Monday, April 18, 2011



“Smella, I’d like you to meet Laird Flabio.” Harvey latched onto her elbow and made a sweeping motion toward Flabio. “Your future husband,” Harvey enunciated in a dignified manner.

Flabio and his big muffins bowed before Smella, and he smiled at her with a feral glint in his dark, ominous gaze.

“What?” Smella’s hand flew to her throat, and she gasped before choking out the words. “I can’t marry him. I’m already unconditionally and irrevocably in love with Deadward.”

Harvey shook his head, snickering. “You keep telling yourself that, Smells. Maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

“It’s true. I love him!” She cried out, feeling her breaths coming in gasps. She couldn’t imagine a life without Deadward. An arranged marriage to a man she hardly knew? She didn’t even like blueberries.

Her father turned to her with a thunderous expression. “I forbid you to see him!” he bellowed.

Smella’s insides churned. Her knees weakened. “Why?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Harvey eyed her with concern in his creased brow. “My deputies have been investigating his family.”

“Really?” Averting her gaze, she pretended to feign ignorance. “What did you find?” she asked innocently.

“Ever since the Forests moved to town,” Harvey spoke with a hard edge to his voice, kind of like he was going to announce that he discovered Deadward and his family were demonic, bloodsucking vampires. “There have been no stray pets in Pitchforks.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” she wondered aloud, feeling relieved that her father hadn’t realized the Forests were environmentally-friendly, vegetarian vampires.

“That’s not all,” the deputy added with casual indifference. “Over a dozen soccer moms from around the area have come up missing.”

“Oh? What a shame,” she said with false sincerity.

Harvey squared his shoulders, and gave her that smug, father-knows-best, look. “People are afraid to drive their Suburbans.”

“Well,” she answered in huff. “It’s good for the environment.”

“Yes, I guess so.” He looked momentarily disoriented, scratching the back of his neck while scrunching his brows. “But something about the Forest family is weird, so I’ve already arranged a marriage between you and Laird Flabio.” He motioned to the fat guy holding muffins, who had conveniently managed to stay quiet during the tense scene between Smella and her father.

Flabio’s goofy grin widened. Setting down the muffin pan, he turned around and grabbed something off the dining table. “Flabio have flowers for you.”

Smella thought she’d swoon when Flabio handed her a bouquet of petunias - the same kind of flowers that had killed Sassy. She stared down at the flowers with uneasiness, a queasy feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. Then she looked back at Flabio, the man whom her father had arranged for her to marry.

Dear God!

He bore a striking resemblance to the bartender who’d mysteriously disappeared the night Roxy was poisoned. He also looked like the stranger who had tried to attack her in the alley. And was it just a coincidence that he handed her the same type of flowers used in Sassy’s murder? Or was Laird Flabio somehow connected to her friends’ deaths?

“Laird Flabio comes from money,” her father said while biting into a large muffin. “Scottish-Italian nobility who made their fortune in artificial butter.” He spoke while chards of muffin flew from his mouth. “Mmmmm, delicious muffins, Laird Flabio,” the deputy moaned before planting his entire face into the next bite.

Flabio grabbed a tub of margarine with a picture of his face on it. He dug out a chunk of the spread with his finger, greased the top of the muffin, and then shoveled a large portion into his mouth. He turned first to Smella, then to the deputy with a look of mock enthusiasm in his eyes. “I can’t believe this is partially-hydrogenated-oil-artificial-butter-substitute,” he said as if he was reading a cue card for a commercial, but having a difficult time articulating the words.

“We saved one for you, Smells.” The deputy nodded toward the pan with one remaining muffin.

Flabio gulped down the rest of the pastry, then reached for another. “Flabio want one more.”

“That’s your ninth muffin,” the deputy grumbled in between bites, slapping Flabio’s hand away from the pan. “Save one for Smella.”

The large man’s square jaw fell, and his lips turned a frown. “Flabio need muffin to build strong muscles.”

“I think Flabio could use a few less muffins,” the deputy derided. He grabbed the last muffin and tried to force one on Smella. “Take one before they’re all gone.”

“No, thanks, Harvey.” She waved him and the offending muffin away. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

Turning on her heel, Smella raced from the room. She managed to hold back the tears until she’d reached the top of the stairs.

By the time she’d fallen onto her rainbow quilt, she was sobbing like a baby. How could her dad force her to marry such a brute? Surely she’d starve with a husband like Laird Flabio. She could only imagine herself reaching for a dinner roll at the table and losing a finger in the process. She’d be much safer with a husband like Deadward. Although he thirsted for her blood, and it took all of his physical restraint not to eat her, he would have been gracious enough to offer her the last muffin.

If her daddy refused to allow her to marry Deadward, surely her life would be over. Never mind the fact that he dumped her a few chapters ago, and he no longer wanted her, anyway. Or that he and his vampire family had relocated to an undisclosed location, and she probably wouldn’t find him, even if she searched for a million years.

She and Deadward were destined to be together.

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Thursday, April 14, 2011

First encounter

Oooh, yes, the moment you've all been waiting for - The sizziling scene when the hero and heroine meet. Enjoy this scene with a nice glass of red wine. Grab your athsma inhaler, too, because you will be left breathless when you read their first, steamy encounter...

Just as she was about to lift the glass to her lips, a sudden chill caressed her flesh like icy kisses. She giggled as the sensation seeped through her denim and snaked up her thighs. Her giggle turned to a gasp, then a moan as one cool tendril slid across the prickly spikes of her week-old bikini waxing.

What had come over her? She hadn’t even taken a sip and already she was feeling buzzed.

Setting down the beer, she spun around, knowing her answer would somehow be behind her. Her jaw dropped in astonishment.

The most beautiful man she’d ever seen was not there, but when she turned sideways, a somewhat good looking, although pasty white gentleman, was seated in the saddle beside her. He wore retro black polyester pants with a matching button-down shirt, revealing a pasty white, hairless chest. Draped over his polyester was a heavy looking, black tweed coat with an oversized collar. The rather large buttons, and silver buckle dissecting the coat, were left unfastened.

Smella briefly questioned the wisdom of a fashion statement where a man wore many layers of clothing and then didn’t bother to button up.

“I wouldn’t drink that poison if I were you.”

He spoke with a slight accent, reminding Smella of a lonely soul from another place, another time. Or maybe just a British guy trying to sound like he was from nineteenth century Boston.

Smella’s eyes widened. Her gaze shot to the beer, then back to the stranger. “What poison?”

“You can’t pin anything on me!” The bartender hollered while stumbling backward, before falling against a shelf of beer mugs.

Locked in the stranger’s dark gaze, Smella ignored the sound of crashing glass. She was more interested in his perfectly kissable blood red lips and the cold, impenetrable aura that radiated off his stony features.

“Alcohol destroys your kidneys.” The stranger flashed a subdued smile, revealing pearly white, jagged teeth.

“You’re right.” Turning down her lips in disgust, Smella pushed away the offending glass. “Thank you for berating my choice of beverage. Throughout this novel, you may occasionally behave like a total control freak, but I know you are only concerned for my well-being, and because I am a woman, obviously I’m too stupid to act in my own best interest.”

Somewhere in the darkest recesses of her mind, she thought she heard the obese bartender scream, “Help me! I’m bleeding everywhere!” But she refused to let him ruin the romantic tension that she was trying to build with the tall pasty stranger.

Leaning toward him, she playfully batted long lashes while twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

But the stranger didn’t respond to her flirtation. He was too busy pinching his nose and making a gagging sound.

She scooted back. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” He spoke through a wheeze. “I have to go.”

In a flash, he was gone.

Smella was confused, bewildered, frightened, rejected, vulnerable, hurt, self-conscious and irritated.

But never mind her PMS.

She was more concerned about her awkward encounter with the kind stranger.

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Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Why are people spewing coffee on their ereaders when they read Romance Novel???

But more importantly....Is Flabio a real cover model? How can an unwed virgin mother conceive an illegitimate child and still retain her flat stomach and perky breasts? Why must all hunky single millionaires live in Texas? What's that awful smell? These questions an many more are all answered in Romance Novel, my new parody.

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Sunday, April 3, 2011


Are you ready for some passion??? Here's a sultry love scene from Romance Novel!

She brushed the sleeve of her tweed coat across her passion-soaked lips. “Gawd, did you have onions for dinner?”

“Sorry.” Snake winced, wishing he’d laid off the salsa when he’d eaten those fish tacos.

“Do you want me to brush?”

“No,” Looking like she had her own dirty little secret to share, she toyed her fingers while playfully biting her lower lip. “I haven’t washed my delicate blossoming flower in over a month, so now we’re even.”

“That’s disgusting!” He gagged, releasing Smella’s shoulders. He was so disgusted, that a tiny amount of bile projected into the back of his throat.

She flopped back into her bean bag. “Women hardly bathe in medieval times,” she huffed.

“It’s 2011,” he corrected. Smella sat up and jammed a finger in his chest. “Are you going to point out every historical inaccuracy in this convoluted story-line?”

“I guess not,” he grimaced while wondering if three condoms would be enough to shield his penis from her skanky crotch.

Grasping his hand, she placed his palm on her ample breast.

That seemed to do the trick, because Snake had already forgotten what had him so grossed out just a few moments earlier. All that mattered was that he had a boob in his hand.

Leaning over, she rasped into his ear in a sultry voice. “I’m going to faint next time you kiss me. That’s your cue to carry me into the bedroom.”

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