Characters: Names & Numbers

I have noticed this issue with seasoned and novice writers alike: a tendency to not only confuse the reader with changing character names and designations, but to use too many characters when it's not necessary.

When you introduce characters, it's okay to use their full names, but at some point you should try to settle on one name by which to refer to them. Otherwise your reader will be confused and might have to page back to the previous pages to hunt for who it is. This is not something you want your readers to have to do. I know that as a reader myself, I certainly don't want to do it.

When you mention a character for a second time, and it's been a while since the first time or the last time, give the reader some cue, like, "John, ever the nutty professor, joined them." --assuming of course that John is a professor, and has been known to be nutty.

This caveat about character names and clues should be used with even more attention when you have more characters, as it becomes harder and harder for your reader to keep them clear in her mind. Some books do seem to require quite a few characters to tell the story, however. My first few novels had only two to four characters and the rest were peripheral or nameless (i.e., the "waitress"). --a definite indication of my greenness as a writer back then. Probably wise, though, to start those projects with only a few main characters, until I learned how to handle them better, and with more discernment. But I have come to recognize that more complicated plots require more characters, (not always, but usually), and likewise, more characters can help you create that sort of plot. Now, this is from my viewpoint of being an organic type of writer. I don't plot out all my books down to the last detail. I feel that sucks most of the joy right out of it. So, keeping this in mind, that organic process tends to take root when you have different characters playing off each other. Sometimes the solution for being stuck in where your story is going, can be solved by some interesting juxtaposition in two or more characters, or by just allowing them to converse, until something pops up that offers you a solution.

In my novel, Achilles Forjan, I think there were about 33 characters, even though some were tertiary, and some were talked about, but no longer present in the story--they were victims of a killer. But all those characters were necessary to the plot, and I was careful to remind my reader in subtle ways, who they were when they were out of the picture for a while.

Another method I used to great success in Baggage, was to try to go to a different character in each chapter until I established them all, and then allow them to merge in chapters as their relationships intertwined. I learned this little trick from one of my favorite authors, Dean Koontz. (see blog entry on the Koontz Dangle).

No matter how you handle the characters in your books, just be certain that they are there for a tangible reason, and it's clear which one is in the scene, and in relation to what other character or situation. No need to confuse things for the reader.

Characters: Names & Numbers

Voice: First & Third Person

One of the most difficult things to master for me (and many other writers) is VOICE. This challenge trudges through the morass of other subjects like past tense vs. present tense, or past perfect tense, flashbacks, omniscience. . .

Which Person? In fiction, the overwhelming majority of books are written in Third-Person. There are cogent reasons for this. One pertinent reason is that when you use First-Person, you are restricted to only what your main character is privy too. So if you need some clandestine goings-on, this wouldn't serve you. In First-Person, your main character has to be present all the times. It can work if the story follows that character and you need the reader to align with them in a certain way. For instance, I knew that science fiction was not a genre I was used to writing in, nor do I feel qualified to do it very often. But of course, i had to write something in this genre because I have an overwhelming need to say one day that I've tackled all of them. You have to be a bit of science geek to pull it off, though. But, if you have a character who is like you, in that he or she is also not all that knowledgeable, but is getting pulled along by events, then this can be an effective voice in which to write. I used this voice for Quintessence, the science fiction novella I am currently writing. I knew that the only way I could pull it off is if my character was just as much an amateur as I am with most of the scientific subject matter surrounding Quantum Physics. For example, When my character Jason Beasely finds himself in an unusual predicament, Professor Pritchard tries to explain it to him:

"Can you just give me some kind of layman's explanation?"

"Well. . .the antecedent of the process is based upon the DNA Phantom Effect, which was developed by a Russian researcher named Poponin. He provided the best evidence that our genetic makeup possessed a subtle energy on the quantum level. . ."

"Okay. . ." Barely making sense of that…

"In one of his experiments he placed light in a vacuum, and found that its distribution was random. When he added DNA material into the vacuum with the light, the light particles shifted into wave patterns, and then when he removed the DNA, the light particles didn't return to the previous random pattern, but were actually changed into another form."

"That's interesting." What a crock. The guy had a brain tumor for God's sake. He really WAS a mad scientist. I just came along, this bored Alabama country boy with two years of college, and wanted it to be more than it was. I couldn't explain the letter, or the synchronicities that had occurred. But even if this guy knew my father, they were both gone, both dead. I couldn't spend the rest of my life chasing ghosts. I had places to go, things to do, women to pleasure.

So, using First-Person, the character of Jason doesn't really get half of what the professor is saying, but neither will most readers. So this creates an immediate sympathy with that character, while allowing me (the writer) to avoid knowing a bunch of details that would take a lifetime to learn. It still allows me to tell the story, which isn't so much about the scientific details, as about the people. Now obviously, if you are not a quantum physicist, or at least intimately familiar with the concepts and information surrounding this discipline, you shouldn't take on a project like this unless your focus is to be on the characters. You will be blasted out of the water by any geek who reads your story.

First-Person is also more immediate, and the reader can feel like she is going along for the ride. Just make sure your character and the events that character experiences, is enough to keep the story moving forward, or you might have to change the tense to Third-Person, just for the quality of the story itself. It's a judgment call, and one which will become more an more natural to you the more you write.

Early on, when I was honing my craft, (a process that should continue, no matter how many books you write) I would have many different readers read my work and then fill out a form about what they liked and didn't like, and anything that was confusing, or anything they felt was missing. This gave me insight into what it was to be an objective reader of my stories, since it's hard to get yourself out of the way and do it in your own head.

In the Third-Person Omniscient Voice, you can move around between characters and tell a story that has both past, present and future, even if your main character doesn't know about all of it. As the Narrative voice, especially an Omniscient Narrator, you can fill in the gaps. There is much more autonomy in this voice, especially if the plot is complicated, or the story can only be told with information belonging to several characters. That's why it gets used as the primary mode of storytelling in fiction, though First-Person is enjoying a bit of a resurgence in popularity. But along with the benefits of Third-Person, there come inherent stumbling blocks. Tenses can begin to make you...tense.

This is no more apparent than when you must use a flashback to tell your story. There's the past tense of the narrator telling the story and the the past tense of the narrator telling an older story.

"She was thinking about that time long ago, when things began to change. It was on a Friday, and she remembered that, because Friday was pay day."

Now, is this character talking about payday being on Fridays now, or just then? A reader will probably understand, but this can get hairy. For me, using past perfect tense can get so complicated that I avoid it altogether. If, in the case of a flashback, I need to relate something that happened before the story that is currently being retold (did you get that?) then I will delineate this by saying something like,

"I remember when everything changed on that cold September day."

...and then I start a new chapter and head it "September, 1994". This, after establishing that the main story being told happened after that longer-ago time. Did I just confuse you more?

Basically, you must make it clear to the reader when you are jumping far back in time and then let them know when you are again in current time, by saying in the chapter or paragraph following the flashback, something like,

"Now, she wondered why all that seemed so important at the time."

...and then giving some clue as to the current setting you had previously departed from, so the reader can come back to your storyline, now. To use past perfect by saying,

"She remembered how everything had changed on that cold September day. She had been washing her car, when an old man had approached her wearing clothes she had not seen since the seventies."

The "hads" in these sentences are not only cumbersome stylistically, but they serve only to confuse the reader, so if you make some kind of indication that you're telling something farther back in time, and then leap into that time to tell it in past tense, then come back and draw your reader to the current storyline with clues of settings and objects and people, then it will be clear what you are doing.

So, as a rule of thumb, about 80% or more of novels are written in Third-Person. Mostly, I believe this stems from our own ancestry, where oral tradition was about telling others what happened in the past. It is the most comfortable voice for readers to understand, and always a good idea to keep your style from obstructing the reader's Suspension of Disbelief.

Voice: First & Third Person

Style Editing: Word Choice & Attributions

What is meant by a writer's "style"? I'm not referring to MLA or Harvard or APA style; nor am I referring to terms such as "expository," "Journalistic," or "academic." In the context of book authors, I'm talking about a writer's unique voice; the way a writer strings words and phrases together on a page; the method by which a writer can engender fear or sympathy or suspense in a reader. These things can be as much about setting, atmosphere, and characters, as they can be about sentence construction and word usage. I'll focus on word choice and attributions in this post.

The first word choice for me is always Microsoft Word. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.) While it has its own inherent shortcomings, as does all software, it is by far the most powerful word processing program. For the purpose of this post, It has some very useful features (as you probably know, since most writers use this program). For those who might find this helpful, here's some tips.

Use Search and Replace to find all those overused words and phrases. When your search lands on one of those words, click that word once (on the highlight on the page) and then re-write that sentence, or replace that word with something more vivid, more unusual, more powerful, more meaningful.

I have a personal list of the words and phrases I have overused in the past (I think I'm better about it now, after editing for it so often). While you're writing, don't worry about those things. It's okay, because then, you are getting the story down, and now, you're putting on your editing hat.

My list included:
"reached for"
"just"
variations of "pull" and "push"
"looked"
"she was sure"
"she knew"

You get the idea.

Here's a little heads-up. You know that text program, NoteTab Lite, I've mentioned? It has a feature called Text Statistics where you can paste in your text and check it for the frequency of word use. ("Yes, I use words frequently" -are you saying? Well, then, you are a smart ass. And it takes one to know one). This feature also does word and character count.

Okay, back to the list of words.

Here is a list of commonly overused words you can search for in your manuscript. Also look for the variations thereof, or et al, such as walk/walked/walking.


This list is by no means comprehensive, and can be as endless as each writer's individuality. Mainly, just be aware of plain words that don't color your descriptions properly. It's a fabulous exercise to try to find another way to say something. It stretches your writing muscles in a most satisfying way. (Careful not to pull a Writing Ligament, there's no salve for that). There are so many nuances, and you can miss out on some fantastic writing by not keeping this in mind. Here is a list (not comprehensive, either, but important) of errors or amateurish mistakes to eliminate from your manuscript, to keep an agent or editor reading it from rolling her eyes and tossing it into the Round File.

Stylistic things to avoid:

PASSIVE VOICE
Try to avoid it. It's not immediate, and is usually boring and verbose. The only time you should use past tense is when you're referring to the past and that needs to be clear. For instance, in a flashback

• Use Word's search and replace tool again. Look for GERUNDS-words ending in "ing"-and was/were/had and make them present tense, if at all possible

ADJECTIVE ABUSE
Your writing can become bloated, flowery, predictable and even confusing Try to avoid using adjectives and adverbs altogether.

• Instead use more descriptive nouns and verbs

WEAK ATTRIBUTIONS
They clutter up the dialogue, are distracting, and smack of ineptitude

• Leave most "saids" out; In other cases, show action along with the statement

Here's an excerpt from my novel, Baggage, to illustrate the conservative style of attributions:

"Mental fugues?" Sienna asked. "You'll have to elaborate on that over dinner." "Not until you tell me how you met that vermin." "I'll think about it." She started walking toward her car. "Where are you going?" "Back to the hotel." "It's almost dinner time, why don't you follow me home?" She continued to her car, as he strode after her. "Because I'm not a puppy." "Oh my god, woman. You are really playing me, aren't you?" She opened her door and turned to him. "Not at all. I simply don't want to appear desperate." "You don't. See, the way I figure it, we keep crossing paths for a reason. Don't you find that strange?" "It's a lot stranger than you could possibly know." "What does that mean?" "Maybe I'll tell you one day. Today is not that day." He chewed the inside of his cheek, regarding her. "What am I going to do with you, Sienna Bachman?" The answer, something good, I hope dashed through her mind, and she pushed it away. She could not very well let herself get involved with the son of Dominic Fontaine. . .and yet, Noah had been right. There did seem to be some cosmic manipulation going on. He continued to goad her, weighing the imaginary choices in each hand. "Let's see. . .go back to the hotel . . .go to Jerrin's for dinner. . .hotel. . . Jerrin. . ." "Oh all right. Lead and I shall follow." "That's more like it." He turned and headed for his Element.

The points to notice are that if your characters are distinct individuals, it is often not necessary to have an attribution at all, and instead of telling the reader "he said," or "she said", you can insert what playwrights call "Stage business" which merely means what they are doing, or some mannerism, in place of the attribution, or at least, not having to do with the attribution at all. But it does set the tone for what a character is saying.

Watch for upcoming blogs on style and other writing tips.

Style Editing: Word Choice & Attributions

I Heard You the First Time

...Repetition as enemy to style and cadence.

Even great writers make mistakes. I can usually tell when it's an editing oversight, or the fault of the author. An editor's oversight seems a simultaneous contradiction, in that it can mean "overlook", but also "seeing-over," as in monitoring--same word, two opposite meanings. Accordingly, when I use the word "mistake" in this context, it doesn't necessarily imply the condition of being WRONG. I use the word, "mistake" loosely. What I'm really talking about are stylistic errors. But telling someone how to have a writing style, is like telling someone how to have clothing style. It's up to them how important it is. But you can learn how to have an impressive style in your writing, just like you can learn to have it in your wardrobe.

Some authors write only, and don't do much editing. Others do both, and endeavor to keep them separated. But I feel that most common stylistic errors are just plain laziness. For instance, to repeat an already established fact is simply careless, (just careless, I tell you! Careless!) unless it's intentional for effect (as in the outburst I just had) or in the case of the first mention being so far away from the second that the reader might need their memory jogged. Recently, I found an example in this passage from a popular novel:

Christopher Stewart Hughes was one of Johnston's graduate students.

Then four paragraphs later,

Chris was a graduate student in the history of science--

Then a paragraph later,

Chris had been an undergraduate, in his junior year, when his parents were killed in an automobile accident. Chris, an only child, was devastated;

Okay, so once an author has established who someone is, and what part they play in the story (i.e., graduate student) it then becomes superfluous, especially within the span of a page and a half of text, to remind the reader. And it frankly aggravates me, and I talk back to the book. "Yes, I know he's a graduate student, you said that three times already."

The last snippet of quoted text falls into stylistic issues, as well, though perhaps it is more a preference on my part, and not necessarily considered an "error." The sentence,

Chris had been an undergraduate, in his junior year, when his parents were killed in an automobile accident. Chris, an only child, was devastated;

...it is part of the previous style point, but also includes what I feel to be awkward phrasing. I would have revised the sentence to read,

In Chris's junior year, his parents were killed in an automobile accident. An only child, Chris was devastated.

This says the same thing without the repetition that Chris was a graduate student, (saying "in his junior year" refers to the fact that he was a student, and need not be reiterated) and it also avoids beginning too many sentences with the same word.

It's something on my (long) list of edits I do after I've written most of the story. I go back and read like an editor, and make sure I haven't repeated myself, started paragraphs and sentences with the same word, or used the same construction all the time.

When constructing the style of your sentences, remember that writing is like listening to music; sometimes you need a long phrase that flows and continues for a time, and then you need shorter sentences interspersed. If you read your writing aloud, you'll find most of these interruptions in flow. (This is probably where the idea came from, that writers are always talking to themselves. It's for a good reason, not the least of which is that they'll know who they're talking to).

So--There's a cadence in writing and I believe that developing your style has a lot to do with figuring out what your cadence is. But as for the pleasantness of reading it, while this can be highly subjective, just as music can, there are still things that create the most pleasantness for the largest number of listeners/readers. Primarily, try not to aggravate your reader with sloppy sentence construction and repetitions and verbosity. They may not be able to tell you WHY it's aggravating them, but they might put your book down. And that is, of course, contrary to your goal as a writer.

Oh, and the novel I used as a reference?? That was from Timeline by John Grisham. (sorry).

I Heard You the First Time

The Koontz Dangle

One of the best stylistic things I ever learned about writing novels, was gleaned from being an avid reader of Dean Koontz. I not only read his work, I studied it.

Several years ago, I was reading in bed, and was so sleepy that I felt I couldn't continue, and yet I turned the page and kept trying to stay awake. This had happened before with his books, and often i would wake up later or the next morning with my reading lamp still on, and the book still on my chest. I read until sleep claimed me. Why? Because my curiosity was piqued, and because there were things left unanswered. Koontz was able to string me along as if I had a leash on, and he was holding the other end.

The technique was this: Every chapter used a staggering character--(no, not drunk people)--they would each be about a certain character, and the chapter after it would be about a different character. But at the end of each of those chapters, without fail, something would happen and I would be left hanging. So I'd go to the next chapter, but it would be about someone else, in another situation, and I'd be reminded that I wanted to know about that, too. Thus, I kept reading, because he always left something dangling at the end, but skipped to someone else and did the same there in the chapters that followed. By the time all the questions were answered and all the curiosities were quenched, the book was over. Brilliant stylistic device. No surprise that Dean Koontz has been so successful for so long. He earned it.

So I went back to all my manuscripts and did a revision on each (which is, as you will note, called RE-VISION for a reason...you have to look at it again, and in a new way). I did rewrites to include this technique of dangling, and my books then became more page-turners.

Thank you, Mr. Koontz.

The Koontz Dangle

Some Recent Abstracts

These are some of my most recent abstract paintings. For more of my art, go to http://jaebaeli.com/artist

Some Recent Abstracts

Word of the Day: Scurf

I looked this word up again and got a slightly different definition than the one i had when i used it in one of my books...

scurf

1. Thin dry scales or scabs upon the body; especially, thin scales exfoliated from the cuticle, particularly of the scalp; dandruff.

2. Hence, the foul remains of anything adherent. "The scurf is worn away of each committed crime." (Dryden)

3. Anything like flakes or scales adhering to a surface. "There stood a hill not far, whose grisly top Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest entire Shone with a glossy scurf." (Milton)

4. Minute membranous scales on the surface of some leaves, as in the goosefoot.

My previous understanding of the word came from someone in the medical field--who was, perhaps, off the mark. I used it to describe the sleep that appears in your eyes when you're awake (ironically). Other names I considered: Sleepy Dirt. Croutons. Eye Boogers (the moniker I dislike the most). Some things are just gross. I can say that knowing i wrote an entire post about that special time of the month-- (Behorned Cleated Demon & The Exxon Valdez).

More recently, it has been called Rheum.

I happen to be a factory for the stuff. Not sure why. Do i cry in my sleep? Do little tiny creatures come and place it there in the night, and then steal away, giggling? Mine is sort of like rock salt. When I rub my eyes, the little sleepy-salt scratches the sensitive skin there, and then i feel like I have cuts at the corners of my eyes. I've learned to use a warm compress first.

But when i was writing Achilles Forjan, I needed a new way to say it, and i ended up posting to some medical terminology site and was informed that the word I sought was, Scurf.

To look at it, I thought it could also be a new version of a popular water sport, ala,

"Sweeping the country's oceans--Scurfing. Instead of using a surfboard, you use a scarf."
Many have died.

Word of the Day: Scurf

Occupational Hazard

This one time (not at band camp) I was reaching for my coffee atop my warming plate, and it seems that the usual spillage had created some odd but effective glue, and when i tried to pick it up with my usual amount of confidence, i succeeded in dousing my face and chest with hot coffee.

I'm a writer. Occupational hazards get recorded.

yeah let's have another blog about your freaking affair with coffee...

Occupational Hazard

Drive-By Writing

If you're a writer, you are probably familiar with the tendency to try to write ideas down while driving. I seem to get my best ideas when I'm driving, and it's the most inopportune moment to do it. Surprisingly, I don't always have a pen handy. That's why I bought one of those key chain attachable sharpie markers...

But then there's not always paper. I know this sounds crazy for a voluminous writer like myself not to have paper and pen....there were times when an idea was so good, I considered to pricking my finger and writing it in blood. That would be a blood-blog.

Today, for example, I was writing not only on envelope, but on the back of the cardboard box the envelopes came in. And periodically honking the horn, because I was using my steering wheel as a desk.
It got so that every time I thought of something, I felt it might be prudent to just pull over. But with all the ideas I had today, I would have never reached my destination....which, paradoxically, was the office supply store to buy pens and paper.

Then, when I got home, I was burdened with the challenge of deciphering what looks like hieroglyphs on the cardboard.

Years ago, when I did quite a bit more driving than I do now, I used to use a tape recorder. I suppose I'll have to go back to that. Writing things down is just too frustrating, and things I intend to save may be lost because I can't read it. Never mind the lives I might endanger.

I can see the headlines now:
Local Author Burns a Swath Through the Median while Honoring Her Muse.

---------------------------------
For more of those ideas I had while driving, see Remote Control Yourself and Texting, Texting, One Two, 9...Oops at my other blog.

Drive-By Writing

Organic Doesn't Mean Clueless

This will illustrate, i hope, the power of dialogue. Even with no story, you can glean all the information you need from what two people are saying to each other. I used to go sit in public places like restaurants and coffee shops and just dictate what i was hearing into my AlphaSmart.

This is a real conversation i had on the phone with a friend...



"I really wanted this to be organic this time. I didn't want to force it. But I can't figure out where her head is, I just know that i dont' like how she's treating me," she says.

"For whatever reason, you have allowed her to treat you this way, " I tell her. "You have taught her for the last few weeks, how to treat you. You can say all day long how much you don't like it, but everything she has done, you have allowed."

"Well I've blown her off a few times--"

"Yeah? How's that workin' for ya?"

"Well, she could pull rabbit out of her hat."

"There's no rabbit, and no hat."

I sigh into the phone so she can hear it. "You have the truth, and it won't matter what they say about it. Why do you feel you have to make up something? Just tell the truth. Then, no matter what people say or think, you have the truth on your side. You feel you have to mince words and alter your reasons to avoid HER behavior. You are not responsible for her behavior. You have to understand the distinction. Organic doesn't mean clueless. You two have to be on same sheet of music. You've been playing two different songs on two different instruments at the same time."

"I didn't want her to think I liked her too much..."

"What does the degree of liking have to do with it?"

"Well it's a small town--if this were an Internet thing, I would have already had this talk with her."

"So you would be honest about it online, but not in person? This is not about what other people think of you or the situation. It's still about you and who you are."

"Well, maybe she's just relationship-retarded."

"That's not your doing, nor your responsibility to correct, it's only your responsibility to be honest about how it does or does not mesh with what you want in a relationship."

"If I offer her the fuck and she declines, I'm going to give her the fuck off. Then she'll tell everyone I broke up with her, because she wouldn't sleep with me. Then I'll have to say, You Relationship retarded ice queen frigid bitch. I've been so damn organic, I'm a bean sprout--maybe she needs me to take control. If I call you in the middle of the night and say she's in my bed and say I just fucked the shit out of her, I won't be a bean sprout anymore."

"You have a power card, then."

"Yeah, I can say, If I came down to the restaurant, I'm not going to pay for shit. And watch her go, Yes ma'am. I'm gonna turn her out or turn her off. I have three questions I need answers to: One, is she aware of how she is treating me, two, or how she feels about me. Three, will she behave differently outside the house that is a shrine to her ex-girlfriend. Would she be receptive only if I made the move, or would she make a move on me, if she was away from the jumping dogs and the ghost of Carol?"

"Don't give her that part of yourself, she didn't earn it. "

"If this goes awry tonight, I will be dropping her off at her house, and driving straight to the bar to intercept Katie, and then I'll go to St. Louis on that trip I canceled with Justine and get laid by her, and when I get home, Clara will be back and I'll have sex with her too, and then the next day, I'll hunt down that other chickapoo I'd like to go on a date with. And you know I will. There's gonna be some sex tomorrow, even if it's with myself."

"Well. . . godspeed, my friend. I can't wait to hear what happens. It's just like having a Netflix I haven't opened yet."

Organic Doesn't Mean Clueless

Baggage (excerpt, Mainstream novel)

Excerpt from
Baggage
(c) Kelli Jae Baeli

(*This is my second novel written for a mainstream audience. Most of mine are lesbian-oriented. This excerpt is formatted for legibility on the web)

During Hurricane Katrina, Patriarch Dominic Fontaine meets his freakish demise—the rubble of his “hurricane-proof” mansion all around him—and no one suspects that a vengeful woman came to kill him.

In the aftermath, the secrets held in a safe deposit box spur the Fontaine offspring into a journey of enlightenment and self- discovery as their lives converge with strangers, and the mystery of synchronicity takes over.

CHAPTER 9

AS HURRICANE KATRINA SPUN CLOSER TO THE GULF coast, Sienna realized Dominic's intent to ride out the storm, just as he had in all the other hurricanes. His decision was no marvel to her. He obviously considered himself invincible.

She peeked through the slightly ajar door to the attic stairway. He was, of course, too rich to have a standard pull-down ladder; no, Dominic Fontaine had to have a stairway to his attic.

Sounds of shattering glass came from the foyer. The formidable Katrina was hammering at the front of the mansion, morphing into a beast that clawed at the rafters, pounded at the flooring, and made promises to inflict still more. It was as if God Himself was behind the maelstrom. Sienna had never been in a hurricane, and anxiety crept into her mind. Was it always this bad? Was it only this frightening because she had never experienced it?

She had her own Katrina thumping against her chest cavity. Thrashing in the sea of her own trepidation, she tasted it in her mouth, then recognized it as meaningless. I am going to die anyway. He had made sure of that when he pushed himself inside her and mingled his diseased blood with her own. After all those years of being judicious. All those years when her party-happy friends were taking chances like a capricious vacation in Vegas, and prodding her mercilessly with monikers like Sainted Sienna, Sinless Sienna, Spotless Sienna, and even Snowy Sienna, to imply that she was frigid, rather than careful. Now, she felt the fear slipping away, replaced by her own resolve, her own fury; an apoplectic bitterness that was matched only by the tempest that pummeled the mansion of the man she despised.

Pleased to have placed herself correctly, she saw him hurrying up the staircase, silver briefcase in hand, dragging a yellow nylon rope. Pulling the door closed a bit, she observed him through the tiny crack as he lashed himself to the newel post at the top of the grand staircase that fed down into the foyer.

The compromised portions of the house were revealed with every slap of wind and rain. As the storm bullied on, moaning its feral incantation, the window beside the attic stairs blasted inward, shards of glass spattering to the hardwood floor, as Katrina sneezed into the opening.

Dominic held onto the rope with one hand, and the briefcase with the other, his own features touched by terror.

Shelving collapsed, and she heard more shattering glass downstairs. Pictures leaped from the walls along the stairs, their glass spitting out onto the steps. In the hall beyond the top of the grand staircase, Dominic's fish trophy plaques clattered to the floor. The gigantic swordfish rattled against the wall, as if preparing to reanimate and swim away in the sodden air of Katrina.

She reached down to pick up the small bronze sculpture she had taken from the occasional table at the top of the stairs. Her fingers closed around it firmly, and she waited for the right moment to confront him. As water began to drip onto the landing from above, and a puddle grew near the ravaged window, she pushed the door open and stepped onto the landing.
Raising her voice above the din, she said smartly, "Well, Lincoln Berringer, as I live and breathe-"

He turned to the voice behind him, a moment of keen astonishment and recognition on his features, that had little to do with his joy at seeing her, and much to do with the realization that she knew who he was. His fate became clear, when he saw her holding the heavy statue, saw her raise it high.

He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the moaning of Katrina, sucking the window frame from the wall. Debris struck her shoulder, and she fell to the slick floor, the statue toppling away.

Steadying herself by holding the door knob of the attic stairs, keeping her head low against the incoming sheets of rain and wind and debris, she watched the giant swordfish drop to the floor, and move toward the hole where the window had been. A shifting of wind, and the monster fish spun, rolled, became airborne, and in mindless seconds, had impaled Dominic's back with its rapier beak. She captured the attic door jamb, to stop herself from being sucked toward the window.

Her attention back on him, the swordfish rocked back onto its tail, as Dominic leaned backward into it, soon limp. The briefcase toppled to the floor, as his arms spread open, his torso propped on the swordfish, its beak protruding from his chest, his waist still secured to the newel post.

Stunned, she stared at him, splayed there like some fisherman's crucifixion. Euthanasia performed by God.

A blast of rain slapped the side of her face and she scrambled to the silver briefcase, which was already being sucked toward her on the sodden floor, snatched it up and ran down the hall to the bathroom, where she grabbed a rectangular wooden table, broke the legs off and huddled in the garden tub, holding the briefcase on her chest, the table over her head, waiting for the end of Katrina's blitzkrieg.

Baggage (excerpt, Mainstream novel)

Achilles Forjan (mainstream novel excerpt)

Achilles Forjan
(mainstream novel)
(c)Kelli Jae Baeli

REVIEWS

Another great book by Kelli Jae Baeli!


This is the third of Ms. Baeli's books I've read and I plan to read more of them. She is an absolute MASTER of characterization! After I read her books, I catch myself wondering about the characters as if they were real people. And, no, this is not a sign I need to be in a mental ward somewhere; rather, it is a testament to how authentic her characters are. This authenticity extends to her plots as well. I can especially speak to the authenticity of the plot and characters in this particular book because I work in the emergency services field myself. This book in it's entirety, down to the smallest of details, is real enough to be based on people whom I know and work with daily.

One final big plus!... more often than not, I can guess "who done it" before the ending of a murder mystery and that just ruins the whole book for me. I also view it as a weakness in the writer's talent. However, not so in this gem of a psycho-thriller/murder mystery! I was totally and happily surprised! Reading this one was time well spent!

~Tanya Gotcher,
Little Rock, AR

"We believe this is a marketable story. It has all of the necessary elements: good characterization; interesting (and well-described) settings; authentic-sounding dialogue. What’s more, Baeli is a superb writer! This is some of the best work we’ve ever seen here at KIWI!"

--KIWI Club Reviews

"Baeli has outdone herself with the new offering of Achilles Forjan. Prepare for an quickly paced, psychological thriller that captivates the reader with dynamic characters and sleight-of-hand clues covering a gamut of genres. This witch's brew of medical, legal, psychological, and mystery motifs, is rendered more tasty by the pinch of romance Baeli adds. The result is a potpourri of all things found in the news, too strangely absurd to be fiction. Achilles Forjan is a modern day, forensic packed who-done-it that will tug you by your hair through each scenario. I was left with a lingering taste for more as the dichotomy of Amy Jane Spenser engaged all my senses."

~ Justice Harlow
    author of The Recipe & Shall We Consummate?

"Achilles Forjan was a quick read and maintained my interest. I felt many different emotions, especially through Amy's character--sadness, regret, concern, happiness...I really wanted her to be okay. The story kept me on the edge, and it was an attention grabber. When I wasn't reading the book, I was thinking about it. Kelli Jae Baeli's novels are easy to get interested in, and hard to put down. They always have an unpredictable but happy ending. This ending was a big surprise- I was very pleased with it. I'll be looking for the sequel!"

~Shell Smith
Truman AR

"Enjoyed the story very much and did have trouble putting it down when I had to. Had that 'want to read more by this author' feeling when I reached the end. I was actually hoping Baeli would include a preview at the end, with an excerpt from one of her other books there. I also felt that the ending came too soon; I wasn't quite ready to be done with Amy and her friends. That's a good thing!

The plotting and pacing is excellent. Love her characters and the tension/conflicts revolving around them--very three-dimensional. Spicy details tastefully employed. Well done! The setting was great, too--fit her story perfectly.

Overall, "recommended." Say, four outa five stars? Baeli spins an engrossing tale, moves it right along, and mixes things up splendidly. Any sex she included was used to further the plot, without being offensive or prurient. She's a good, solid writer who deserves to be published. That's my take on it."

~Jim Bessey
Fairport, NY

Burlington, Vermont was a city known for its near-nonexistent murder rate. So when bodies begin to appear along with a mysterious note and a humiliating gesture from the killer, local authorities scramble to discover who is responsible.

A complicated series of events points to Amy Jane Spenser as the prime suspect. She is troubled by sleep deprivation and frequent memory lapses. Her job as a paramedic feeds her compulsion to help people, but ultimately only renders her a crippled witness to the human condition. Amy struggles with doubt over her own mysterious behavior, and is left with no alibi for any of the murders.

Her friend, Karma, uses her degree in Criminal Psychology and a gift for psychometry to search for clues to Amy's innocence, in spite of a persistent detective. The suspense builds as lives intertwine, and destinies dangle precariously over an abyss of secrets and suppositions, until nothing can ever be the same again.


EXCERPT:

Ashleigh knew it was him. His gruff, slurring baritone voice. His fat fist against the door. He'd be waking the neighbors, and they'd be calling the cops. She was still too weak from her trip to the emergency room three days ago, and didn't have the strength to deal with this. She stayed with Jeremy because it was easier than staying with Leonard Huff. Safer.

Jeremy had offered Ashleigh a ride home from work seven months ago, and she had told him she didn't want to go back to her father's house. He suggested they go to his apartment and get high instead, and she agreed. It wasn't long before Ashleigh was spending the night at Jeremy's Southside apartment. The choice between a sweet guy who provided a good high, and a raving, nasty, controlling drunk, was an easy one. She didn't even call him 'Dad' anymore, but 'Leonard.' His all-nighters and recently, his affiliation with a group of bikers, was a pain in the ass; and although she had vivid memories of his hands on her when she was a little girl, he had stopped pursuing her for his need to touch innocence.

This didn't stop his biker-buddies from crossing the line, though. At a nubile eighteen, she was now a young woman, and considered ripe for the picking. When one of the leather-clad animals came by the house and put his hands on her tits, she packed her stuff and went to Jeremy's. That's when she decided that Jeremy had his flaws, but at least he wasn't violent. He'd never hit her, even when she'd smoked the last of their weed. If she kept him smoking, she could pretty much do what she wanted. He didn't make much money as a night shift stocker at Handy's Grocery, but she didn't make much as a cashier there, either. She didn't really do without anything, and the rent was only $350 a month. A few days ago, Jeremy got extra pot from his dealer so they could make a little cash, because Ashleigh needed time off to recuperate from her fall down the stairs.

With the pounding outside growing louder, she snatched the door open and Leonard Huff barreled in, headed straight for Jeremy, who was finishing the removal of marijuana seeds from the marred glass coffee table, sweeping them onto a metal serving tray and shoving it under the ratty Goodwill sofa.

She put herself between the two men, hoping to prevent anything that might have cops snooping around. The last thing she needed was to go to jail for possession.

Leonard Huff pushed her out of the way, and she fell into the glass top of the coffee table.

* * *

Roy peered in the window, and saw the boy hovering near the kitchen, saw the girl sitting on the chair with blood on her arm. With one last glance at the street, hoping to see the police cruiser, he knocked on the door. "EMS!" he called.

Jeremy opened the door, and Roy stepped in first, carrying his jump bag fully stocked with an intubation roll, already assessing the damage to Jeremy's face. Amy came along behind him, trying not to look at Jeremy; all she could see now was him beating off to kiddie porn.

Ashleigh was sitting on the chair across from Huff, still in a robe and on medication from her recent trip to the hospital. Now, she had one hand pressed to her bleeding elbow. Amy knew the girl would need sutures. Ashleigh looked up at her with a mixture of embarrassment and relief. Embarrassment, that the nice female paramedic she had poured her heart out to was coming to the rescue again; and relief, that somehow everything would be taken care of and some semblance of normalcy would return.

Even before the staircase fall at the apartment a few days ago, Amy and Roy had been to the Huff house to patch up Mrs. Huff when Leonard directed his anger at her. Police had escorted her to the Battered Women's Shelter that night, and it was unclear whether or not she was still residing there.

Perhaps it was why Leonard Huff was at the apartment now. His anger needed a target, and he couldn't get to his wife. He had pounded his beefy fist into the young man's face and made a real mess of the living room of their tiny apartment. He was at the end of a nasty binge, having burned up the fuel of whiskey, and was sitting on the sofa nearing a nap. Amy stepped over the fallen ashtray and remnants of potato chips dotting the floor, and sent up a prayer that he would not find any reserve tank in his body before they got the job done, or at least not until the cops arrived to stand sentry.

The ashtray, along with two smoldering cigarettes, lay on the dirt-colored carpet, amid shards of glass. Amy picked them up and tossed them in the tray to be safe.

Roy saw that Jeremy was lucky not to have a broken nose. He might get away with some butterfly bandages on the cut above his eye, but the rest of his injuries were the usual contusions when a fist contacts the skin. He had the young man sit at the kitchen table while he set to work on him.

As the two medics donned surgical gloves to cleanse wounds and apply compresses, Huff muttered expletives and warned Jeremy that he was not even close to being finished with him. "She'll never be clean again," he said. "You made her dirty."

"You're not worried about me, Leonard," Ashleigh hissed. "Look what you did to my arm!" She held up the lacerated elbow, causing Amy to drop the gauze roll and forcing her to gather it and start winding it around again.

Huff lit a cigarette awkwardly and let it dangle precariously from his inebriated lips. "You brought that on yourself, little girl," he said around the cigarette. "You need to learn when to stay the hell outa the way."

Jeremy leaned away from Roy's cotton swab and snarled at Huff, "You're fuckin' going to jail."

"Oh yeah? What for?"

"Assault and battery. You're a sorry-ass excuse for a father. It's a good thing Ashleigh met me."

"Wors' thing ever happened to her." The glowing ash fell off Huff's cigarette and landed on his blue shirt, stained with sweat and booze. A wet spot doused the cherry, making a sizzing sound. Amy was afraid he would burst into flames.

"You're goin' to jail, you sorry piece a shit!"

"Be still-" Roy reprimanded, pressing the last butterfly bandage on the boy's head, anxious for he and Amy to get out of there.

"You're goin' to jail," Jeremy repeated.

Amy wanted to scream, You belong in jail, too, you sick pedophile! She knew she'd have to bite her tongue until they finished the call. This situation had become too personalized to her, now that Ashleigh had spilled her guts. She didn't want that kind of investment in her patients. It was hard enough without that.

Huff tried to push himself up, but rocked back, and had to scoot to the edge of the sofa before he could manage to stand. "I ain't goin' to jail if I ain't here when the cops get here-"

"Sit down," Roy ordered him in his best authoritative voice.

Huff paused, considering him, then staggered over. Roy got up to prepare for evasive action, when Huff took the cigarette from his mouth and threw it at Roy.

Roy held up a warning finger. "Now you just behave yourself. You've caused enough trouble."

"You ain't seen trouble yet, boy." Huff lurched forward and pushed Roy aside, reaching for Jeremy, who bear-crawled away, scattering the top-most contents of Roy's jump bag. Angry that the young man had scampered out of reach, Huff grabbed Roy again.

Amy tapped on the big man's shoulder, and he turned around unsteadily. "Could you do me a favor, sir?"

Frowning, he swayed slightly. "What?"

"Your hand looks terrible. Could you go over to the sofa and sit down so I can take a look at it? It looks like it hurts."

Still holding Roy's shirt at the shoulder, he looked at his free right hand. His knuckles were red. "Yeah. My hand needs some nursin'." He released Roy and went to the sofa, sitting and holding his hand out to her.

Roy blinked rapidly like some cartoon character, and Amy tried not to smile. There was little she could do for the sore knuckles, but she made a production of wrapping gauze around them, hoping to stall long enough for their cop friends to arrive.

Roy kept a close eye on Huff as he gathered the items that had been knocked out of his bag.

Finally, the police arrived. Sergeant Kenneth Branch and his Rookie, Jimmy Tackett assessed the situation quickly. They were also familiar with this family and their various degrees of in-fighting.

A glint of morning sunlight reflected off Branch's bald head. Before taking a razor to his hair after losing a bet, Kenneth Branch never fully appreciated the creative genius of eyebrows. They were crucial to keeping sweat out of the eyes, and in his line of work, vision was sometimes the only thing between you and a bullet. He even fancied the idea of God as a bald entity. A tall, muscular man with thick arms and legs, Branch was intimidating; a comfort to have around if you needed help, and a frightening presence if you were in trouble with the law.

Tackett was short and boyish-looking, and ripe for a bullet from some street thug. Tackett's best chance for survival was to be partnered with Branch. The contrast of the two was almost comical. Like Batman and Robin. Not much older than Jeremy, Tackett was the mirror image of the young man cowering in the kitchen, with slight alterations based on the application of free will. Two young men who took different paths. It only took one wrong turn to create that kind of polarity.

"What can we do to help out, here, folks?" Branch asked.

Huff was suddenly aware of where the new voice came from, and got up, knocking Amy back to her rump on the floor. He gestured angrily, the end of the gauze around his knuckles dangling in the air. "Don't nobody touch me, goddammit." He gestured at Ashleigh. "Come on over here, girl. I'm taking you home."

"Now hang on-don't I know you? What's your name, sir?"

The big man turned around, his comb-over flailing upright. "Name's Huff. I come to take my little girl home!"

"I'm not goin' anywhere with you!" Ashleigh shouted.

Jeremy moved over to Ashleigh in a show of support, and she moved away, almost imperceptibly.

Branch met Ashleigh's eyes. "Is he here with your permission?"

"Well I didn't know he was gonna try to kill Jeremy!"

To Jeremy: "Do you intend to press charges?"

"Hell yes."

Tackett asked Ashleigh for her ID. He turned to Branch. "She's eighteen."

Branch held up both his hands to Huff. "Now, Mr. Huff, your daughter is at the age of consent, so you can't force her to-"

"I don' care what consent she is, she's comin' home!"

The sergeant swiveled his right hip so that his firearm was out of the man's reach, and planted his feet as if he was about to perform a Jackie Chan movement. "Mr. Huff, let's do this the easy way, okay? Please turn around and put your hands behind your back."

He shook his head. "Nope. I ain't goin'."

"Sir, I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. Turn around and-"

Huff swung an arm at Branch, but he leaned back and the blow missed. Branch snatched the wrist and twisted it behind Huff's back as he spun him, pushing him toward the sofa. Tackett was beside his partner and in a few swift seconds, they had his face in the cushions, and were handcuffing him.

Officer Branch had just celebrated 10 years on the force; nine of them in New York, and had transferred to the Burlington P.D. to hedge his bets. He considered himself lucky: lucky to have lived. That luck was now bolstered by the low rate of violent crime in Vermont. Still, Branch was looking forward to his training as a Detective. He intended to spend the last ten years on the force wearing his own clothes, and sitting at a desk rather than in a squad car.

"Am I under arrest?" Huff bellowed into the smelly foam.

"Yes you are, sir. Drunk and disorderly, assault and battery, attempted assault of a police officer, for now. You have the right to remain silent--"

"I ain't gonna be silent!" he shouted.

Branch continued to Mirandize him as he and Tackett half-dragged, half-led him to the door, the drunk man's flailings managing to knock Amy off balance and onto her rump again.

As Tackett returned with the forms for Jeremy and Ashleigh to fill out, Roy pulled off his surgical gloves and tossed them in a Ziploc bag for later disposal. Moving over to Amy, he looked down at his partner, who was still seated on the floor. He plucked a jerky strip from a pen protector in his breast pocket and popped the end in his mouth. "No sitting down on the job, Spenser," he cracked.

Achilles Forjan (mainstream novel excerpt)

Armchair Detective (novel excerpt)

,
(Lesbian Sleuth Erotica)
(c) Kelli Jae Baeli

A wannabe Private Investigator has to start somewhere. If that means incurring the wrath of her suspects, then so be it. When Jobeth O'Brien awakens from the floor of her kitchen, her battered face and the memory of an angry visitor tells her that she is close to something important in her investigation. She pulls herself together and goes to run her paper route--a job that pays the bills while she pursues her other vocation. Her romps in the backseat of her Falcon with a wealthy socialite, Phoebe, are a welcome distraction from her excursions into the developing facts of the blackmail and prostitution operation. As the case progresses, Jobeth fends off her growing need for Phoebe, as well as the advances from her barracuda landlady. Amid these challenges, she stakes out her prey and runs for her life, continuing the investigation that pulls her into close calls, unexpected allies, and more secrets. But Jobeth has secrets of her own, and only love can excavate them.


EXCERPT:

The Falcon rested in the alley across the street like a big metal dog. That's how I viewed this paragon of antiquity. It was like the pet I never had. I bathed it, fed it, communed with it, talked to it, even stroked it every now and then, although not when anyone was watching. If it wasn't so big, I'd let it sleep on the foot of my bed.

Hunkered low, I checked that the film was loaded properly and advanced a frame or two, laid the camera beside me and poured myself a cup of brew from Phoebe's green thermos. I loved her coffee. Hazelnut, I think, from fresh ground beans. I couldn't imagine someone like Phoebe dipping grounds from a metal can; it wasn't chic enough. More likely, she had it delivered to her door by Juan Valdez himself.

Halfway through my second cup, I decided it was time for a little evidence-gathering. Hanging the camera around my neck by its wide strap, I stepped quietly out of the car. crossing the street, blending with shadows, until I entered the alley beside the Salon. Behind the structure I found the garbage cans. Smiling, I freed the two full bags and started back to the car. Squinting around the corner, I lurched back when I saw a distinguished gentleman with short-cropped hair approaching the front door of the Salon. I lifted my camera and snapped a shot of him before he slipped inside. A teenaged boy came around the corner and went in soon afterward, and I hurried across the street with my treasures, sure that things were about to become a bit more interesting.

Warming my coffee again, I kept an eye on the front of the shop while I opened one of the garbage bags. I donned a pair of surgical gloves from a dispenser in the glove compartment, and put them on before reaching into the bag. I recalled the scene earlier when Phoebe had found the gloves while searching for a lighter.

"What are these for?" she had inquired with salacious interest.

"Not what you think," I had told her.

"Mmm-hm," she had said, unconvinced.

"But I'd be happy to use them for that. Is it time for an exam?"

She had grinned, "Maybe next time."

Now, glancing up every few seconds, I began to wish I had a partner; I wanted to look through the garbage without missing anything going on at the front door. It could be an advantage, I had to admit, but the bad outweighed the good on that one.

Thirty-five minutes later, the sound of the Salon door brought my attention away from the bags. The distinguished gentleman emerged and hurried into the darkness around the corner, his shirttail hanging loose, holding his coat in one hand. I snapped a shot of him before he got away. A tall, blond man opened the door and hauled another man out with him, gesturing angrily and pointing down the street. He looked like the same blond man that had been talking to Stacey that day. The man he talked to seemed to sigh, shook his head, then turned and headed in the direction of the gentleman.

The blond man lit a cigarette and remained outside the front door, agitated. I tried to get a close shot of him, and decided it would be a better picture if I could move outside the car. I removed the cover from the interior light and pulled the bulb out, then quietly, I opened the door, and kept my head down below the level of the front fender. Lifting the camera, I bumped the wheel well and the camera toppled to the pavement. The zoom lens separated from the body and I stifled the curse that came instantly from my mouth. The lens was history, for the moment. I discarded the injured mechanism into the car, and grabbed the regular lens, hurriedly screwing it on the body of the camera. Pushing the door almost closed, I took a position by the front of the Falcon again, peeking over the fender. He still stood there, smoking. I'd have to get much closer, for a clear shot. I waited until he turned around, then crept over to the blue mailbox at the corner, concealing myself behind it. Ebon cloaked the street, but dawn approached with a luminous mist, and left me with one chance for a clear picture of him.

I tilted out from behind the mailbox and focused. His eyes swept over my area, and then seemed to pause. Click! He saw me then, and threw his cigarette to the sidewalk, breaking into a sprint toward me. The camera firmly in hand, I dashed down the walk and around the corner as fast as my tired legs would carry me. Rounding the building, I cut to the right across the main roadway into another alley and scrambled up the board fence and over.

Landing in a trash can, I kicked free of it and continued down the adjacent alley. I could hear him behind me-heard him climb the fence and continue the chase, cursing as he fell on the same trash can. Coming to a "T" in the alleyway, I found one exit blocked by a Dumpster, and the other by a drainage ditch.

I picked up a piece of concrete gravel and threw it hard toward the Dumpster, producing a telling thwang, then leapt feet first into the shallow water of the ditch. Stooping to enter the concrete culvert pipe, I scurried through, pausing thirty yards later to listen for approaching steps. I waited, catching my breath and listening, certain I'd lost him.

I imagined him pausing at the end of the alley, having heard the noise of the gravel against the Dumpster, and stealthily raising the lid. I also imagined the grimace on his face when he lifted the lid and found only putrid garbage. He would no doubt assume that I jumped the fence. Men can't imagine women doing things like jumping into watery ditches and scurrying through culverts. I used this narrow-mindedness to my advantage whenever possible.

Navigating the concrete piping to its end, my exit was blocked by a barbed wire fence. I climbed through the strands with some difficulty and found myself at eye-level with a yard full of farm machinery. I climbed out of the watery trench and paused by a John Deere tractor to survey the area. The grounds of the co-op were spacious, reminding me of a rodeo arena. The front fence stood about 50 yards across the grass in front of me. Heaving a sigh of relief, I patted the camera smugly and started for the far gate. Near the middle of the grounds, I heard a low growl that made me wish I had stayed inside the pipe.

Turning toward the sound slowly, he came into view. A pit bull of the large killer variety emerged from one of the sheds. The variety that tears the limbs from small children and pulverizes housecats. He dipped his square black head low, baring a set of exceptional fangs.

"Shhhhhhit," I whispered like a slowing steam engine, measuring the distance to the front gate. The phrase from here to eternity erupted in my mind. I turned back to him, placating meekly, "Nice doggie-"

He lunged at me and I broke into a run, making a beeline for the precious, distant gate. The dog caught the bottom of my jeans, and swung me to the ground like sack of Idaho potatoes. From the feel of it, he intended to tear the fabric away first, then slice and dice my bare leg. By the look of his canines, a steak knife had nothing on him. I kicked him hard in the head and swung the camera. It caught him in the eye and he yelped at the thirty-five millimeter infliction, freeing me long enough for me to struggle up and run again. The chase resumed and I stopped to swing at him again, missing as he ducked. Where is an M-16 when you need one?

He jumped and clamped his teeth onto my arm, the fangs piercing the layers of fabric. I growled back at him and knocked him in the head several more times with the camera. Eyes closed, his teeth made contact with the skin below the flannel and thermal shirts, blood appeared on his head, for which I was uncommonly grateful, but it didn't make him let go of my arm.
I kicked him frantically in the ribs, but his mouth rivaled a bear trap, except bear traps didn't jerk savagely at fabric. And they didn't chase you across a machinery yard like some miscreant from the center of the earth.

Desperate, I dragged him toward the fence. Looping the camera strap around my neck, I clamped my fingers on the chain-link, and placed the toe of my sneaker in one of the wire diamonds to pull myself up until the dog dangled in the air. I could feel the excruciating tear of my skin each time he shook my arm, still mauling me from his place in mid-air. Bile swelled in my gut and threatened to rise like green mercury into my esophagus. With one last swing of my free leg, I kicked him in the stomach, and the yelp this evoked opened his jaws enough so that I could wrench myself free as he fell to the ground.

He recovered from his fall without the slightest hesitation and vaulted toward me again, and I barely pulled myself up beyond his reach, scrambled over the fence, to land with a breathless thud on the grass.

Armchair Detective (novel excerpt)

As You Were (Novel Excerpt)

As You Were
(Lesbian Romantic Suspense novel)

(c)Kelli Jae Baeli

Beth and Brittany shared a beautiful home on Red Mountain in Colorado, enjoyed self-employment, horseback riding in the snow-laden hills, and romantic nights in front of the fireplace. But when an average day leads to a tragic accident, and traumatic amnesia, Brittany must return to a life she neither remembers nor approves of. Yearning, revelations, and lurking danger pull at the threads of their once-idyllic life. As You Were is a romantic story driven by mystery and suspense.

EXCERPT:

A swath of morning sunshine fell across Tru's eyes, and she came awake, aware of the sharp pounding in her head, and the television which sat silent, bolted to a steel pole extending from floor to ceiling. She vaguely remembered her decision to get a motel the night before, and wasn't sure whether she had been too drunk to remember to call Brittany and let her know. She pressed both hands against her head, wishing for ibuprofen.

Tru blinked her eyes into painful focus and saw her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Her appearance told her more than she wanted to know about how much she had had to drink the night before. Also in the reflection, a lump under the blanket next to her, and she turned quickly to find the lump was a leg, and that the leg belonged to Travis. His chest was bare, and she immediately discovered that hers was, too. Tru jerked the sheet up under her arms and stared at him, horrified. "Travis?"

He stirred, his eyes fluttered open, and he smiled warmly. "Morning, Sugar." He ran his hand down her arm.

Tru jerked away, grabbing the blanket and drawing it around her as she got up. "What the hell are you doing here?" she rasped, swallowing the cotton that seemed to be growing abundantly on her tongue.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his face filled with a boyish grin. "Enjoying the morning after, Sugar "

Tru coughed involuntarily and pressed a palm to her head. "Travis. . .we didn't. . .I mean, I don't--please tell me we didn't-- I don't remember what happened last night "

He lifted one eyebrow in a smirk. "I'll never forget it. I never suspected you of being such an animal in bed. You even--"

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What have I done?!" Tru searched for and found her clothing heaped upon the floor by the bed, and began to dress beneath the blanket.

"Hey, why so uptight?"

"Why so uptight?" she squeaked. "Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what sort of mess this is? Oh, my God. . .she'll kill me, I am dead meat. She'll never understand this, I don't understand this--" Tru dropped the blanket and began to button her shirt. "Travis, you have to swear you'll never breathe a word of this. I was drunk. I didn't know what I was doing--" she babbled.

"You most assuredly did know what you were doing. I can't remember the last time I stayed that har--"

"Travis!" she shouted, groaning and holding her head, then more softly.
"Spare me the sordid details."

"Don't worry, Tru. Your secret is safe with me. I wish you could stay a little longer " He reached toward her and she lurched away, grabbing her socks and shoes and making a quick visual sweep of the room, before she headed for the door, hopping in place as she shoved the sneakers onto her bare feet.

"Where's my Cherokee?" she asked, her hand on the doorknob. And where's my sense?

Travis folded his arms. "Still at the club."

Tru dug in her pockets and came up with twenty five dollars, lifting her eyes to him, quizzically.

"I paid for the room, Sugar," he admitted.

She slammed the door behind her, and hurried to the front office to call a cab.

Travis reclined, his fingers locked behind his head, admiring his reflection in the mirror. He flexed his pectorals and began to sing an old Carole King tune. "It's too late, Baby, now it's too late..." It had been remarkably easy. Remarkably. He checked his image in the mirror again, rubbing his chest with both hands, absently, and he began to whistle.

As You Were (Novel Excerpt)

Plethora (Info & Excerpt)

Plethora
(c) Kelli Jae Baeli

Brenna Clay, a quirky bisexual writer, escapes with her lover to the remote Ozark area of Hogscald, near the quaint tourist village of Eureka Springs, known as "The place where misfits fit"--a place where Mother Nature is not always nurturing, there are sniper squirrels, newspaper- stealing mutts, and her nearest neighbor lives in a treehouse and thinks she's been inseminated by aliens. As an added bit of entertainment, the Bubbas have out their binoculars, and are watching from the knoll, having never seen a real, live "Lezbean Homo-sek-shul."

Meanwhile, Micah Rose Royce lives in Eureka Springs and works as a masseuse. Fresh off a prolonged disibility, she is anxious to feel human again, but has difficulty getting started. Her best friend, Scarlet, suggests she get a reading from Righteous Clementine, a medium- cum-sorceress, who promptly lays her hands on her and utters, "Plethora." Micah trudges through the exasperating and often comical dating scene in real life and on the Internet, still desperately searching for a suitable partner.

"Erotic, funny, thought-provoking and insightful..."
~LightSwitcher Books

16
The Last Take-up

"Here's your spline, spline roller, and awl," Kori said, dropping the items one by one on the old brown Army-issue towel that lay crumpled upon the wood planks of the porch. "I felt stupid asking the guy at the hardware store, but he knew exactly what they were."

"Great!" Brenna clapped her hands together and reached for the torn screen door that she had removed and leaned against the decrepit railing.

Kori carried another armload of sacks up the front steps and paused over Brenna, already at work on the screen. "Do you know what you're doing?"

Brenna gave her a irritable expression. "Of course. I told you I've done my research on this. I Googled it. This little rubber gasket do-hickey is called a spline-" she explained, prying it out of the groove around the screen with the awl. "I just replace this ancient aluminum screen with some of this new nylon screen." Kori shifted the sacks for a better hold, as Brenna continued, "Why nylon, you ask? Well, see, it has better solar penetration."

"Sounds good to me," Kori said, lifting her eyebrows suggestively.

"That just means that more sunlight can come through it," Brenna went on. "And this is the little roller that puts the spline back in." She held the tool up proudly.

"I'll make us some lunch," Kori said evenly, carrying the packages inside.

Brenna sighed. She hadn't seen much of Kori lately. This was the first Saturday in a while that Kori hadn't gone in to work overtime. Since returning to her job from vacation time, and making the roundtrip into Fayetteville each day, it was little more than a hello and an air-kiss before Kori watched the news and then went to bed. They hadn't had sex in so long, that Brenna was having fantasies about the UPS guy.

Resolving to open a discussion about that very thing today-not fantasies about the UPS guy, but their own sex life-she bent back to repairing the screen.

Minutes later, Brenna sat back and congratulated herself on a job well done. The screen was replaced, and she would only need one Band-Aid this time. She squeezed the puncture made by the awl atop her thumb, and wiped away the blood absently. When she lifted her head again, she noticed the movement from the direction of the knoll. Someone was headed toward her on horseback. As the horse drew nearer, Brenna could see that the rider was a young woman with short blond hair, clad in faded, ripped jeans and a T-shirt. Brenna thought she bore a striking resemblance to the actress, Mary Stuart Masterson, from her role in Fried Green Tomatoes. As the woman urged the animal close to the porch, Brenna stood and wiped her palms on the front of her jeans. "Hello. . ." she offered cautiously.

The young woman grinned with one corner of her mouth and continued to smack at a wad of pink gum. "Hi."

Brenna noticed that the T-shirt the woman was wearing had the image of a hot air balloon on it with the words Up Up and Away written below it. "Thought I'd come see what all the hoopla was about."

Her country accent was strong, and Brenna tried not to seem entertained by it. "The hoopla?"

The woman patted the chestnut's neck affectionately. "Me and ole Sassafras been hearin' bushel baskets a' stuff about the two sisters that moved into the old Pate place." She crooked one leg easily over the withers of the gelding. "Name's Tilly. What's yours?"

"Brenna."

"Pretty name, that." The young woman took a deep breath and squinted into the sun, casting a sidelong glance at Brenna. "Am I yer first viz'ter?"

"Actually, no. We met Harvey Hunsicker last month."

"Sorry to hear it."

"What?"

Tilly licked her lips and tried not to grin. She jerked her head away in a mannerism of forced self control and cleared her throat. "He's a handful, he is. Fize' you, I'd keep a ditch `tween ya."

"Oh? Why do you say that?"

"He's kinda loose in the upper story. Got a mean streak a mile wide and twice as ugly."

Brenna nodded slowly, her brain busy deciphering the colloquial assertions Tilly shared. "That's. . . good to know."

"Mind if I sit a spell?"

"Not at all." Brenna indicated the rockers, and knew that this Tilly- character would appear someday in one of her novels.

Tilly pushed her leg the rest of the way over and slid off the pony, dropping the rein to the ground. The Chestnut wandered across the yard in search of edible greenery. "Been too pooped to pop since the last take-up." She sighed heavily and dropped into the chair, rocking.

Brenna sat in the other. "Since what?"

"The last take-up." Tilly said this matter-of-factly, pulling a seed-like burr that was stuck to her shirt like Velcro. As she turned her head to mop her neck with an old bandanna, she saw Brenna's bewildered frown. "I get took up ever now an' then. Been happenin' since I was knee-high to a toad. Mighty spooky at first," she continued, smacking her gum. "But a body gits used ta stuff after a while."

Brenna was blinking rapidly, trying to compose her next question, when Kori came out to the porch, testing the new screen door a few times before she noticed they had company. "Kori, this is Tilly."

Kori nodded in her direction. "Would you like a glass of tea or something?"
"If it ain't no trouble." She half smiled with the corner of her mouth again.
Kori stepped back inside, giving the screen door another skeptic's perusal.
Brenna considered Tilly as she sat there, chomping her gum and watching Sassafras graze in the front yard. She kept trying to make sense of Tilly's phrase about being 'took up', and wondered if it was just a backwoods colloquialism that meant being tired, or sleepless, or ill, or maybe it meant having sex--

Kori came out with tea for each of them, and took a seat at the top of the steps. Brenna cleared her throat after a swift drink and decided to be abrupt. "Hey, Kori, Tilly was telling me about being took-up."

"Took up?" Kori parroted.

"Dang! I reckon I have to explain it to ya'll, too." Tilly pulled the wad of pink bubble gum from her mouth, and stuck in under the rim of the chair, unaware of the almost comical dismay this action incited in both the other women. "I know nobody takes me serious, but I ain't tetched like they say. Some say I'm crazy as a bessie-bug, but don't ya'll swaller that for minute. They's all just green 'cause they ain't the one's bein' took up." She nodded, as if she had just released some sensitive information.

Brenna tried again, "Uh, Tilly, I think we are just confused about . . .what you mean by 'took-up'. Took where? By whom?"

Tilly turned and studied their faces with surprising thoroughness, her lids contracting into slits over her hazel eyes, then nodded slowly. "In that flyin' machine. They come and take me up 'bout once't a year or so."

"Oh! An airplane!"

"Naw. Ain't no air-o-plane. And don't nobody use it fer crop-dustin', neither. It's round."

"Helicopter?" Kori offered weakly.

"Ain't no heelacopter, neither, I tell ya. Ain't got no swangin' blades on the outside."

Brenna and Kori exchanged animated glances. "Uh, Tilly, are you talking about a UFO?"

"You-ef-oh?" she repeated carefully. "What's that?"

"An Unidentified Flying Object-"

Tilly leaned back and swept a derisive hand in their direction. "Course not!"

The two breathed a sigh of relief.

"Don't take no genius to figger it out. . . Once't ya see it, ya can identify it right enough."

Kori began to play with a loose board on the porch, and Brenna pretended she had something in her eye, so she could mask a burgeoning giggle.

"Last time was Sundee last. Thangs were dif'ernt that time. They done some stuff to me they ain't never done before."

"Who? What stuff?" Brenna asked, clamping a hand over her mouth.

"Them white varmints with buggy eyes. They ain't as big as me, but they don't have no trouble keepin' me in a bridle. Last time they done some funny stuff, and now I think I'm nailed."

Kori looked up suddenly. "Nailed?"

"Yes'm. Lord knows how long it'll take that young 'un to hatch. They never told me nothin' about it." She sipped her tea calmly. "But it's in there, shore as shootin'." she patted her stomach. "I can feel it."

Plethora (Info & Excerpt)