The burnt meaty smell of her own body reminded her of death. Dead would be nice. A thought attached to no forethought, only the past, Ronnie pulled at the tube in her nose and couldn’t bear breathing whatever they were pumping into her when she couldn’t even die.Death would be nice.There were two ways to kill irony - with a better joke or a foreigner. A better joke canceled out the effect of the proceeding attempt, and a foreigner didn’t usually understand the subtleties involved in the ironic. Ironic people were harder to kill, but the weapons were similar. Ironic borns could be hurt but the amount of force required to break their bones and dismember them could only usually be generated by some older Ironic. Foreign weapons had held, for a time, the promise of Ironic death but Ronnie still hadn’t known anyone who’d actually succumbed to a laser or bio-wep the soft-folk from elsewhere had brought along with them from over the horizon.Ronnie could dream of death. Of nothingness. Of course she couldn’t speak of the nothing, that was heresy. Ironics were reincarnated. They all knew it for true. Many lives were led with the same soul. As close to immorality as they were, they all hoped for more time.Ronnie had only lived this one long life and already she thought she had lived too long. Pearson was on his third, and he was done.The plan had been simple, break into the soft-folk building, and get murdered.But they were both still alive.The implant under her breast hummed to life. A barely noticeable revolution that she knew she could pretend wasn’t happening and because she didn’t know what was happening, it was best to pretend.She would snap Pearson’s neck. The thought crept into her mind both suddenly and surreptitiously. She would end him even if it meant being alone here in a green field hospitalwith soft-skinned people who knew nothing of irony or Ironic people. She would at least set Pearson free if she could. And if she was not enough of his superior to kill him at least by attempting she would feel better.Ronnie took the tubing out of her nose and could not find a place to set it down. The machine it was attached to was all triangular tops and round sides. She settled with placing the tubes on the floor and crept over to get a hold on Pearson’s neck.~~~~~~~© VD DeVau....
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Poetry

Posted by Gabbie Thompson on March 4, 2009 at 7:10pm
RealMy man is everything a woman could dream.Dedicated, hard working, strong.I bear my soul to him.With him I have no reason to fear anything.My rock, strength, fortress.He is my protector.The love in his eyes exsists only for me.Sensual, penetrating, yet vunerable.I am his Queen.He is the epitome of what a real man should be.Masculine, loving, faithful.His spirit is beautiful.His love is real.
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Animosity (More Poetry)

Posted by Gabbie Thompson on March 4, 2009 at 5:13pm
Inside I feel the walls closing in.Rapidly. A tragedy. Loves made at me.Emptiness Resides where love used to be.Put my soul at ease. I can't conceive you with out me. We're meant to be.But you don't see.The pain inside is consuming me.And suddenly what used to be is a memory that's haunting me. Love's taunting me.I don't beleive you want to leave.I realize rejection has chosen me.It's controlling me. Showing me Vindictiely.I toss and turn in dreamless sleep and wake to think that you should be here holding me, consoling me.But instead you see, you chose to be away from me.
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For the Soul of the Yellow Butterfly (Poetry)

Posted by Gabbie Thompson on March 4, 2009 at 5:03pm
Beautiful you were.Innocent and oblivious to the harsh world around you.Such a happy and carefree soul should never be made to suffer for one's wordly conflicts.But I, in a destructive rage,So unfairly deprived you of your lifeWhich was used only to beautify this cold, dark place.So it is with much remorse that I pray for deliveranceFor the Soul of the Yellow Butterfly.-Gabrielle Thompson
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Got Rope?

Posted by Lisa Bennett Bolekaja on February 28, 2009 at 11:16pm
A little morning bondage.I've been collecting BDSM images to finish a new draft of my "Bitches Brew" script. Whenever I work on a story, a script, or a poem, I collect images that I put into my scrapbook. It's kinda like creating my own one sheet/movie poster/book cover. I then put together a sound track of music that reflects the soundscape/tone I'm trying to create in my work. As I write, the music and images transport me, and then I become the characters I write about.I tend to write about things that interest me, and I realize that as aggressive and assertive as I am, in the BDSM world, I would actually be a "bottom". And since I am naturally a voyeur (because I am a writer), I find myself torn between being a true "top" (rather than bottom). I don't think there is a half and half in the BDSM world. My best buddy Taj thinks I'm a closet dominatrix. Maybe.But I do have a growing rope fetish. Honestly, I just like the artistry of the rope work, and actually think I could get away with wearing rope over my clothes in public because I think it looks hot. The baddest chick in the game is Midori (in all her black latex glory), and she does the most beautiful rope-work I've ever seen. I was thinking of having photos done for myself. I've done tasteful professional nude photos before back in the day. But the wiser I've become, I've embraced all facets of my personality. Especially the darker, shadow side of myself. There's just something Sci-Fi'ish about the look of the rope to me.I'm not saying I want to be hog-tied and whipped, I just like the look of rope-work over my clothes, no different than my nose ring, or the belly piercing I had years ago before it was a fad for teens. Maybe I'll wear rope for the San Diego Comic Con. No one would notice me there.Okay, maybe I have said too much.

Sometimes ya gotta let your Freak Flag wave.....

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