He goes to the men’s room. He bends over the sink. Turns on the tap. Splashes cold water on his face with both hands. Rubs his eyes with cold water. Gasping. Straightens up, shaking water from his hands. Looks at his face in the mirror. At his eyes. Blue and blazing. Will you do this? Really? Yes. He dries his hands with a paper towel, crumples it and tosses it into the trash can by the door. He opens the door and goes back out into the flashing blue light. He makes his way toward the bar. Cowboy Boots and Bald Man are swigging from beer bottles. Glancing to the side, he sees the girls. One gets up, bends at the waist laughing, then straightens, tosses her hair and walks toward him. Sexy sexy. Lean and clean. He steps aside. She flashes him a smile as she strides past him, heron-slim, proud and sexy on her high heels, not even wobbling a little. He turns his head to watch her go toward the women’s restroom. Then he steps aside as Cowboy Boots and Bald Man brush past him in the booming heat and noise. He’s close enough to see the dirt in Cowboy Boots’ pores, the sweat glistening on Bald Man’s chest under the V-neck shirt. They go. They follow the proud beautiful non-wobbling girl. She goes into the restroom, pushing aside the curtain first that hides the short hallway. He sees her open the door; the brightness appears, vanishes. She’s let the door swing shut. It appears again. Vanishes again after the two men step inside. He wipes his face. He’s sweating more. He walks in a calm deliberate step toward the w.c. He steps through the gap between wall and curtain. The music is banging wildly. He glances back. People are dancing, twisting and leaping in a nightmare. The other girl is still at the table, bending to sip her drink, both boys leaning close. One has his hand on her bare copper toned shoulder and is rubbing it. He shuts his eyes. Now. Okay? Now. He puts his fingers on the knob. Turns it. Nothing. He touches the door. Presses it. It holds. Locked. He reaches behind him, slips the gun out of his waistband. Holds it pointed down at waist height. Takes three steps backward. Inhales. Kicks the door dead center. The lock snaps and the door leaps inward and bounces on the wall. The lock goes clanging across the floor. The beautiful proud rich girl is bent over one of the sinks and Cowboy Boots is holding her by the hair. Bald Man is wrenching up the gaudy silver dress over her hips to bare the beautiful white ass as she writhes and chokes and screeches. His cock is sticking out of the hole in his unzipped trousers. He and Cowboy Boots turn their heads at the same instant. The blue eyed man kicks the door shut behind him without looking at it. It slams. His .44 is covering the two men both. He drifts the barrel back and forth between them. They look puzzled. Bald Man tells him to get the fuck out. Cowboy Boots’ face shows scorn and outrage. Bald Man isn’t afraid — his prick is still hard. Cowboy Boots doesn’t let go of the girl’s hair. She screeches, he bounces her forehead on the sink. Above the bashing electronic sounds, the blue eyed man says clearly, in Spanish, to let go of the girl’s hair. Cowboy Boots looks at Bald Man, frowning. Bald Man nods. He lets go of her hair. The girl throws herself away from the sink, staggering, and runs to the blue eyed man, her eyes wide. He grabs her by the elbow and yanks her behind him. He then brings his left hand back up to steady the butt of the pistol. He’s still drifting it back and forth. Bald Man’s erection has begun to sag. He’s holding his hands apart at chest level. Cowboy Boots narrows his eyes. Thinking, thinking. Judging distances and angles. The blue eyed man can hear the girl whimpering behind him, in the corner next to the door. Get out, he says, and the door opens to screeching music and flashing blue light and then shuts on the boggling thumps of the bassline. He adjusts his stance slightly. He tells Bald Man to reach behind him with his left hand and take the gun out of his belt by lifting it straight up. Bald Man is sweating now. He blinks rapidly. Then he swallows saliva and with insolent slowness obeys. The blue eyed man watches the way his elbow bends. Raise it higher, he says. With some strain, Bald Man does. His penis is now flaccid. Open your hand and drop it behind you from right there, the blue eyed man instructs. The pistol falls with a crack of steel and spins on the floor. Kick it over here with your right foot, he commands. Bald Man does. The pistol spins a good ten feet and bounces on the shut door. Bueno, says the blue eyed man, drifting the sight back to Cowboy Boots. You, on your knees. Cowboy Boots’ knees bend. He sinks to the tiles. He’s staring at the blue eyed man’s grip on the pistol. To see if it vibrates even a little. It doesn’t. Take out your knife. Cowboy Boots hesitates. Now. He complies. He takes it out of his leather jacket side pocket. Another switchblade, shut. Set it on the floor, says the blue eyed man. Cowboy Boots does. The blue eyed man drifts the sight back to Bald Man’s dark haired, sweat-glistening chest. Kick the knife over here, he says. Bald Man does so. The knife skitters across the tiles, stops a few inches from the pistol. The blue eyed man reaches behind him. Touches the knob. Opens the door wide and kicks the pistol and then the knife outside, into the blasting noise and dimness. The door swings near-shut again — it doesn’t click. Then he tells Bald Man to kneel. Bald Man, with insolent languor and slowness, obeys. Silently. Both of you will remain here for the count of one hundred. If you step out this door before you have counted one hundred as slowly as possible, I will kill you. Do you understand this? They nod, in unison. Cowboy Boots is sneering. The blue eyed man again reaches back with his left hand and takes hold of the knob and pulls the door inward. He steps outside into the ranting noise and the lights as the door swings shut blotting out the two men on their knees staring at him with deadly scorn and rage. He sticks the gun into his waistband at the front and picks up Bald Man’s pistol and Cowboy Boots’ knife and sticking them into the side pockets of his jacket walks quickly to the exit, noting as he walks that and the two boys are now seated alone at the misbehaving rich girls’ table over four drinks looking glum. As he emerges from the club, he sees the girls get into the Lotus with grim speed as the valet parking boy holds his tip in his hand, watching in awe. The Lotus roars off. The blue eyed man notes the Humvee — pulling out to tail the Lotus. He crosses the street, jumping over smashed beer bottles, cuts through an alley to another street, exhales a long slow breath and begins to run.
I’ve written an absolutely kickass vampire novel seething with life and color, fully loaded with contemporary sass and sharp historical detail. The action spans centuries, connecting a young English mercenary duelist in 15th century Venice to a well-heeled and glamorous college professor novelist in present day San Francisco. (HERE IT IS!)
This novel blends elements of horror-occult, crime noir, and romance into an absinthe- potent cocktail. It has humor, eroticism, dark bloodfeasting, duels, double-crosses, and bloody revenge. And love triumphs over all. But nobody will be able to anticipate the dazzling twist at the end.
Voila. Here is the pitch, followed by a brief synopsis:
A vampire bestselling novelist who teaches Creative Writing in foggy San Francisco falls in love with one of his students — a young girl with a fatal blood disease he believes is the re-incarnation of his “first and last immortal lover.”
Vampire Damien Stark teaches Creative Writing in San Francisco. His novel Vampire Blood is on the bestseller lists. He is falling in love with one of his students, an alluring 19 year old girl named Naomi who has written her own rather intense story about being a vampire in 15th century Venice. Damien Stark recognizes in this story the voice of his first and last immortal vampire lover, the Contessa Claudia Rezzonico, who was staked by a vampire hunter in 1790.
Do vampires re-incarnate? In any case, Damien and Naomi quickly become lovers. Yet Damien, who has long since given up feeding on humans, does not drink Naomi’s blood. Nor does he reveal to her that he is undead. Meantime, Damien Stark’s novel has brought him fame and wealth, but it has also piqued the interest of some fanatical Mexican vampire hunters. Naomi’s father has hired private detectives to follow him everywhere. And Naomi’s jealous best friend Gretchen sets out to seduce Damien via blackmail.
When Naomi, who suffers from fainting spells, is diagnosed with a fatal blood disease, Damien faces a shattering dilemma. Should he make Naomi into a vampire to save her life?
I started Vampire Lover as a keitai shosetsu — a “cell phone novel.” It was very popular with young Japanese women as I serialized it on a cell phone novel site. Actually, only the rave responses of “fans” on the MobaMingle site kept me writing at all. It’s important for writers to feel an audience connection. Later I went back and wrote the “historical flashback” sections featuring the young Henry Moore before he becomes a Vampire.
It is the morning of November 2, 1489, Feast of the Dead — i morti — in Venice and Henry Moore has just finished fighting a bloody duel. Sometime after tonight’s sunset he will meet the Contessa, his “first and last immortal lover.” Why not come along for the hellish but cathartic ride?
ULTRA: THE SCHOOL FOR YOUNG ASSASSINS on Movellas.
When Chief Executives of the top secret agency “Ultra” get ordered to “prejudicially retire” the classified program for training child assassins to do the government’s dirty work worldwide, they naturally comply by destroying the secluded Ultra Training Facility and terminating every last student, instructor, and staff member — right down to cooks and janitors. But what will “Ultra” do about the five young assassins already sent out on assignment to five different spots around the world? HUNGER GAMES-esque. Dark and violent.
What is the strange allure of the swordswoman figure in martial arts novels and movies?
Is it all just pulp garishness? A prolonged adolescent erotic fantasy hangover?
Then why is the swordswoman figure — whether she is blind, tattooed, one-armed, or merely disgraced, outcast, suffering and abused — always so melancholy, so wounded, so tragic?
Listen to these painfully beautiful last lines intoned by a narrator at the end of CRIMSON BAT: THE BLIND SWORDSWOMAN (1969, aka BLIND OICHI STORY: RED BIRD OF FLIGHT): “Oichi went away on the cold wintery wind, carrying with her her sword-cane and a great deal of loneliness . . . her sightless eyes filled with tears.”
As for me, I wrote my novel OSAI’S RAZOR (here it is in the Kindle format) to tell the story of a swordswoman in old Japan whose life was almost unbearably harsh. Osai Itto’s story came to me in great, blazing and silent images. I found it, and her, irresistible.
And I wrote the final sentence blinded by tears.
For too many years, while typing my fingers off, I hoped to see my novels “discovered.”
Like Lana Turner — if she’d gone to Top Hat Cafe to sit at the counter and drink Coke from a straw every single afternoon in the hopes of turning the head of some Hollywood big shot and getting signed to a studio.
Except I also wrote hundreds of letters and e-mails to agents, and submitted my weight in manuscripts and samples.
Sometimes I actually got an agent this way.
The agents sent my work along to editors. Sometimes an editor got interested and there was exciting talk about maybe buying my book.
I also garnered some extravagant praise for my skills, my talent, my virtuosity or what not.
Once, I signed with a so-called A-list agent — a woman who routinely makes six figure publishing deals — who said she was “in love” with my writing and was going to take my manuscript to the Frankfurt Book Fair.
I got close. So close I could almost taste it. But I never sold anything.
Last year I put some of my novels up on Amazon/Kindle. It’s true I’m not rich or famous yet.
But I’m making a little money — so far only in the hundreds, not thousands of dollars each month.
What’s even better, readers are reading my books and liking them.
I know that my novels will stand or fall on the basis of quality. It isn’t a matter of knowing the right people or having special connections.
I’m not an aspiring literary sensation anymore, or a would be star hoping to get discovered by the big shots.
I’m a working Independent Digital Fiction Author. (Here is my Amazon Author’s page.)