Hello, friends and fans of MB4!
Friday, January 23, 2015
Hello, friends and fans of MB4!
Thursday, January 22, 2015
I know, right?
I just didn't care for it. I loved sci fi movies, but books just left me dry. I didn't have enough of a science background to know when it rang true or was baloney-sauce. So I mostly left sci fi to those who are aficionados. Give me good old
Southern fiction any day. Throw in a murder or a ghost, well, I'm yours forever.
Then I got a wild hair and wrote what passed for sci fi in a short piece. I submitted it. They liked it and wanted to put it in an anthology. Well, punch me and call me Judy. They LIKED it! William Faulkner is rolling over in his grave about now.
Just hold up there, old Bill. I am hot on the trail of something new. Sci fi. And not just sci fi, the old dry pie. I mean space opera stuff. I know you fellers are all about mystery and suspense and thriller, but that all can be inserted in this type of sci fi. In fact, it is a prerequisite. You have to have drama and high stakes. Somebody might get "insert space gear name here" to death. They might have a spaceship collision. What if a planet exploded?
Yeah, man. I am on the hoof now, outlining and plotting a blockbuster. I am so excited, I can hardly wait to share it.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Thursday, January 15, 2015
by Kim Smith, copyright 2015
by Kim Smith
Coming home is like breathing in a dust storm. You can do it, but you might die, and if you don’t do it, you will certainly die.
My return pulled at me like so many hands plucking my sleeve. Memories engulfed me. Surviving this visit would be hard, but that didn’t stop me from climbing off the train in Memphis. The familiar scenery hit me like a blues song. Coming home, being alone, feeling gone, all done.
The acrid scent of hot pavement, and roses wafted up. Crepe myrtles in fiery array all down Riverside Drive greeted me, and I looked up to see people on the bluffs enjoying the sights and sun. I joined them for a little while, sitting and waiting for that glimmer of hope that happened at the end of every day when you live near water. The hope called sunset, hope of a better tomorrow.
Sunsets over the Mississippi River is all gold and red and orange, and when the shadows fall and darkness swamps the whole area, a sojourner could feel lost. Loss of bearings, loss of self-lost forever in what might have been, not what had been, for what had been had done its worst and moved on. I moved on too, down the cobblestones slanting down to the river and my past.
Beale Street was the same as ever. Music spilled out of each doorway like a private concert being played just for me as I passed. The sounds of broken conversations, the tinkle of beer mugs being passed about, all created a symphony of sound that made me want to go inside.
But I didn’t. I kept moving. My heartbreak like a guitar strung around my neck, hanging useless waiting to be picked up and turned into life again.
When I arrived at Meemaw’s house, I knew coming home was just the period at the end of a sentence with no meaning. I had to come here. The old place brought tears to my eyes and washed away some of the misery inside my heart. The ramshackle building hosted a long well-used porch, complete with porch swing, now aloof and lonely. Maybe being here would fill the emptiness that traveling had not. Maybe my loss would find company here.
Out back, I could hear Pappy scraping food from a plate into the dog’s pan. The old flea-ridden Beagle shook her whole body as she waited happily, anticipating the morsels he’d put there. He straightened and saw me.
I greeted him and was embraced with a toothless smile. A welcome home. A “so sorry it has to be this way”. He didn’t have to tell me. He felt the loss as much as I did. No matter how far away I’d roam, I’d never forget the tears filling his eyes as he spoke of her.
We went into the living room where the worn out flowered sofa sat looking forlorn as if it wanted Meemaw to come and lie on it again. I knew I did. Pappy did. The place was never going to be the same without her.
Coming home was as bittersweet as missing the last piece of Meemaw’s best chocolate pie. But being home was as twice as welcome. I was home. Home was where life began.
Kim Smith has more freebies for you on her website, http://www.kimsmithauthor.com
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
I'm back from Colorado this week and catching up as we speak. So, in lieu of my post today, I'd like to share three little gems with you guys.
1) From historical fiction writer, Eleanor Khuns:
Salem has a long history as a maritime city. It was an era when smuggling was so accepted even gentlemen engaged pretty openly in smuggling. Don’t believe me? Well, in New York protection money was paid to Governor Fletcher and Thomas Tew, a Rhode Island Pirate, was frequently Fletcher’s dinner guest.
The tunnels of Salem – Smuggling in the Colonies as a way of life. http://wp.me/p1Xrwn-a8
2) From the talented Uvi Poznasky:
When my father passed away, I went back home for the traditional Shiva-a, the seven days period of mourning. Perhaps the grief did something to change the way I viewed things, or else it was sitting in that space--my childhood home--in a spot I rarely sat before.
3) And from MB4's very own, Aaron Paul Lazar, a free excerpt from TERROR COMES KNOCKING: a Sam Moore Mystery, part of the green marble series, which you can read by visiting Aaron's Facebook page at: