#if someone finds it please dm me cos it was awesome

[legally-allowed-to-slime]

What is the life series? What is it all about, really?

Ask the avian, the first victor, in a comfy red sweater and wings sprouting from his back, and he'll say with a forced shrug, as he leans against a tree, it's about life. Bonding, alliances made and alliances torn, enemies made and battles won. It’s all rather poetic, and rather fun to watch.

The way he says the last word causes the camera of the mind to stumble back, and hastily zoom in on another figure in blue. Crystals are swirling around his head, oh so shiny, as he says with quiet defiance in his eyes, it’s a game. Entertainment, for those who want it, and torture, for those in it. Uncertain and unpredictable like all games. The best bet is to cling onto whoever you know and hope you will survive.

A shift yet again, onto another winner, strolling around. Her hoodie is blue but flickers red every once in a while, like lightning. Her wings rustle as she says with a cynical chuckle, it’s the world. Your fate is shaped and you’re always, always inevitably linked to it somehow. The choices are made; you just follow them. But maybe others will carve a different path.

Ask the survivor, in a green shirt and blondish hair. He’s sitting at the seaside, and he says as a new wave converges with the shore, it’s a death match. And don’t you forget it, because in the end it’s all about who survives, and anyone who clings onto other ideals is foolish and dead. There’s no need to kill time when you can simply kill.

[brian-wellson]

An Open Letter ((OoC))

Hello, awesome people of Wyrmrest Accord! I felt compelled to write this because of, well, you’ll see!

I. A bit of background.

I first started playing WoW as a PvE’er (January 2009), and as an RP’er just a touch over two years ago (May 2015). It’s true… I am a Wrath baby, one nurtured on thottbot.com (and I ignored all advice given by icyveins.com). In July 2010, I developed a neurological disorder, one which has rendered me in constant pain and unable to sleep much past four hours a night, even under sedation, ever since. Needless to say, I had/have plenty of time on my hands. Once I maxed out at 80, achieved Explorer, and became a Loremaster, I decided to spend my time as a ‘raider’.

My feats were truly epic. Indeed, my guildmates had given me the affectionate nickname ‘Dr. Death’ – partially due to the fact that I have a Ph.D., but mostly because I was a horrible raider. Every pull? Dead. To this day, I still avoid ICC because Lord Marrowgar lives there. That bastard, he owned me. I can hear the redolent echoes of “Bonestorm!” quite clearly, and usually that echo’s antecedent is the death rattle of a human male.

Make no mistake, I held this title – Worst. Raider. Ever.

The friends I made in that guild, we’re still friends today, 7 years later. I even met one of them at BlizzCon 2015. That moment was amazing. We got drunk in the hotel room he was splitting with his girlfriend (and they’re still together to this day!), and laughed about the time our tank had finished off Professor Putricide, by herself, with 10% health remaining. I’ll never forget the thrill of that kill, nor the way we cheered once it was over.

Even though we are no longer in the same guild or even on the same server, we have celebrated real births, supported each other through real deaths, and rejoiced in real marriages – all online. Back when my liver was on the verge of failure, I had lost 60 pounds, and my kidney function was in the toilet, those former guildmates were the people who kept in contact with me the most. I’ve since recovered, but will forever be grateful to them. They cared, and they still do.

II. Why it matters.

I suppose what I am trying to say is the people with whom I align myself, they’re my friends for life, and I would do anything for them. (Well, everything except move a dead body, but even then there are three people who I would assist, if necessary.) Such unwavering loyalty has led to my being called a lapdog or yes-man; yet, unlike such people, I will often disagree with my friends, and tell them directly. And then we move on, send each other aesthetically incongruent covers of truly awful songs, and revel in gifs of cute pets doing silly things.

Therefore, when I see an anonymous call out leveled at someone who is very dear to me – someone who has been a far better friend than she probably knows – I get irritated. I get defensive. When compounded with the fact that someone has besmirched the quality of our writing, I am vexed that much more. To be sure, constructive criticism is good and we welcome it; anonymous insults, however, can be damaging and help no one.

III. Let’s talk about RP.

My RP partner and co-conspirator, Quai, and I worked toward resolving a plot for close to two years. We were faced with some very real logistical issues. There were more moving pieces than I think either of us had anticipated. Blackbay prides itself on its gritty realism, so how does RP resurrection even work? The short answer is, we did something different. The long answer is just that – long – and largely beside the point anyhow. The key takeaway is that we had to work within the confines of the game, in addition to our own harsh and self-imposed restrictions. To criticize us for being ‘too slow’ in pacing… well, I am sorry to hear that someone has perceived it this way, but I must respectfully disagree. Killing off a character is a big deal, but bringing one back? – even more so. The density and amount of detail necessary to craft something remotely believable in our gritty take of the Warcraft universe was quite high.

Quai and I – as well as our DM, Monette – are always pushing each other to think harder, do more, work faster, and to project things ever further out. To be clear: length does not equal quality – an axiom not only applicable to the line level, but also that of a plot or story arc. Does this mean every plot we craft is two years long? Of course not, for that would be preposterous. Does this mean that everything from one-offs to a years-long long plot or story arc feeds into an even bigger narrative? You bet it does. Admittedly, sometimes our stories flop, and sometimes threads are left hanging. More often than not, these issues arise because communication had broken down somewhere. Do we take lessons from such moments? Yes, absolutely.

While I understand and most certainly empathize with the point of view that new characters may have initial confusion during a long-term story arc, I present this challenge – if you don’t know what’s going on, ask the writer, ask the DM, ask the GM … hell, ask all three. I can guarantee that the people running the story would be more than happy to talk about it with you, either OoC or IC. We – all writers – love to talk about our babies. If you don’t know why someone needs to recover ‘X-object’, ask them: “Why the hell are we risking life and limb for X-object, when I don’t even know what X-object is or does?” (Perhaps with a bit more tact…) The reply could be OoC, or it could be IC, or it could be a little of both. Irrespective of the encounter type, the fact remains that it is always within your power – and I would say it is your imperative – to understand your peers’ and storytellers’ motivations.

Ultimately, RP is about enjoying oneself. If something is unclear, ask … because, you know what? You will enjoy yourself far more if you understand what is occurring, for understanding leads to personal investiture. This said, is asking difficult? It can be, but its rewards vastly outweigh the probability of being miserable… and this is coming from one of the most insecure RPers out there. Heck, there are times I am reticent to ask questions, so I understand this more than you might think.

More than anything, RP is about forming connections with characters and people, and granting those connections and relationships the opportunity to flourish.

Think of RP like wine. The best wine comes from the most carefully cultivated terroir. Even then, some of it is sour, or just doesn’t sit right with us. This is ok. Not all varietals are meant for all people. Some people can’t stand a Châteauneuf-du-Pape and only drink moscato (because they’re weird, teehee!); others want to vomit when they smell the sticky sweet of moscato, yet salivate at the mere thought of a well-blended meritage. And, once more, this is ok – that is why there are so many different varietals!

IV. A parting thought.

When I say that I’m lucky to be RPing with the people in my circle, it’s not bullshit – I mean it. These people, my friends and partners and peers, they impel me to work toward greater clarity, work harder, and be more creative. And these things, to me, are their own rewards.

Perhaps most importantly, those in my circle, and even those with whom I have yet not had contact, teach me how to be a better friend, peer, and collaborator.

Please. Before you complain about the length of a story or plot arc, the quality of the GM or DM or writer running it, or the general guidelines of a guild of which you are not part – I beseech you. Reach out. Ask what is happening, or why certain restrictions exist. Find your way out of the rabbit hole. Encourage interpersonal skills. Be kind & respectful. And, as always, write with heart, presence of mind, and with the cognizance that other people are involved aside from yourself. The decisions you make about your characters – IC & OoC – impact the way both you and your character will be perceived.

We are here for each other.

Let’s write a story.

(( Shout outs to my main RP partner and co-conspirator, @quai-mason; the fantastic people in [ @blackbay-wra ]: @monettemason, @juniper-rose-blower, @killerkyara, @alastar-wyatt; so many other people who I admire: @thalsianiii, @risrielthron, @adhelin, @manduhs-things, @patiencekindnesscourage; and all those who escape my exhausted mind at the moment. I adore you for who you are, and what you bring to the game. ))

[deannawads]

Meet Michael from MURDER MOST LOVELY, a book co-written by Hank Edwards & ME!

I’m so excited to officially announce that Hank Edwards and I wrote a book together!!!

It will be coming out early next year! It’s entitled:

MURDER MOST LOVELY

Lacetown Murder Mysteries: Case One

It’s weird and awesome how things turn out sometimes, and when you least expect it. I’m so happy that I’ve had the chance to go on this fabulous journey with the super talented Hank Edwards. Writing with him has been so effortless that it’s a bit surreal. Our styles mesh so well, sometimes I can’t remember which of us wrote what sentence LOL

It all started on February 3, 2018 at 9:26 PM, I sent Hank these DMs on Facebook:

“Full disclosure: I’m drinking tonight lol…..but I think we should write a book together #justsayin”

“It would be EPIC!”

Hank thought it would be epic fun too, though he’d never co-authored a book together. I have, though it still remains unpublished. I’ve long been a fan of Hank’s books and our humor is so similar, I thought it seemed like a grand idea to co-write something together.

And it wasn’t just the whisky talking LOL.

We both belong to the Michigan LGBTQ Writers—though I’m the Michigan-born Ohio-raised exception in the group, and we see each other often at local Pride events. We always have a ton of fun when we are together, so I assumed we would easily be able to write together.

But what to write?

That it would be a gay romance was a no-brainer, but the sub-genres were endless. We’ve both written YA, historical, contemporary and paranormal, so our options were broad to say the least. I suggested even writing a book based off Billy Joel’s song Uptown Girl and calling to Uptown Boy, LOL

Through a few more chats, Hank had this pearl:

“I think, just knowing our writing styles, we could write the ever-loving fuck out of a contemporary rom-com. What do you think?”

Well, I totally agreed!

So with a genre decided, we needed a game plan. Thinking we should come up with a central setting, I spewed off a laundry list of settings—gay bar, funeral parlor, casino, a sexy house cleaning service with happy endings, a real comic book super hero. Hank narrowed it down and I loved the idea!

“Hello! And I like the idea of a central setting. Would be awesome if it became a series. I like your suggestions, and I think the beauty salon idea is great since you’ve got some really good knowledge about that area. I know nothing about it, but funeral parlor really jumped out at me and made me laugh. What about a beauty salon AND a funeral home in a small Midwest town, like OH or MI? Like, would someone from the beauty shop be hired to work on the bodies at the local funeral home?”

  And so MURDER MOST LOVELY was born….

  We have had a blast writing our Lacetown Murder Mysteries that we would like to involve you in a part of our writing process. With our setting decided, we needed to create our mortician and our hairdresser. I thought it would be good if we each just created one character then we put them together and see what happens. Though my day job is a cosmetologist, Hank created our hairdresser hero and I happily made up the mortician.

It was so much fun making up a character then sending it off to Hank as I excitedly waited to see whom he had created. It was almost like I was a matchmaker for my character but I had no idea who Hank was sending on his blind date!

  Meet Michael Fleishman, age 42

  Michael is a mortician who runs the Fleishman Funeral Parlor in Lacetown, Michigan, and he has been the county coroner for 13 years. He is quiet and awkward Jewish man, and he doesn’t date a lot or have many fiends besides his gregarious grandpa who still calls him Mikey, and his fat black-and-white tabby cat Mr. Pickles Furryton the Third—the latter goes with him to the funeral parlor every day.

I envisioned Michael looking like a geeky version of Luke Wilson, but with glasses. He is fastidious in his attire, and always polite yet very reserved. He’s awkward in his own skin, but as we all know, still waters run deep. That’s why I made Michael a Virgo, the most uptight of all horoscope signs IMO, but also the biggest freak between the sheets. Which you can imagine, led to some fun options for our—at the time—unwritten MSS.

Michael is an avid mystery reader and often fantasizes about solving a mystery like his favorite fictional character Brock Hammer. Not that such a thing would ever happen in the sleepy Lake Michigan village of Lacetown. The most exciting case Michael’s ever been called on to work was when Mrs. Briarwood caught her husband in bed with Abigail Smithers from the Marathon Station, and shot him with a crossbow in the scrotum.

  Please enjoy the first half of chapter one of MURDER MOST LOVELY—Lacetown Murder Mysteries Case One. For the second half of the chapter and a chance to learn how Hank created Michael’s soon-to-be paramour visit this link: https://www.hankedwardsbooks.com/2018/10/06/murder-most-lovely/

Murder Most Lovely

Lacetown Murder Mysteries: Case One

  Chapter One

Mr. Pickles will be so excited when I get home, Michael Fleishman thought.

Well, he wasn’t really sure if the taciturn cat would care if he had ten of his Brock Hammer novels signed by the author, but Michael would be excited.

He parked his tan Camry in the last available angled parking space on Main Street, unable to believe his luck finding a place to park. He ordinarily would’ve walked, living so close, but he wouldn’t risk getting any of his paperbacks or the two hardcovers wet in the rain.

Lacetown was crowded for the Great Lakes Literary Fest. Today was the first day of the three day festival, and sadly the tail end of a late-spring storm front. The festival kicked off the busy tourist season for their lakeside village and, despite the rain, the streets were busy with fans and visitors hunched under umbrellas visiting all the authors at the afternoon signing event. The lesser-known authors were trying to stay dry under tents in the town square, but most of the big name authors had been moved indoors for their signings, the bars and restaurants serving as makeshift bookstores.

And in Michael’s mind, there weren’t many big names in fiction that he wanted to meet more than Russell Withingham.

He’d checked the festival website before leaving the house and knew Mr. Withingham would be inside Kelsey’s Bar & Grill. There was a small line forming outside already so Michael grabbed his bag of books and his umbrella, and then hurried to join them.

A woman he didn’t recognize in line in front of him smiled and he nodded politely. There were always strange faces in their little Lake Michigan lakeside town during the summer. Tourists mostly, and this weekend literary fans.

The crashing sound of waves drew Michael’s attention behind him. Main Street ended at Route 412 and on the other side a boardwalk overlooking their unswimmable portion of Lake Michigan. Large waves crested, crashing in places over the spacious boardwalk stretching the length of town. He spied a few unfortunate tourists who didn’t have the wherewithal to see the obvious safety hazard of being out there when the lake was unhappy.

Hoping no one would be hurt, he adjusted his bag on his shoulder and tried to keep his umbrella from poking the lady’s in front of him. Fleishman Funeral Home only had gigantic golf umbrellas for services, and he was glad for it when the rain picked up and a gust blew mist onto his glasses. He shoved them in his front shirt pocket, knowing there would be no use keeping them clean until he was inside.

“Shit, I thought this rain was supposed to let up this afternoon,” a deep masculine voice from behind Michael said.

Michael turned and drew up short.

“Whoa there, pal, you could take an eye out with that thing.”

For a heartbeat Michael froze and just stared.

The man in line behind him had a long face and wheat colored hair swept back from a low brow and into a ponytail. Eyes the color of cognac had just enough sparkle to make Michael smile and conjure thoughts of mischief and long summer romances.

And you’re staring at him like a ninny!

Michael hastily stepped back so as to not poke the gorgeous man in the eye with his umbrella. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, watch it,” the lady in front of him snapped. “You’re soaking me!”

Michael jumped when he realized his big umbrella had slipped beneath hers and was funneling water right onto her.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” he said at once, stepping back the other way.

“Whoa, whoa,” ponytail guy said again, reaching up to take hold of the eye-level pin on Michael’s umbrella. “How about I just join you?” And then he stepped under the huge umbrella with Michael.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Michael managed, squirming a little. “There’s plenty of room.”

The man used both hands to brush a few wayward strands of blond hair off his face, his tanned skin glistening from the rain. He wore a ring on a long well-manicured index finger. Smiling, he held out a hand. “I’m Jazz Dilworth.”

What a strange name. Sounds like something in a mystery novel.

He quickly shook the proffered hand. “Michael Fleishman.”

Jazz flipped a thumb behind him. “I work across the street at Misty’s Makeover Palace.” He furrowed tidy brows. “Fleishman, like the funeral parlor?”

“Eew,” the lady in front of him said with a distinct Valley Girl attitude.

Michael maintained his polite mortician smile. Sadly, he was used to the reaction.

Hence his lackluster love life.

Expecting Jazz to make some equally grossed out remark and leave the safety of the umbrella, Michael looked back at him.

But Jazz was smiling, his white teeth radiant and even. “That explains the planet-sized umbrella. Only ever see those at funerals and on golf courses.”

Michael’s facial muscles softened, and the smile he gave Jazz was more genuine, relaxed. “Yeah, they come in handy.”

Jazz grinned, “I bet they do.”

This man was gorgeous. He had to be younger than Michael. But more importantly, he had the potential for being gay since he was a hairdresser. Well aware of his stereotyping, Michael was nonetheless hopeful.

Michael wasn’t the best flirt, but sharing an umbrella with an attractive man in front of a bar acting as a makeshift bookstore felt like the opening of a rom-com, so he was ready to give it the ol’ college try.

“Are you a fan of the Brock Hammer novels too?” he asked, glad his glasses were in his pocket. Jazz stood so close Michael didn’t even need them to clearly see his handsome face.

Jazz scoffed. “Used to be.”

“Oh.” Michael’s heart fell. So much for common interests. “Did you know this line is to meet him?”

“I know, all right. The fucker’s been ducking my calls for weeks.”

Michael flinched at the man’s crass remark. “You know Russell Withingham?”

“Married to him,” Jazz said. “Separated.”

So he is gay… Michael shook his head. “Wait, what?”

Those warm brown eyes met his, and Jazz smiled. “Separated,” he said again. “Permanently. He’s supposed to still be making my car payment, and I just got a call from the bank. He hasn’t made the last two payments.”

Michael didn’t know if he was more disappointed to find out his favorite author was a jerk, or excited to know the man under his umbrella was gay and single.

Well, possibly single.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Michael offered.

Jazz shrugged. “Nothing for you to be sorry for,” he quipped. “In fact, I should be thanking you for sharing your umbrella with me. Nothing worse than running into an ex with your hair all soaking wet, looking like a hot mess. I wanna look good when I tell him off. You know, make him regret losing me.”

Michael couldn’t help his involuntary head-to-toe sweep of Jazz’s solid body. Any man who would give up all that hunkiness had to be nuts.

Oh the things Michael would do with him if he could. I’d drip hot candle wax on each of his nipples while I rode….

Awkward, Michael cleared his throat when he realized Jazz was staring right at him. Michael’s face heated. Thankfully the guy couldn’t read his thoughts. “I’m sure he’ll regret it. You look great.”

Jazz’s grin widened and he tugged a little on the vest he wore over a white V-neck T-shirt. “Thanks.”

Still feeling warm in the face—among other places now—Michael smiled back. “You’re welcome.”

“I used to love Russell’s books. Was totally a fan girl.” Jazz leaned in and spoke softly. “The first dozen were great, now they’re crap, if you don’t mind my saying.”

While Jazz was only whispering closely so the other fans might not hear, Michael relished his nearness. “Yeah, that’s why I only brought the first ten to get signed.”

“Ten?” Jazz’s brows shot up.

He worried his upper lip. “Is that too many?”

Jazz laughed, a free, easy sound. “Oh, Russ will be thrilled. Trust me.”

Granted Russell Withingham might be a bad husband, but Michael loved his books and didn’t want to annoy the man.

Looking for something to discuss besides Jazz’s ex, Michael said, “Your boss Misty does work for me sometimes. She took care of one of my clients for her funeral yesterday.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“She doesn’t like it,” Michael confessed.

“I know,” Jazz agreed. “I heard all about it.”

“You did?” He had no idea Misty disliked styling his clients so much that she might be complaining about it.

“Yeah, creeps her out,” Jazz said. “I don’t know why. You stay in this business long enough, eventually you get a call to give a client their last doo. I don’t know where they’re going in the next life, but I’ll be damned if any of my clients get to the other side with their hair a wreck.”

“You’ve cared for the deceased before?” Michael asked, pleasantly surprised. Most people were freaked out by what he did for a living. Running the largest funeral parlor in the county, and being appointed County Coroner, should have brought him prestige and respectability, and he supposed it did in some circles. But working with dead people left most folks unsettled, rather than endearing anyone to him.

“Sure,” Jazz said with a casual shrug. “I don’t see the big deal.”

Grinning wide, Michael fished in his pocket for the leather business card holder he never left the house without. He flipped it open and withdrew a card. “If you’d like some extra work, I’d love to have you.” He heard how that sounded, and quickly added, “Um, have you do some styling for me. I mean, for my clients.”

Jazz smiled as he took the card. “I know what you meant. And Misty will be thrilled.” Then he dug in his front pocket, the jeans just tight enough in all the right places, that when his hand filled the denim it accentuated his nice package. “Here’s my card. You can get my references from Misty, if you want.”

Michael was still smiling as he took the card and carefully placed it into his card holder. “I’m sure that you’re more than qualified. You said you’ve been in the business a while.”

“Knocking on thirty years.”

Michael scoffed. “Did you start in preschool?”

“Hardly,” Jazz laughed. “A good hair colorist and access to the finest beauty products all culminate for the perfect illusion.” He leaned in. “I’m forty-one.”

“Me too,” Michael said. “But you don’t look a day over thirty-one.”

Jazz put his hand on his chest. “Oh, you flatter me.”

The line inched closer to the door.

“Jazz, is that a nickname?”

“Short for Jasper. I can be a little jazzy, and I love music, so there you go. But I can’t play or read music.”

“Me neither. No artistic talent whatsoever.”

Jazz frowned. “Your work has a bit of art to it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m rubbish with the hair. That’s why I need Misty for my female clients.”

“Good thing you met me today.”

Now he was grinning like a fool, but he couldn’t help it. “Yes. Good thing.”

Far too soon for Michael’s liking, they reached the door and stepped inside. He had to close and shake off his umbrella, which sadly ended whatever private and possibly flirtatious moment he’d been sharing with the gorgeous Jazz.

Jazz scanned the bar, jaw set.

Helping him out, Michael pointed to the back corner, where a middle-aged man with thinning blond hair, a black velour blazer, and burgundy ascot sat behind a table with mounds of books. “He’s over there.”

“Thanks,” Jazz said, his shoulders relaxing. He gestured to Michael’s umbrella. “Mind if I hold that till I get up there?”

Michael realized Jazz wanted it to hide from his ex until he got closer. And while not wanting to get involved, Michael liked the idea of having a chance to spend more time conversing.

Jazz held the umbrella over one shoulder and turned so it blocked his profile from Russell’s view. Michael stood behind Jazz and watched as drops of rain ran down the side of his neck. He longed to let his tongue follow the rain down beneath the neck of Jazz’s T-shirt. But that wasn’t something he did, and not only because he was a Lacetown business owner. He needed to work on relaxing and letting go of his inhibitions. At least that’s what all his exes had told him. One even went so far as saying Michael’s clients had more warmth than him.

Ouch.

“So you’ve lived here all your life?”

Michael blinked. “What? Oh. Here in Lacetown?”

Jazz grinned. “No, here in the bar.”

A blush heated Michael’s cheeks. “Sorry. I was woolgathering.”

“I like that.”

“What?”

“Woolgathering. It’s not used that often anymore. I like it.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you. And, yes, I was born and raised here.” Michael cleared his throat and looked away, then back. The bag of books suddenly seemed very heavy, and he switched shoulders. Jazz held his gaze, warm brown eyes locked onto Michael’s.

“So what happened between you two?” The words were out before Michael could run them through his mental filter to see if they were appropriate.

Jazz’s forehead furrowed. “Me and Russell?”

Panic zinged through Michael. “I’m sorry. That was a very personal question, and we just met. Forget I asked.”

“No, it’s okay.” Jazz took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Russell likes his side dishes.”

“Side dishes?” Candied yams popped into Michael’s mind.

“You know.” Jazz glanced at the woman in front of them who seemed to be leaning back and listening. He moved fast, putting a hand on her shoulder and easing her forward and away from them as he said, “Careful there. Looked like you were about to tip over. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself before you get to meet Russell Withingham.”

“Oh, no… I wasn’t… I wouldn’t…” The woman’s cheeks flushed and she took a step forward.

“There you go.” Jazz turned back to Michael with a grin. “Where was I?”

  READ THE REST OF THE CHAPTER HERE: https://www.hankedwardsbooks.com/2018/10/06/murder-most-lovely/

Then scroll down to win two ebooks!

Make sure you enter our Raffelcopter giveaway below for a chance to win a copy of my 1Night Stand book TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE and Hank’s mobster story HIRED MUSCLE

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Chapter One

  Mr. Pickles will be so excited when I get home, Michael Fleishman thought.

Well, he wasn’t really sure if the taciturn cat would care if he had ten of his Brock Hammer novels signed by the author, but Michael would be excited.

He parked his tan Camry in the last available angled parking space on Main Street, unable to believe his luck finding a place to park. He ordinarily would’ve walked, living so close, but he wouldn’t risk getting any of his paperbacks or the two hardcovers wet in the rain.

Lacetown was crowded for the Great Lakes Literary Fest. Today was the first day of the three day festival, and sadly the tail end of a late-spring storm front. The festival kicked off the busy tourist season for their lakeside village and, despite the rain, the streets were busy with fans and visitors hunched under umbrellas visiting all the authors at the afternoon signing event. The lesser-known authors were trying to stay dry under tents in the town square, but most of the big name authors had been moved indoors for their signings, the bars and restaurants serving as makeshift bookstores.

And in Michael’s mind, there weren’t many big names in fiction that he wanted to meet more than Russell Withingham.

He’d checked the festival website before leaving the house and knew Mr. Withingham would be inside Kelsey’s Bar & Grill. There was a small line forming outside already so Michael grabbed his bag of books and his umbrella, and then hurried to join them.

A woman he didn’t recognize in line in front of him smiled and he nodded politely. There were always strange faces in their little Lake Michigan lakeside town during the summer. Tourists mostly, and this weekend literary fans.

The crashing sound of waves drew Michael’s attention behind him. Main Street ended at Route 412 and on the other side a boardwalk overlooking their unswimmable portion of Lake Michigan. Large waves crested, crashing in places over the spacious boardwalk stretching the length of town. He spied a few unfortunate tourists who didn’t have the wherewithal to see the obvious safety hazard of being out there when the lake was unhappy.

Hoping no one would be hurt, he adjusted his bag on his shoulder and tried to keep his umbrella from poking the lady’s in front of him. Fleishman Funeral Home only had gigantic golf umbrellas for services, and he was glad for it when the rain picked up and a gust blew mist onto his glasses. He shoved them in his front shirt pocket, knowing there would be no use keeping them clean until he was inside.

“Shit, I thought this rain was supposed to let up this afternoon,” a deep masculine voice from behind Michael said.

Michael turned and drew up short.

“Whoa there, pal, you could take an eye out with that thing.”

For a heartbeat Michael froze and just stared.

The man in line behind him had a long face and wheat colored hair swept back from a low brow and into a ponytail. Eyes the color of cognac had just enough sparkle to make Michael smile and conjure thoughts of mischief and long summer romances.

And you’re staring at him like a ninny!

Michael hastily stepped back so as to not poke the gorgeous man in the eye with his umbrella. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

��Hey, watch it,” the lady in front of him snapped. “You’re soaking me!”

Michael jumped when he realized his big umbrella had slipped beneath hers and was funneling water right onto her.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” he said at once, stepping back the other way.

“Whoa, whoa,” ponytail guy said again, reaching up to take hold of the eye-level pin on Michael’s umbrella. “How about I just join you?” And then he stepped under the huge umbrella with Michael.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Michael managed, squirming a little. “There’s plenty of room.”

The man used both hands to brush a few wayward strands of blond hair off his face, his tanned skin glistening from the rain. He wore a ring on a long well-manicured index finger. Smiling, he held out a hand. “I’m Jazz Dilworth.”

What a strange name. Sounds like something in a mystery novel.

He quickly shook the proffered hand. “Michael Fleishman.”

Jazz flipped a thumb behind him. “I work across the street at Misty’s Makeover Palace.” He furrowed tidy brows. “Fleishman, like the funeral parlor?”

“Eew,” the lady in front of him said with a distinct Valley Girl attitude.

Michael maintained his polite mortician smile. Sadly, he was used to the reaction.

Hence his lackluster love life.

Expecting Jazz to make some equally grossed out remark and leave the safety of the umbrella, Michael looked back at him.

But Jazz was smiling, his white teeth radiant and even. “That explains the planet-sized umbrella. Only ever see those at funerals and on golf courses.”

Michael’s facial muscles softened, and the smile he gave Jazz was more genuine, relaxed. “Yeah, they come in handy.”

Jazz grinned, “I bet they do.”

This man was gorgeous. He had to be younger than Michael. But more importantly, he had the potential for being gay since he was a hairdresser. Well aware of his stereotyping, Michael was nonetheless hopeful.

Michael wasn’t the best flirt, but sharing an umbrella with an attractive man in front of a bar acting as a makeshift bookstore felt like the opening of a rom-com, so he was ready to give it the ol’ college try.

“Are you a fan of the Brock Hammer novels too?” he asked, glad his glasses were in his pocket. Jazz stood so close Michael didn’t even need them to clearly see his handsome face.

Jazz scoffed. “Used to be.”

“Oh.” Michael’s heart fell. So much for common interests. “Did you know this line is to meet him?”

“I know, all right. The fucker’s been ducking my calls for weeks.”

Michael flinched at the man’s crass remark. “You know Russell Withingham?”

“Married to him,” Jazz said. “Separated.”

So he is gay… Michael shook his head. “Wait, what?”

Those warm brown eyes met his, and Jazz smiled. “Separated,” he said again. “Permanently. He’s supposed to still be making my car payment, and I just got a call from the bank. He hasn’t made the last two payments.”

Michael didn’t know if he was more disappointed to find out his favorite author was a jerk, or excited to know the man under his umbrella was gay and single.

Well, possibly single.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Michael offered.

Jazz shrugged. “Nothing for you to be sorry for,” he quipped. “In fact, I should be thanking you for sharing your umbrella with me. Nothing worse than running into an ex with your hair all soaking wet, looking like a hot mess. I wanna look good when I tell him off. You know, make him regret losing me.”

Michael couldn’t help his involuntary head-to-toe sweep of Jazz’s solid body. Any man who would give up all that hunkiness had to be nuts.

Oh the things Michael would do with him if he could. I’d drip hot candle wax on each of his nipples while I rode….

Awkward, Michael cleared his throat when he realized Jazz was staring right at him. Michael’s face heated. Thankfully the guy couldn’t read his thoughts. “I’m sure he’ll regret it. You look great.”

Jazz’s grin widened and he tugged a little on the vest he wore over a white V-neck T-shirt. “Thanks.”

Still feeling warm in the face—among other places now—Michael smiled back. “You’re welcome.”

“I used to love Russell’s books. Was totally a fan girl.” Jazz leaned in and spoke softly. “The first dozen were great, now they’re crap, if you don’t mind my saying.”

While Jazz was only whispering closely so the other fans might not hear, Michael relished his nearness. “Yeah, that’s why I only brought the first ten to get signed.”

“Ten?” Jazz’s brows shot up.

He worried his upper lip. “Is that too many?”

Jazz laughed, a free, easy sound. “Oh, Russ will be thrilled. Trust me.”

Granted Russell Withingham might be a bad husband, but Michael loved his books and didn’t want to annoy the man.

Looking for something to discuss besides Jazz’s ex, Michael said, “Your boss Misty does work for me sometimes. She took care of one of my clients for her funeral yesterday.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“She doesn’t like it,” Michael confessed.

“I know,” Jazz agreed. “I heard all about it.”

“You did?” He had no idea Misty disliked styling his clients so much that she might be complaining about it.

“Yeah, creeps her out,” Jazz said. “I don’t know why. You stay in this business long enough, eventually you get a call to give a client their last doo. I don’t know where they’re going in the next life, but I’ll be damned if any of my clients get to the other side with their hair a wreck.”

“You’ve cared for the deceased before?” Michael asked, pleasantly surprised. Most people were freaked out by what he did for a living. Running the largest funeral parlor in the county, and being appointed County Coroner, should have brought him prestige and respectability, and he supposed it did in some circles. But working with dead people left most folks unsettled, rather than endearing anyone to him.

“Sure,” Jazz said with a casual shrug. “I don’t see the big deal.”

Grinning wide, Michael fished in his pocket for the leather business card holder he never left the house without. He flipped it open and withdrew a card. “If you’d like some extra work, I’d love to have you.” He heard how that sounded, and quickly added, “Um, have you do some styling for me. I mean, for my clients.”

Jazz smiled as he took the card. “I know what you meant. And Misty will be thrilled.” Then he dug in his front pocket, the jeans just tight enough in all the right places, that when his hand filled the denim it accentuated his nice package. “Here’s my card. You can get my references from Misty, if you want.”

Michael was still smiling as he took the card and carefully placed it into his card holder. “I’m sure that you’re more than qualified. You said you’ve been in the business a while.”

“Knocking on thirty years.”

Michael scoffed. “Did you start in preschool?”

“Hardly,” Jazz laughed. “A good hair colorist and access to the finest beauty products all culminate for the perfect illusion.” He leaned in. “I’m forty-one.”

“Me too,” Michael said. “But you don’t look a day over thirty-one.”

Jazz put his hand on his chest. “Oh, you flatter me.”

The line inched closer to the door.

“Jazz, is that a nickname?”

“Short for Jasper. I can be a little jazzy, and I love music, so there you go. But I can’t play or read music.”

“Me neither. No artistic talent whatsoever.”

Jazz frowned. “Your work has a bit of art to it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m rubbish with the hair. That’s why I need Misty for my female clients.”

“Good thing you met me today.”

Now he was grinning like a fool, but he couldn’t help it. “Yes. Good thing.”

Far too soon for Michael’s liking, they reached the door and stepped inside. He had to close and shake off his umbrella, which sadly ended whatever private and possibly flirtatious moment he’d been sharing with the gorgeous Jazz.

Jazz scanned the bar, jaw set.

Helping him out, Michael pointed to the back corner, where a middle-aged man with thinning blond hair, a black velour blazer, and burgundy ascot sat behind a table with mounds of books. “He’s over there.”

“Thanks,” Jazz said, his shoulders relaxing. He gestured to Michael’s umbrella. “Mind if I hold that till I get up there?”

Michael realized Jazz wanted it to hide from his ex until he got closer. And while not wanting to get involved, Michael liked the idea of having a chance to spend more time conversing.

Jazz held the umbrella over one shoulder and turned so it blocked his profile from Russell’s view. Michael stood behind Jazz and watched as drops of rain ran down the side of his neck. He longed to let his tongue follow the rain down beneath the neck of Jazz’s T-shirt. But that wasn’t something he did, and not only because he was a Lacetown business owner. He needed to work on relaxing and letting go of his inhibitions. At least that’s what all his exes had told him. One even went so far as saying Michael’s clients had more warmth than him.

Ouch.

“So you’ve lived here all your life?”

Michael blinked. “What? Oh. Here in Lacetown?”

Jazz grinned. “No, here in the bar.”

A blush heated Michael’s cheeks. “Sorry. I was woolgathering.”

“I like that.”

“What?”

“Woolgathering. It’s not used that often anymore. I like it.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you. And, yes, I was born and raised here.” Michael cleared his throat and looked away, then back. The bag of books suddenly seemed very heavy, and he switched shoulders. Jazz held his gaze, warm brown eyes locked onto Michael’s.

“So what happened between you two?” The words were out before Michael could run them through his mental filter to see if they were appropriate.

Jazz’s forehead furrowed. “Me and Russell?”

Panic zinged through Michael. “I’m sorry. That was a very personal question, and we just met. Forget I asked.”

“No, it’s okay.” Jazz took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Russell likes his side dishes.”

“Side dishes?” Candied yams popped into Michael’s mind.

“You know.” Jazz glanced at the woman in front of them who seemed to be leaning back and listening. He moved fast, putting a hand on her shoulder and easing her forward and away from them as he said, “Careful there. Looked like you were about to tip over. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself before you get to meet Russell Withingham.”

“Oh, no… I wasn’t… I wouldn’t…” The woman’s cheeks flushed and she took a step forward.

“There you go.” Jazz turned back to Michael with a grin. “Where was I?”

  ****To read the rest of the chapter and learn more about Jazz, go to HankEdwardsBooks.com****

    a Rafflecopter giveaway

from Meet Michael from MURDER MOST LOVELY, a book co-written by Hank Edwards & ME!

[type2diabetestreatments-blog]

Amazing Diabetes Advocates: Lexi Newell and Her Blue Shoes

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Amazing Diabetes Advocates: Lexi Newell and Her Blue Shoes

There are so many amazing folks in the diabetes community who are working day-in and day-out to raise awareness and educate about life with diabetes. Oftentimes, these advocates don't get the attention they deserve, which is why we've launched a brand-new series called "Amazing Advocates" to highlight their work.

This month's AA is Lexi Newell, a D-mom who works as an event planner in Las Vegas, NV, where she lives with her husband and two sons, Justice and Synsyre. Justice was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes three years ago at age six. Last November, Lexi co-founded a new grassroots advocacy organization called The Blue Heel Society, with the mission of "promoting awareness, pursuing the continued fight for a cure, highlighting obstacles people diagnosed with diabetes are faced with, and promoting advocacy for the diabetes community as a whole." Lexi joins us today to tell us all about it:

;

DM) Where did you get the idea to start something called the "Blue Heel Society"?

AN) The way Blue Heel Society evolved was fate, I guess. It was the day before World Diabetes Day 2011. I posted a picture on Facebook of a fabulous pair of Louboutin shoes. They were, of course, blue! A conversation started about the severity of these 6-inch stilettos. I mentioned a walk in "Blue Heels" and how it would be a cool way to raise awareness. Another D-Mom came up with the name instantaneously. Tony Cervati put together the blog and the Blue Heel Society was born! It evolved overnight and became much more than "a walk in Blue Heels." It's bigger than any of us could have dreamed, though The Walk could still happen! Collectively we came up with other avenues to use Blue Heels to raise awareness. And the rest is history!

What does the Society actually do? Does it focus on fund-raising?

We want people to understand diabetes, know that anyone can be affected and that we as a community deserve compassion and understanding. There are so many misconceptions about diabetes, not to mention the blame and judgement that comes with this disease (of any type). We hope to eliminate that! We'd also like to become a staple in the diabetes community, to support one another and assist in anyway we can.

Right now, we are working on implementing state chapters who will be appointed to facilitate BHS events in their area, from corporate fundraisers to tea parties. We have folks from New York, Ohio and Nevada already interested. We are also looking to implement "shoe-ins" where people gather in blue shoes to discuss diabetes. There are a lot of ideas, but because there are so many cooks in the kitchen, things are still being finalized.

Why blue shoes again?

Blue because it's the color that represents diabetes, so that was a no-brainer for us. Heels were chosen because, much like diabetes, from the outside things look fine, even fabulous. But underneath there is pain, discomfort and frustration. It was a perfect fit.

Blue Heels sounds very female-focused. Can D-dads and guy PWDs participate too?

Absolutely! Blue Heels is our name because of the symbolism of the heel. But we know not everyone wears heels, so any blue shoe will do! NO ONE is excluded from BHS. We embrace, welcome and support all people living diabetes or loving and caring for someone with diabetes.

How did you go about creating your organization? Who else is involved?

We formed overnight. We emailed, conference called, worked out logistics for our website, mission etc. We are blessed to have Tony Cervati, a type 1 PWD and endurance cyclist. He takes care of the technical part of BHS and is also our CEO/Co-Founder. Thomas Moore, another Type Awesome who is very active in the DOC, is our Communications Chief and Jen Loving, a fabulous D-Mom who works with JDRF as well as her local community, is our Chief Content officer. We have an awesome team if I may say so!

What does your 9-year-old son with type 1 think about an organization based on blue shoes? Is he into it?

His words exactly when I asked him were: "I think it's very cool and fashionable! I like that it helps people know more about diabetes, and ladies get better heels! You get information about diabetes!"

What's been the most challenging aspect of building an organization?

We are all so passionate about what we do, but we are all so different as well. Working together towards a common goal and in a manner that we all can get on board with is a challenge. But overall, I would say the biggest challenge is finding the time to do everything we want to do. If I could, I would do BHS full-time and never work again! But we will pull together, and make it work.

How did you get involved in diabetes advocacy?

Twitter started it for me! That's how I found the DOC and from there blogging. JDRF is a HUGE part of my life. I'm a JDRF mentor and volunteer. Justice is a youth ambassador and I volunteer for any events I can, like health fairs. In 2010, Sherry from Jenna's Pet Monkey and I created Special Sibling of a D-Kid Day, which is a day in November dedicated to the amazing siblings of kids with diabetes.

If people are interested in getting involved as a BHS chapter head, how can they get in touch?

They can email the Blue Heel Society at 187C@blueheelsociety.org. We also have "shoe box" in the works for the blog, which will have an application.

What advice do you have for folks thinking about starting their own advocacy project?

Do it. It may seem hard, or even impossibly out of reach, but it's not. The DOC is an AMAZING community that embraces new ideas and campaigns with so much love and support. Dare I say they make it easy? It is a lot of work but the benefits are endless. To wake up in the morning and know you made a difference, and changed someone's view of diabetes is a wonderful feeling. I need to quote Gandhi right now, because I believe he said it best: "Be the change you wish to see in the world."

Thanks for all the hard work you do, Lexi! And if you'd like to nominate an Amazing Advocate to be profiled here, please email us at info@diabetesmine.com.

Disclaimer: Content created by the Diabetes Mine team. For more details click here.

Disclaimer

This content is created for Diabetes Mine, a consumer health blog focused on the diabetes community. The content is not medically reviewed and doesn't adhere to Healthline's editorial guidelines. For more information about Healthline's partnership with Diabetes Mine, please click here.

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