The Castle Logoria – Part One

The inn was old, but charming as the carriage drew up to the lit yard. However, this was no normal inn as it was situated high up the road from the prospering village and at the base of a large, abandoned castle. A castle that was sturdy, but clearly starting to decay and crumble. It was as if the inn had not idea there was something majestic behind it.

The coachman stepped down from the box and opened the carriage door just as the innkeeper, Henri, opened his welcoming doors, sending out more light from the cheery interior. He was the first person Aline saw as the coachman helped her down.

“Welcome, welcome,” the jovial man said. “Come in quickly and we will get you warm.

Before Aline could take a step, a proprietary hand reached out from the coach and stopped her.

“Wait, Aline,” the cultured, but spoiled voice said and a tall, thin man stepped from the coach. Roland Verninac, Baron Rogier, surveyed the inn, a brow raised as his eyes traveled up the castle walls.

“You must come in quickly before the fog and mist settle in,” the innkeeper urged. “Your driver can take the horses around back to the stables. Jean will help you.” Henri motioned for his stable boy.

Both Aline and Roland looked around, and sure enough, a mist was rising from the valley, thickening the shadows. Aline shivered and drew her green cloak closer around her shoulders.

There was an eerie silence all around as the mist sifted closer and for some inexplicable reason, Aline felt a pull to enter not the inn, but the large ornate doors of the castle.

Her ears tuned out her brother and the innkeeper as they directed the stable boy and coachman to take a few necessary satchels and her case down from the coach. She stared, mesmerized by the doors, and involuntarily she moved towards them. One of her hands reached up to clasp the large silver cross on a heavy silver chain and she fingered the cool metal.

Whispers called her. Whispers tugged her closer and closer. All other sounds were tuned out as she stepped up to the doors and rested her palm on the wood. She didn’t hear the should of alarm from the inn yard.

Over and over the whispers called her.

“Aline, sweet child. Come. Come sweet one. Unlock the doors and com in. Come dearest Aline.”

The whispers were in her head. They knew her name. She wanted to scream for the voices to get out of her head. She wanted to push the doors open and do as they commanded. Pushing and pulling, she felt the invisible forces tugging her to the door while her hand on the cross pulled her back.

“Stop it!” She screamed at the voices in her head. “Stop! Stop!”

Suddenly the screaming in her head wasn’t just silent. She started screaming out the prayer she had learned for deliverance.

“Concede, quaesumus, omnipotens Deus, Sanctum nos Spiritum votis promereri sedulis, quatenus eius gratia et ab omnibus liberemur tentationibus, et peccatorum nostrorum indulgentiam percipere mereamur. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.”

She repeated the words over and over, sobbing, tears streaming down her face as the whispers tried to drown out her words, becoming screams themselves.

A hand gripped Aline’s arm, jerking her away from the door and thrusting the screams back where they belonged. The whispers abated and she stood in the fading light as the mist from the surrounding areas crept into the in yard. Her face was dry and she found that all her screaming and crying, while she thought it visible, had been only in her head. It had all happened in her head.

She shivered violently and heard a soft curse. She looked at the large hand that still gripped her arm and she followed it up to the man who was watching her intently. He was very tall with dark features; deep set eyes, eyebrows that slashed, and a grim mouth. He wore simple clothes, a basic white shirt and dark brown breeches tucked into scuffed black boots that went up to his thighs. Striking. The man was very striking and Aline tried to pull away from his grip, but he held her firmly.

“You need to come away from the door,” he said softly, his tone far softer than she would have imagined with his fierce look.



…………………………………….To be continued


Have I hooked you?  This all came from a very strange dream I mentioned a week or so ago. It gets more interesting, in my opinion, after a time. There is no continued plot, but well, I thought I would see what you all think. It’s not meant to go anywhere other than me having some fun at writing.





Sam and Cat: Pancakes – Fiction

So sweet.

Sam and Cat

Meet Sam and Cat. This is a new fiction series I hope to dabble in over time. It’s based on a fantasy and, well, my brain. As in, my brain has lots of fun some days. Sam is this super sexy older gent (like barely fifty) and Cat is this thirties something gal who has a thing for Sam, but Sam doesn’t want to settle down….. Which you will be shaking your head when you read the short piece below.  There is no order to the stories; in fact, the story below is in the future, so just bear with me. I’m rambling out little pieces that interest me.  A little piece of a May/December romance that has been flirting with my mind for a couple months now. Sometime I’ll actually introduce these two properly with their introductory story, but for now, enjoy.

The scent of pancakes lured Cat from the bedroom.  She belted her ivory satin robe as she padded barefoot over the wooden boards of the old farmhouse. She smiled softly as she spotted Sam, his back turned to her with a spatula in one hand, the other gloved in a potholder holding a platter of the fluffiest looking cakes Cat had ever seen.
She was slightly disgusted that he could look so sexy wearing just a black t-shirt and faded jeans. She noticed his feet were bare and she sighed as her heart pounded ever so slightly faster at the sight.

“Good morning, little girl,” Sam’s gravely voice said even though he didn’t turn around.

Cat plopped herself on one of the bar stools at the counter and rested her chin in her hands, thankful that she’d at least  brushed her hair and applied a bit of makeup. When a sexy man wakes you with the promise  he will make you pancakes because you are not a morning person, the least you can do is spruce up a touch.

“Good morning,” Cat answered.  “You know, I almost expected to come out and see you in this frilly apron or something,” she teased.

Sam turned and raised a dark brow in her direction.  “Watch it, sweetie.  These pancakes might get tossed by the wayside if I have to deal with you.”

Cat giggled, but didn’t say any more other than a ‘thank you’ when Sam slid a cup of steaming coffee towards her.  Well, okay, she did thank him a bit more properly with a kiss, but that didn’t require words. Kisses were much more satisfying than words could ever be.

As for the pancakes. Well they went by the wayside into the oven for a while, but they weren’t forgotten after a time.

Signing off


Blue-Eyed Smitten – Being Thwarted – Flash Fiction

Part Two of Blue-Eyed Smitten

I had been thwarted. I had spent a week of trying to find a plausible reason to speak to Mr. Blue-Eyes. Something that didn’t sound inane and ridiculous. Fortunately, due to his distracting beautifulness, I actually hadn’t paid attention to something he’d told me. I had a reason to call! I played our conversation over and over in my head practicing and discarding what wouldn’t work. I knew what I was going to say.

I dialed the number carefully, rehearsing what I had practiced saying. I waited through the answering service information, heart pounding. I pressed the extension number.

“Is he in?” I asked the receptionist.

He was! But he was with a patient, could I hold while the question was asked?

Now I stare at the silent phone, defeated. Deflated. My question was answered. I had my information. I did not get what I had wanted.

I had wanted to hear his voice. To teas and ask him my question, while making it obvious I was interested in him. Impossible to convey that to the receptionist.

Cross plan B off the list. Now what?



There is that moment in the film Serendipity, where Jonathan Trager (John Cusack) goes to take Sarah’s number from her and a gust of wind comes up and blows the slip of paper away.  It’s that moment when “fate’ is telling the two to back off. That it isn’t time.

I am a huge believer in fate, Destiny, and God.  All interact completely.  So clearly, this was not my time and ‘fate’ was telling me to back off.  My only consolation is that the receptionist did have to go ask him my question, and she did have to use my name.  And I am supposed to make an appointment in 6 months…. Plan C?

Enjoy the continuation of my life in flash fiction form.

Signing off


Blue-eyed Smitten – Flash Fiction

jordon l legault edit blue eyesI was smitten. Staring up in to the most beautiful blue eyes on God’s green earth, with lashes that were too beautiful to belong to a man, I was dumb struck.  Eyes that were  only inches from mine. So close. I could drown in eyes this blue. Bluer than mine. Like those icebergs you see that are so blue they seem unreal.  And yet, this was the most awkward position for a me to be in; on my back with a beautiful man looking down at me. There I was with my mouth wide open and dental tools scraping away at my teeth.  Oh yes, this was a flattering way to tell a guy that you could drown in his eyes.  Why did awkward always happen when a gorgeous man, with no ring on his left hand, was anywhere near me?

A moment of real flash fiction from Monday. I never knew a man’s eyes could be so gosh darn beautiful. Or that a man could be so drop dead gorgeous. Well, that was the best visit to the dentist ever.  The picture is not of his eyes. His eyes were so much better. However. Enjoy.

Signing off


Scenes With Musical Inspiration

I first heard about using music to inspire a story when I read all about Stephenie Meyer’s account of writing the Twilight Saga.  While I have always enjoyed music and certain songs make me think of writing a story, I had never put music to a scene like they do in a movie.  Since reading Stephenie Meyer’s account though, I have really used music to instil a character, a scene, a story into my mind.  Where a song becomes the character’s song.  A song becomes the story.

For instance, a novel/romance I started  several years ago about a girl running a bookstore all came from Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Bookends’ song.  Not even the ‘Old Friends’, though I do adore that song as well since it is part of ‘Bookends’, but just the one song. There is no specific reason for that, other than books = Bookends kind of theme.  But, that song is stuck in my head for that.

Recently, as in just this last week and last night a song and scene fit together almost so perfectly I’m slightly amazed.  I would like all you reader’s input. Whether you agree or not, I’d love to know if you think the music I chose fits with the scene I’ll include below.  Kind of like watching a movie and you hear that one song that just fits perfectly with the scene.  The ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ at the end of You’ve Got Mail.  Or the ‘Northern Sky’ by Nick Drake at the end of Serendipity.  (pardon to the guys who may or may not have watched these chick flicks)

The song of choice is from a new band my father found, The Paper Kites.  The song: “Willow Tree March”. You can hear the song below.

And here is the scene. I’ve mentioned Rena and Owen before, if you’ve read some of my flash fiction.  Here they are at it again, only this time, a kiss. Enjoy and I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Rena reached up to hug Owen, pausing as she noticed that he was covered in sawdust and chainsaw oil.  He glanced down and grimaced, but she put her arms around him anyway, hugging him close, not worrying about the grime.  As she pulled away, her eyes rose to his and in that moment she wondered why she had always pulled away from him in every way. She saw the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, the intensity that had always been there, but she had shied away from it.

She moistened her lower lip and as his eyes followed the movement they both moved in one motion. He leaned down and she tipped back her head as his mouth settled on hers, closed and just pressing. It wasn’t passionate and it wasn’t spectacular, but when she pulled back and staggered for a moment, she had to grab his arm to steady herself.

“Mmm. Hmm,” Rena hummed a frown forming and wrinkling her nose.  “Could you, uh, try that again?”

Owen’s arm wrapped around her lower back and he tipped her more until for a moment it felt like her world fell away.  She slid her hand around the back of his neck and held on , clutching his neck, as his mouth settled back on hers.  The tingle started and traveled up her back as his mouth pressed gently.  Before he could pull away, Rena gripped his neck firmly and opened her lips to him.  

Rena almost smiled as she felt Owen change his stance to hold her closer as his mouth moved over hers with staggering results.  Her hands clung to him, holding him as close to her as she could.  She cupped his rough cheek with her left hand, her fingers lightly brushing the stubble, while her other hand slid up into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. 

He tasted of pine and the woods.  The hot summer sun beat down on them as the heady, intoxicating smell of pine resin swirled around them, baking and making their temperatures rise. A symphony of sensations assailed Rena’s senses. He smelled like the sawdust and chainsaw oil, of sweat and summer sunshine.  He was pure nature.  His mouth was warm and so soft on hers, his lips moving over hers sipping and tasting her as if she were a glass of brandy.  And around them the buzzing of bees and insects in the meadow combined with the dying of a chainsaw on the edge of the clearing.  A sudden silence that was deafening.

Rena heard a moan then realized that it was her as Owen deepened the kiss.  He tasted her and settled firmly on her mouth.  She couldn’t get enough; it was too much.  She felt as if she could crawl into his skin; she felt like she needed to shove him away and take off all her clothes that were binding her too tight.  Her fingers fluttered on his skin in panic and he gave her space, his face burying into her neck.  

They gasped for breath, heaving against each other, clinging.  His arms were wrapped around her holding her as if she were a lifeline, while she clung to him, pressing her body as close as she could get.

She felt devistated.  Like her world had come crashing down before sending her in a rush to the stars.   Dazed, confused, aroused.  She was a bundle of nerves.  It was stimulus overload.  She shuddered, but couldn’t pull away. 

It was the whistling catcalls that jolted them both back to reality.  They were far from alone.  Instead, they stood in the center of the clearing, the center of attention, a show almost, to the guys cutting with Owen.  Rena turned a bright red and buried her face in Owen’s shirt, mortified.  Not because it was Owen, but she hated being the center of attention.  She would never live this down. Word would get around.

But then Owen’s fingers tilted her chin to look up at him and as he smiled, she forgot again where she was.  She wanted his mouth on hers again, and she knew he knew it.  Finally, they were in sync.

Well, again, I would love feedback.  I doubt this will every go anywhere, but hey, I love tapping out things.

Signing off


A Bed of Debauchery

[via rainydaysandblankets]

Her toes peeked out from beneath the rumpled bedclothes. That was all that could be seen of her.  Her head was buried from a night of debauchery. The light was banned, all things bright and cheery were not allowed.  But oh, how soft the bed was.  And how sweet it smelled.  Why would anyone leave the soft haven anyway?



I’ve been meaning to dabble in some flash fiction as of late, but I’ve been putting it of in lieu of other pursuits, such  as reading. I have these massive stacks of books from the library, and I’m knee deep in half of them.  I’ll have to possibly review a few if I can.

More flash fiction to follow soon.

Signing off


The Making of a Private Eye : Short Story

Sorry for the 'sexy' aspect of this pic. I was trying for lady detectives, but wow, not easy to find. 😛

This last week I entered a short story contest my local library is hosting with the prompt of “It was a dark and stormy night…”.  I entered with a short story I have had in the works. It was actually a real novel I was attempting, however, after a year of playing around with it, it has gone nowhere.  I tweaked the ending a bit and the result is a story that I think has potential for something later on. Enjoy below.


The Making of a Private Eye by Katie Lyn Branson

It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed, shaking the old brick building where my offices were housed. I was at my desk reading information about a client whose daughter was missing. Most private investigation consists of reading about people.

I reached for the stale cup of coffee staring at me, ready to drink it, then decided it wasn’t worth the caffeine fix. I hated cold coffee. I was just about to ask Billie Jean, my secretary, to flip on the heat under the leftover pot on the stove in the small kitchenette, when the outer office door slammed open. I heard Billie greet the person. I leaned sideways to look through the open door of my office.

Of all the offices in the city, he had to walk into mine. His fedora dripped water all over my Indian carpet and rivulets streaked down his drenched gray raincoat. Just what I needed. Someone else ruining my rug. I had just had it cleaned, and here was someone else messing it up all over again.

“Can I help you sir?” Billie asked with her Brooklyn twang. She smacked her gum and I winced at the sound. I’d been on her case for months about the gum chewing habit, but still no luck. I figured it was a lost cause with Billie Jean.

“I’d like to see Mr. Swiftfoot, please.” His voice was as smooth as a glass of aged bourbon. Not that I ever drank any.

“Yah mean, Miss Swiftfoot, don’t cha?” Billie smacked her gum again.

“No, I mean Mr. Swiftfoot Private Investigator.” The man’s voice was tinged with annoyance. “Hold on one minute, sir.” Billie buzzed the office connection even though the door was open. “Boss, someone here to see you. You want me to send him in?”

“Yes, Billie, send him in.” I used my gruffest voice for the pure fun of seeing the man’s reaction.

Just as he stepped through the door I closed my lipstick tube and smacked my lips to set the color.

“Pardon me, miss, but I’d like to see your boss, Mr. Swiftfoot.” I looked up slowly, and almost dropped my jaw. He was tall and thin, but I wasn’t able to see his face well due to the shadow his hat created.

“I’m sorry, Mr., …..” I trailed off in question.

“Black. Andrew Black.” He answered and removed his hat. His hair was a glossy black, with a bit of a wave falling over his right eye. His eyes, were a soft gray. Little crinkles nestled in the corners of his eyes. His nose was thin and narrow and his mouth was thin as well, a sardonic quirk to it. He wasn’t handsome in the normal way but the quality of his bearing was appealing.

“Well, Mr. Black, I’m afraid there’s been some mistake. I’m Grace Swiftfoot, Private Investigator. I run this business.”

“You! How’s it possible a woman’s running a private investigation? It’s a man’s business.” Mr. Black growled the accusation.

“Well, Mr. Black, I beg to differ, but if you have a problem with a woman investigating something, Cheshire and Burke is just down the street. You can go drip water all over their carpets. However, since you’re here, I’m betting they turned you down, because most of the time, I’m considered a last resort. Fortunately, I have an almost perfect record in finding whatever you need found.” I sat back down in my chair and crossed my arms waiting for him to speak.

It didn’t take long. He sighed, tapped his hat against his thigh and then sat down in the chair across from my desk.

“Well, you’re right, Miss Swiftfoot. Cheshire and Burke did turn me down. I need help finding someone.”

“Of course,” I replied.


Jessica stopped reading and looked at her friend, Hank, who sat across from her at Rosie’s Diner drinking a cup of coffee.

“Well?” Hank asked, waving his hand for Jessica to continue reading.

“That’s it. I don’t have any more,” she said. She toyed with the spoon resting on the napkin and made damp marks with the coffee that remained in the spoon.

“You don’t have any more? But you had me hooked. What happens to this Black character? You can’t leave me hanging like that.”

“I’m sorry, Hank, but I haven’t been able to write anymore.” Jessica sighed. She’d been trying to work on this story for several days now. She’d woken on Tuesday morning after an incredible dream about this Andrew Black character. She could still see his gray eyes in her mind.

Marilyn came by with the coffee pot. “Do you need a refill?” she asked Jessica.

“Thanks Mare. Yes.” Jessica pushed her cup over.

“So whatcha working on?” she asked with her Brooklyn accent, smacking her gum in the process. Jessica glanced over at Hank who was attempting to not laugh. Obviously Jessica had used Marilyn as a model for Billie Jean.

“Nothing much. A story I had an idea for.”

“It’s not another private eye novel, is it?” Marilyn asked.

Jessica turned a bright shade of pink. She’d been trying to write detective stories for ages, and apparently news had gotten out.

“Um, yes, I am,” Jessica replied.

“Can I see this one?”

Jessica looked at Marilyn in surprise. Usually no one asked to see her work. She pushed the page over to Marilyn who snatched it up and scanned the page while she smacked her gum. When she finished she looked over the page at Jessica.

“Not bad. I like this Billie Jean character.”

Hank smothered a laugh and Jessica kicked him under the table.

“This Andrew Black guy sounds like a real piece of work. I’m not sure you can trust him.”

“And why is that?” Jessica asked with a brow arched.

“Well, you can’t trust any man who doesn’t care where water is dripping. Plus, it’s obvious he doesn’t like women.” Marilyn tapped the page against her chin for a moment. “Yah know, he sounds real familiar like. I swear he’s just like the guy who comes in every morning for breakfast.”

Jessica stared at Marilyn.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, every morning there’s this guy that comes in, orders the exact same thing, and he looks just like what you wrote. He isn’t handsome, really, but he has these gray eyes that are really intense. Kinda like they’re looking through you. He gives me the willies, but he tips real well.”

Hank snorted. “What’s with you women and eyes. And so long as he tips well, you’re okay with it?”

Marilyn ignored him. “Hey, maybe you should stop by tomorrow morning around seven. You can see for yourself.” She handed back the paper and sauntered off to clean the counter.

“So are you gonna?” Hank asked.

Jessica thought for a bit, tapping the page on the table. “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t hurt to see. I mean, if anything, it might help me write more of this story.”

Hank shook his head resignedly. “You’re crazy,” he muttered into his coffee.

Jessica swatted at his head but missed when he ducked. “Hey, you wanted to know what happened. Now we can find out.” Jessica smiled to herself. There was no way she’d pass up an opportunity like this. Even if the man wasn’t like the guy in her book, there was a bit of mystery to be had. And a private eye story would starve without mystery.

“Hey, if it helps, the guy came in the other day after it rained and he was dripping water everywhere,” Marilyn hollered from the cash register. “Oh, and Rosie just told me he was looking for somebody.”

Jessica turned to Hank, wide-eyed who was staring at her. Now she had to come in and check this out.


So, there you have it. I welcome any comments, but I mostly hope you enjoy.

Signing off


© Katie Lyn Branson and Kate’s Bookshelf, 2009-2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Katie Lyn Branson and Kate’s Bookshelf with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Flash Fiction : Magic Orb

She watched the magic explode in her open palm.  A sparkling swirl of gold dust and  white hot light.  She was amazed to see it finally come out of her for the first time after so much practicing.

“Hold it,” he whispered in her ear.  She shivered as she felt a frisson of awareness travel up her spine.  The orb of magic fluctuated slightly as she was distracted by his voice. Then, before she even knew what hit her, his finger slid up her arm.  She felt the power in him explode through her blood, only to register with a more intense orb in her palm. The orb sparkled and started to swirl with little flashes of lightning. His power was entering her and combining with hers to create something new.  Something wonderful.  Something that was more than she could handle in the space of a few moments.

She lost her concentration, focusing more on the way his thumb stroked the soft flesh of her arm, and the orb fizzled into nothing.  She felt him sigh, and she couldn’t help her answering one.  Her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“It’s okay.  You did well for your first time.  I pushed you too far by adding my own,” he said softly.

She stepped back from him, trying to calm her nerves.  It was one thing to feel her own power manifest itself in her palm.  It was an entirely new thing to feel his flowing through her, not to mention the awareness she felt with him so close.

She watched him as he absentmindedly opened his palms and his magic exploded itself into a mini storm cloud, complete with lightning, in his hands.  The storm swirled and the little crack of thunder made her jump.  How would she ever be able to handle that running through her?  It was bad enough with him just touching her.  Add in the electricity factor and it seemed impossible.

Oh, it’s amazing what the images on Tumblr envoke.  I saw the first picture the other night, and immediately an idea formed in my head.  Then I saw the second and new it just fit perfectly with the little story idea.

Rarely do I write science fiction.  I just don’t feel like I have a grasp of it, as it isn’t a genre I read a lot.  But, then certain bits of sci fi grab me, and I just feel so connected.  Certain books, specifically Patricia Wrede and Caroline Stevermer‘s  Kate & Cecelia series.  I love the ‘magic’ and wizard quotient.  It makes the stories so much fun.  Well, these two pictures are similar in thinking to that.  Maybe someday I’ll be able to write something like that. Who knows.  Enjoy.

Signing off


Who Is Luke Greyson?

And yes, my Luke wears this outfit. How could he not?

This is a character profile I did a year ago after seeing this gorgeous picture of ‘Eric Northman’.  I just had to create a character for something of mine and I honestly have fallen in love with Luke Greyson, even though  he’s not even fully written. Nor is his story.  But someday.  Who knows.  At least I know his heroine.  Though her story isn’t really written either.  Least she has a name.  Regina Black.

So here is his profile.

Who is Luke Greyson?

Luke Greyson, age thrity-five is the son of Peter and Marjory Greyson of New York.  Grandson to Franklin Greyson, a small hotel owner.  Luke, an only child, was raised going to private schools and living a somewhat pampered life.  Went to New York University, majoring in business and hotel management as he was expected to take over the family business of running hotels.  His grandfather passed away while he was in college, so Luke was left one of the five hotels Franklin owned along the Atlantic coast.  The rest passed on to Peter who was already managing three of them.

His mother, Marjory, passed away when Luke was 30, and it crushed him as they were close.  Luke was never close with his father, who  was always focused on his hotels.  Luke needed a change and a new start, so he moved west and purchased the small hotel in Ashland.  He has been improving the hotel for the past four years.

His employees respect and admire him as he is an honest, hardworking boss.

Luke can be a bit selfish at times since he was an only child.  He thinks things should go his way and gets impatient and annoyed when they don’t.  Sometimes he tries to manage people  getting them to doing what he wants, but he’s never cruel about it.  He just likes things his way.

In his spare time he enjoys good food and wine.  He has branched out and is part ownership in a small vineyard and winery in the hills outside Ashland.  He enjoys the plays that are at the OSF(Oregon Shakespeare Festival).  He has a taste for jazz music, but enjoys all forms, though he’s not one to have it playing in his office even when he’s on his own.

His tastes in books run to murder mystery, but on the occasion he does read some biographies and non fiction type books.  He always reads the Wall Street Journal at 4 in the afternoon when sits in the hotel restaurant for his afternoon cup of coffee.

 His quarters are in one of the two suites of the hotel, on the top floor.  A suite that is stylish and classically decorated in muted shades of tans and browns.  The one difference is the large flat screen television over the gas fire place.  He enjoys watching tennis, golf, and the occasional basketball game.  Though he’s not huge on sports.

He works out in the private gym of the hotel.  He also runs occasionally through Lithia Park.  He’s not bulky, but he does have a nice physique.  Defined muscles and form.  He’s in good shape.

He appreciates a good woman, and has dated some throughout the years, but due to the schedule of running a hotel doesn’t leave much time for going out.  And he hates golddigging women, which many are when they find out he owns  a hotel.   Women find him attractive and occasionally he finds himself with women throwing themselves at him.  He likes a strong woman, but not one that isn’t a lady.  His ideal is someone like his mother who managed the house and sometimes the hotels with an ease that spoke of her strength while never sacrificing her femininity.  Smart feminine women intrigue him.  He appreciates a woman in a nice pair of heels.

He drives a BMW convertible in slate blue.  He also owns an Audi A8.

His business plans are to possibly purchase another hotel in a smaller area like Ashland, but he’s still not sure.  He is enjoying being on his own and running the small hotel and getting to know his guests that return.


So, you all think this is something good?  Well, I’m partial to it.

Signing off


The Luxery of Writing Science Fiction and Fantasy

So there I was, hanging laundry late yesterday afternoon.  Up in the sky was the moon.  And as laundry always leads to me daydreaming…. The thought I happened upon was how easy it must be to be a writer of science fiction and fantasy.


Well, as a writer of those genres, you don’t have to be accurate with any kind of facts.  How does this relate to the moon?  Well I’ll tell you.

Yeah, see, that's a bit in the large department

Have you ever watched a sci-fi show or movie where there is this planet with something like three moons, and those moons are not little blips in the sky like ours, but actually take up a fair amount of open space?  Or the ones where the people are on the moon and the whole planet takes up half the sky?  I’m sure you know what I mean.  You watch any Star Trek, Stargate, etc. show, and at some point or another, you are going to see this gigantic moon taking up half the sky.

It actually looks really cool. Very artistic in style.  I’m sure it’s a blast to write.

Did you know that scientifically that is not possible?  I posed the question of these giant moons to my astronomy club a while back.  I had a theory and I just wanted to check to make sure my theory was correct. 

I was.

Oh this one is even better

And then say you were living on a moon that was near a giant planet.  Okay, well see we actually have proof of that.  Anyone ever heard of Io?  You know, Jupiter’s moon?  It is in constant activity. Volcanos, earthquakes, and whatnot.  No, really, it does that.  The other moons of Jupiter aren’t much better.

Image of Io taken by the Galileo spacecraft

Io (Image via Wikipedia)


In all reality, this giant moon thing is impossible.  Do you know what the earth would look like with a moon the size of, hmm, I’m thinking……Okay, a moon that took up half the sky in size?  Trust me, these earthquakes and volcanos that we’ve had recently would be a piece of cake.

See, so that is why I say to be a sci-fi or fantasy writer is easy. Has to be.  You. Can. Make. It. All. Up.

You don’t have to have facts.  Gah, must be nice.  And I do apologize to every other writer out there who writes in those genres. I’m not totally criticizing you.  Because, you see, I’ve contemplated writing science fiction and fantasy.  I actually do have some things started in those genres.  And they are actually easier to write.  Go figure.

Well, there’s my rant for the day.

Signing off