Never saw this coming. At a recent appearance I was protested by an angry mob; assumedly over my lack of new material for my serials, PeeDee3: Intergalactic, Insectoid, Assassin, and Jazz: Monster Collector. It’s my own fault, I did leave the stories hanging in limbo (in PeeDee3’s case, literally) for many months now.

Imagine that, little ol’ me the center of a protest. Imagine—imagination—so very similar.

So I took some literary license here. There wasn’t so much as a mob as there’d been a crowd—that is if one guy constitutes a crowd. And I wasn’t at an appearance so much as I was at another site for my bothersome day job. And, as long as I’m all up in confession mode here, the crowd of one protester was a guy that I work with who I’m fairly certain has never read a single story I’ve written.

Still, the attention felt nice. Might be cool to be protested; sounds like good advertizing.

According to his signs, he wasn’t even upset about my lack of recent published work, he was complaining about my plot and story abilities despite the fact that he hadn’t read my stuff. Apparently he’d heard from someone else about my poor plots and storylines. Still, he felt compelled to complain. I suppose that shows some interest.

A nurse working at the site asked what the signs were, and I happily explained thinking she might then be interested enough to pick up a free story, read it, love it, start sharing it with friends who would share it with friends and start a whole download flurry.

She wasn’t interested.

So where the heck are those last PeeDee3 and Jazz stories to wrap up their respective season one’s?

They’re coming…I promise.

I have been working. I’m busily editing my new novel, first in a trilogy. But the work’s going slow (my editor has the patience of a saint). I am excited about this book, I think it’s going to be grand.

In the meantime, Jazz is all written. The last three stories just need editing. They will be out very soon, and PeeDee3 will quickly follow. I’ll have more information about the new novel posted here soon as well.

Maybe I should talk to that guy from work, see if he’s interested in organizing protests everywhere I work. He could become a professional protester, kind of like a profession mourner but who makes a scene everywhere a virtually unknown writer appears somewhere.

In all fairnesss, my storylines are unreal and my plotting–trully unfair. I think I’ll join him.

Naughty Claus Audio Story

   It’s Season’s Greetings all and I’m giving out presents. Download a copy of, A Visit from Naughty Claus, my dreay tale of Christmas woe in verse,  for you and your friends now until January first for absolutly nothing. Happy Holidays from Ryft.

The story was read by actor extraordinare, Andrew C Ely

and was produced by one who’s talents knows no bounds, Christopher Thompson.

I’m responsible for all those silly words.

 Naughty Claus Audio Story  —Just click the portrait to listen, or right click, then Select Target to download.

You can also get the Ebook version for free by visiting Smashwords, just click HERE

Have a Happy

By the way, the entire first season of Jazz, Monster Collector is free as well, but more on that next month.

So this is great, right? Free is like…the best price ever. But free also means that I, the hard working author, receive no compensation for all my efforts. That’s not so great, for me anyway. So does this mean PeeDee3 is failing, and headed for early cancellation?

Actually I’m very pleased with PeeDee3’s sales thus far (even though January’s numbers were a bit flat, February saw a nice improvement and April improved again). There are several reasons why I’m making so drastic, dare I say bold, a maneuver as giving the stories away for free (and, as you may suspect, there is a diabolical plan hatching in my kooky cranium). So no, no, a thousand times no, PeeDee3 is not being canceled. I have three season’s worth of stories outlined, and three seasons is what I shall deliver, at the very least.

The ebook market is in a state of something near to constant change. And, with the superstar success of independent authors the likes of John Locke, the price point for electronic books have steadily fallen. My short, sterilized fiction, averaging around 3,500 words a story, turns out to be pretty expensive at $0.99 cents a story when you can get a 60,000 plus word novel at the same price. And, with the cost of broadband, credit card processing, and distribution, $0.99 is about the lowest a lonely author can charge per transaction and still earn a couple quid.

So, it turned out that, by current market standards, I had been charging too much for the stories, and that I couldn’t afford to charge any less, so I needed a new system. One idea I had was to set up a subscription type payment system where you, the beloved reader, would pay an upfront subscription fee of say, $1.99, and then, each and every month, you’d come home, open your email, and surprise, surprise, find the latest episode of PeeDee3 waiting for you. Since there are eleven stories per season that would come out to a low, low cost of $0.18 per story—a great bargain I’d say. Only this season’s already over halfway over.

I could cut the price for the rest of the season to $0.99, but that would have been confusing, as what would I do for the kind, bug fans who’d already purchased eight stories at $0.99?

The best answer I came up with was to make the entire season free.

Now, to you, beloved reader, I first want to thank you for your greatly appreciated support, it truly means more to me that I could properly convey, but I’m going to give it a shot. Hang with me here as I delve into the diabolical plot, wringing my hands, hopping my uni-brow, and laughing manically.

In May I’ll be wrapping up PeeDee3, Season One, PeeDee3 is Dead. Then, in June, I’ll be releasing, PeeDee3 is Dead: The Complete First Season, which will be available in two versions. The electronic version will include a brand new novella-length story, Dead like PeeDee3, and a short, author’s commentary on the making of PeeDee3. There will also be a trade paperback version, which will include the novella and the commentary, but will also have an exclusive short story, Worst of Batch, which I find hysterical (of course, as my wife constantly reminds me, I am very silly). The books will be $1.99 and $5.99 respectively.

I’ve added a super simple, two line form to my website (the polyester, blue box-eyes left) that enables you (in about thirty seconds) to join my uber-free, members only news group, Club Sheen Frsico! If you haven’t yet, please sign up. I promise not to dump loads of junk into your inbox. I know that you’re busy, so I will only come to you when I have something to offer; something good meaning really big news, a great coupon, a first look, or something exclusive. There’s also going to be exclusive content, a Facebook group, and merch available, so join in.

For more information visit the club page by clicking the image above, or HERE.

For those of you (I know who you are…thank you very much) who’ve been purchasing the stories all along, as a great big thank you, I’m going to send you a couple of fantastic coupons for these new PeeDee3 collections.

Go on, say it, “RyFT, you diabolical fiend.”

Brotherbob

BB

Robert F Thompson

                                 RiFT

                                 RyFT

                                 RyFT Brand-Stories

                                 WTF???

So many names, one lonely writer…

I’ll start by wishing a very enthusiastic Happy New year to each and every one. I’m really excited about the coming year and have big plans to keep you jumping, gasping, and laughing all the way through. We’re going to have some serious fun.

Last year was, to say the least, very challenging, and not just for me, most everyone I know had to sludge through some gunk in 2011. My last year began with severely lacerating two of my fingers on a table saw. I’ve healed quite nicely, thank you, but that was the stone that finally tipped me out of the carpentry business—yippee!

But hey, it’s 2012 and a good time to get reenergized and refreshed. I began my refreshment process by going through yet another series of molting Nome de plumes. I think the new feathers have come in nicely.

Branding is the why, but, as a storyteller, I’ll begin with a little back-story.

In the nineties, when I was a member of FHM, aka the ‘Sultans of New Psychedelic Blues’(yes, a band, guitar is one of three instruments I play moderately well, at least I did before said mutilation of fingers), I was most often called BB, which was short for Brotherbob, which was short for Todd’s Brother Bob. Todd is my most awesome younger brother, who is a lot more happening and social than I, hence why I became known as his brother.

And all that despite that I never go by Bob.

I never understood Bob; where does that come from? I prefer Robert, but Rob is fine, I get where Rob comes from. I have another friend Robert who goes by Bert. Yeah, that works, Bert is part of Robert, but Bob sure ain’t.

The family still calls me Bob, Bobby actually as I’m a junior meaning it distinguishes me from my father, Bob. It’s cool because it’s my family and they’ve called me Bobby, at least from my perspective, forever. My nieces and nephews just call me, Uncle, no proper name, no article before it, just Uncle. I think it sounds cool, kind of mysterious. “Who was that kind, silly gentleman?” whispers one somewhat bewildered bystander. His companion tucks his thumbs into the lapels of his coat and nods knowingly as I sashay out of sight, “Him? Well, I don’t know his right name, but ‘round these parts he’s called Uncle.”

And that wasn’t the first time I’d been called, BB.

When I was younger my father often had little nicknames for all of us (I also have two sisters). I like nick-names. Most of the time I think a nick name, being derived from our personalities, is more descriptive of us than the name given us when we’d just been born; they also have the ability to change and evolve as we do. One of my father’s nicknames for me was Bimbo Baggins (yes, a play on the inhabitant of Bag End). In observation of my cartoon-like antics (my father once said to me, “I could never watch that Gilligan’s Island show because I thought that character was too unbelievable…until I met you.”) my father had determined that, much like Colonel Steve Austin, I had been outfitted with cybernetic implants, only mine were designed to make one more clumsy and accident prone—as absurd as it may sound, it would explain a lot. These implants were called Bimbonics, which evolved into Bimbo Baggins, which was shortened to BB, as would be Brother Bob many years later. That makes me twice BB, or BBBB, or B to the power of 4.

So I’ve had, and am used to having, a lot of names.

My first novel, StrangetaleS, (if you haven’t read it, good, because it wasn’t very) was written under the penname, Brotherbob and published by my small company, Baggin’s Books (later changed to the current, Tricorner Publishing). The nomenclature was fine at the time, but, as most of my friends and I had begun to grow apart, it had ceased to fit me comfortably. So I took to writing under my given name, Robert F Thompson.

As Tricorner began publishing more and more books by other talented folks, I began to have to study such credulous subjects as retail and marketing. It was fine (or so I thought) to rest back on my laurels for my own work, but I had to be out in the field delivering sales for those who had trusted their hard work with me. That’s when I first discovered branding.

Branding, in short, means establishing a recognizable presence and reputation in the marketplace; think of Apple’s apple, or Kellogg’s K, or Wham-O’s exploding logo (dating myself now, aren’t I?). Now, in the internet age, branding has become more important then ever, bringing me back around to thoughts about having a penname, one that could help to establish my brand. Frankly, Robert F Thompson is a pretty common name, run it through Google and see.

A good friend of mine, Andrew Ely, actor extraordinaire (and the voice of PeeDee3) happens to have the initials, ACE; he signs his mail with it, and frankly, I was often jealous that his initials spelled something. But hey, all I was missing was a vowel. A quick search showed that there was no one else writing under the name, RiFT (I can’t imagine why?) so wham, slam, kablam, I had a new penname.

Of course I failed to consider that rift is a word, a word that comes up in search reports even more often than Robert F Thompson. A quick trip back to the drawing board (meaning stewing over it during a rigorous bike ride) and RyFT was born—and, despite how tempting RaFT was, I was pretty happy with it.

Enter the all important (to having a writing career) Facebook. Good old FB doesn’t let you (or I couldn’t figure out how to) have no last name. I tried Ry FT, but that made no sense—stuck again. I buy a lot of stuff from the Bucks County Folk Music Shop. Carl, the shop’s owner, once suggested to me that for a successful business, have your name say exactly what it is you do, like the Burpee Seed Company, Kentucky Fried Chicken, or Hashwallatikitiki’s Tiki Bar and Recovery Spa. So that was that, Facebook had pried me into using RyFT Brand-Stories, a name that says exactly what it is I do—produce strange, creepy, oftentimes silly stories, instantly recognizable as being set firmly in RyFT’s realm.

Cool.

So happy New Year from the desk of RyFT Brand-Stories.

And apologies to fans of StrangetaleS (Yes indeed, there are still StrangetaleS fans out there). Just to be clear, I love ST, and still have great hope for the series. But, the truth be told, the effort was pretty sophomoric. I have, for the record, rewritten the novel and renamed the series, Strange Craft. I am, at the moment, mired in writing for Jazz, PeeDee3, and Bleeding Moon, and am working hard at editing the first novel in my Hallow’s Eve Trilogy. But I’m really hoping to tear back into Strange Craft over the summer for a (hopefully) January Release. Hang in there Strange Fans, the Dragon’s steaming on her tracks.

Naughty Claus

Naughty Claus is coming to the Kindle Virtual Library. Oh yeah, it’s true. But hey, you don’t have to worry because you’re really, really good all the time, right? And the post Christmas imp isn’t coming alone; he’s bringing a brief author’s commentary and a brand new short story with him.

Who’s Naughty Claus? What?

A Visit from Naughty Claus is a poem, fashioned in the style of A Visit from St. Nicholas (“Twas the Night Before Christmas) by Clemet C Moore. But Naughty Claus is anything but a right jolly old elf, he’s more of a right smelly, mean imp. Better then going on here, I’m going to give you a copy as a holiday present because I am so generous. Click the link at the bottom of this page and grab (grab meaning download) a copy for your very own. Do it soon because as of December the thirty-first, I’m taking the imp down until next season.

But what about that library thing? (I don’t know who’s asking these questions, I’m the only human in the room)

OK, so, as long as you have a Kindle, you’ll still be able to borrow Naughty Claus during the off season through Amazon’s free lending service, (sound the trumpets) The Kindle Owners’ Lending Library. Again, link at the bottom.

I’m pretty excited about this opportunity, but I’m a little nervous because there’s this exclusivity clause (no pun intended, that would be naughty) for being included in the system. The benefits for me include an opportunity to expand my audience, and I can get a little piece of a big pie (money) that Amazon is offering participating authors. The downside is that I’m worried about cheating my audience members that don’t own kindle devises.

So here’s what I’m proposing as an experiment. I’m going to, as time strolls by, offer some stories and special editions in the Kindle Lending Library. But, each and every time that I do, I’ll also offer something exclusive to you, for a limited time, absolutely for free. We’ll see how it works.

What I’ve done with Naughty Clause is written a short, author’s commentary to go along with the poem. I’ve also included an ‘only available here’ story featuring Naughty Claus titled, The Parting Season. The story poses the question, what if there was a system of law enforcement higher than human authority? And what if that authority took mythical forms? If you have a Kindle please borrow it, read it, and let me know what you thought of it.

For those that don’t own a kindle, then grab your free copy right now. I mean it, I’ll wait.

More great stuff coming soon. For now I wish the happiest of holidays to one and all…well, to those who have been good. To the naughty of you, I’ve said good day, sir.

>RyFT >>>

Link to free Naughty Claus ebook-

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/110127

link to the Kindle Owner’s Lending Library-

 http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html?ie=UTF8&docId=1000739811

     I have an awesome sister.

     I also have a pretty awesome collection of mugs.

     Mind you though, I’m not much of a collector. I don’t really have any interest in looking for, keeping, and displaying things. With a few exceptions, like meaningful gifts from friends and some pictures of family, I pretty much expect everything in my life to serve some practical purpose.

I do love efficiency, function, and quality. A favorite saying of mine is, “Function in spite of form.” Meaning I really don’t care what something looks like, the question I ask is, “Does it work?” Now that doesn’t mean that something functional can’t be pretty too, it just means that I place the emphasis on the it in question having a function and that it performs that function in the most efficient way I can imagine.

I’m a writer and I don’t drink coffee—at all (“Not now, not ever!”) and that’s a potentially career ending combination, caffeine being one of the writer’s greatest friends (afraid that I don’t smoke or drink either). I do, however, drink tea, a lot of tea. I’ve been something of obsessed with tea since I was home sick from school at age nine and my mother made me a mug of tea ‘English-style’ (with milk). It’s about that same time that I began to appreciate a good mug.

Mug Basics- it has to be on the larger size, without being so large that the tea can get cold before I finish it (though I will still finish it, making a sour face). Has to be heavy (harder for my ‘Gilligan’ style antics to knock it over), and has to have a finely-shaped, ergonomically designed, large handle that will fit my large, clunky fingers.

And if I think it looks cool, well that’s just a bonus.

So, between my need to snatch up what I think is a great mug, and the generosity of friends and family, I unintentionally have gathered to myself a bountiful and, dare I say, impressive collection of tea mugs.

The Jack Skelington mug at the top of this post is my latest acquisition, it was a gift and is my newest favorite (favorite means that I’ll use it again and again and keep putting off washing it, and that I’ll leave it laying all over the house, and keep loosing it…see, favorite). The big base means it’s a challenge to spill, even for me, the handle is as near to perfect for my hand that I’ve ever found, and the curved shape of the body also lends itself to being grasped pleasantly. And the fact that it’s got a portrait of Jack on it is a big bonus.

See, I told you I have an awesome sister.

OK, so I’m going to let everyone in on a secret. Actually it’s only a secret to those who don’t know me personally. I’m a terrible speller. No, I mean like really terrible. I don’t even get close. I can really tax a spell-checker, push it to its limits to comprehend what word I’m even attempting to write. So how can a writer be such a horrible speller? Well, before said spell checker, I probably couldn’t have been.

Now having said that, I have worked hard at improving my spelling skills, or, at least, I’ve worked out a lot of little tricks. Mostly I’ve taken to pronouncing difficult words phonetically in my head, meaning I think them (and sometimes now say them) the way they’re spelled. Like ass-ass-in. Also, I sometimes force myself to correct misspelled words manually (not letting the spell checker make the correction), forcing myself to learn their spellings just by repetition. Still, I get a lot of words wrong.

I have particular (I think, Par-Tic-U-Lar, as I used to spell it, perticular.) difficulty with homophones, words that sound the same but are spelled differently, like aisle and istle, weather and whether. For this I have a simple solution, a three by five index card I carry in my laptop case titled, Jumble Words. It’s a list of my most commonly confused homophones. It has entries like this:

Muscle- tissue for movement

Mussel- mollusk

Sometimes a pen and paper is the best solution. Of course a bigger brain would be an even simpler solution, but as one of my teachers says, “Do what you can, with what you have, from where you are,” so I’ll be sticking with my little cheat sheet. (For the record, I typed cheet sheat. Thank you spell checker).

And the reverse side of my jumble words sheet is titled, Crap Words. These are words that are spelled so stupidly (I mean so difficult for me to spell) that even the mighty spell checker can’t decipher my version of the word. I’ll try one. Silluette. Any ideas of what I tried to write?

Silhouette.

By the way, the spell checker guessed salute.

Hey, this could be a game, like a reverse spelling bee, Guess what RiFT is trying to spell. Maybe we’ll make it a contest one day. My nightmare is you game.

>RiFT Out>

I’ve been talking to people, lots of people, and the thing I keep hearing over and over again is, “I’d love to get your serialized stories, but I don’t have an e-reader device.

Sigh.

OK, I feel a little like I’ve addressed this to death, but apparently not. So here’s my new mantra, “You don’t need an e-reader to read e-books.”

Let’s say that again, together, “I don’t need an e-reader to read e-books.”

But how can that be? It’s just too crazy to be true.

No, it’s easy, and here’s how to do it:

First off, all of my stories are available in PDF format, a format that can be read on both PCs and Apple computers, as well as many mobile devises (that includes all the tablets).

Secondly, both Amazon (Kindle) and Barnes and Noble (Nook) have free apps available (yes, I said FREE!) for desktop, laptop, and tablet computers, as well as tons and tons of cell phones. They’re easy to install, easy to use, look great, and they’re FREE, yahoo!

Free Kindle App HERE

Free Nook App HERE

So here’s a bonus, just for repeating the mantra with me, (you did didn’t you?) I’m going to give you my latest story, Jazz: Monster Collector in: Crash Down to you for free so you can try out that cool new app you just loaded onto your i-phone. Go to the Crash Down page by clicking HERE, click purchase, and enter coupon code GY63E at checkout, and it’s all yours, enjoy.

Oh, and if you like the story, please leave me a review at the self-same Jazz link above.

>RiFT Out<

Steven King described the act of writing as more like archeology than imagination (rough draft, anyway). He says that stories are found things dug carefully and skillfully from the earth. The author slowly and methodically exposes a bit more and bit more of whatever it is that’s been discovered. Oftentimes you don’t know what you’ve found until it’s been completely unearthed, and I really understand this description. Except for me it’s more like an interview I conduct with someone, but at first I have no idea why I’m even talking to this person.

Let’s play.

I’ll take us back to a May morning in 2007, a morning just like this one. It’s seven-ten in the am. I’m outside at my local coffee shop sipping from a steaming cup of green tea. I have a foot up on a chair and I’m gazing over at my low-rider (motorcycle) and chastising myself for being too lazy to have taken my bicycle. My eyes flash to the blank screen of my laptop. If I had a hammer handy I’d be slamming it into the back of my head in hopes of coaxing my brain into some form of thought generation. But alas, I’m without such a tool. I draw my daily, ‘To Do’ list from my shirt pocket and write, Add Hammer to Laptop Case.

A finger taps me hard on the shoulder. I stifle a cry of pain and turn. This big guy’s standing behind me, I mean really big, over seven and a half feet for sure not counting his antennae. He’s got four thick arms though the sleeves of a long trench coat and said antennae through two holes in his fedora. One of his three pincher claws grip a scolding hot coffee, some of which dribbles from the cup.

“You’re in my seat, human,” he says in a raspy voice that is somehow both deep and squeaky and would best be compared to Bon Scott, the singer from the rock group, AC/DC.

I look around; I’m the only dope in the outside café at this time of morning. I clear my throat; this guy can take another seat and stop bothering me while I’m working. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say and start to gather up all my junk: laptop, laptop case, Blackberry, headphones, a pen, a pencil, my jumble words note card, my backup list, and my quickly cooling cup of tea. With my arms overburdened I clumsily scramble out of the seat (hey, this guys more than just big, he’s heavily armed). “There you go; all yours. I apologize for holding you up.”

“Whatever,” he grumbles and drops down into my seat. He appears to be staring at my motorcycle and he looks hungry.

What I really want is to find a quiet seat, set back up, and find the willpower to get something, anything, on the page. But I keep staring at this guy. I want to ignore him, I need to get ten pages of my novel done and I haven’t written a word. I look away, I look back, I look away and I groan. I’m not going to be able to leave it alone.

Frass.

“Hey mister, do you mind if I ask you a question?” I hope he says yes.

“Yeah,” he snaps, “I mind.” He doesn’t turn his head but I bet his huge, complex eyes can see me anyway.

Double frass. I still can’t walk away.

I drop all my crap on the table and sit across from him. “Look, I don’t want to bother you—”

Faster than I can see, one of his lower claws springs up from under the table and points this really weird gun at my forehead. It looks like about a mile of shiny brass tubing all looped and twisted around and ends with a horn about the size of a trombone’s. It has a trigger that fits his thick claw. “Beat feet soft on the outside.”

I’m fixated on the weapon. I’ve never seen anything like it. “Wow, now that’s cool, what is it?”

He tips the brim of his hat away from his complex eyes and turns the gun sideways so I can get a better look. “It’s a tuba-blaster,” he grumbles like this is something I should have known.

“How’s it work?” I ask, curiosity replacing my apprehension.

He sets the horn against my head. “I pull the trigger and a low-E sonic wave tears your frassing head off.”

“Hey,” I shout. I can feel my face opening with realization. “You say frass, just like me.”

“Idiot,” he grumbles and sets the weapon on the table, then takes a sip from his cup. “You say frass just like me.

Humn, he’s right. I’d never said frass before that morning. I hit the Dictionary.com application on my phone. Frass: insect excrement. “Oh,” I exclaim louder than I intended to and point a finger. “You’re a bug.”

A couple hundred of his retinas were focused on my finger. “No kidd’n, but we prefer to be called Kacekans. Are you using that finger? It looks delicious.”

“What?” I ask, still processing, then curl my finger and tuck my hands under the table. “Yes.” Then, taking the weathered, wrinkled, and ruined notebook from the cargo pocket of my pants (I never leave home without it, just in case of such a meeting) and click my pen open. “So who are you?”

One of his upper claws whips out, grabs me by the collar and yanks me out of my seat as he stands. My feet dangle off the floor. “I’m PeeDee3, Intergalactic, Insectiod Assassin, I’m the most wanted, least liked, and most ridiculed hit-bug this side of the galactic cesspool.” As if I was but a paper doll in his claw, he yanks my face close to his and clicks his sharp mandibles together in a menacing way. “And I’m about to become you’re worse nightmare, Mr. Writer, sir.”

He drops me back into my chair, sits, crosses his exoskeletonized legs, and glares at me. “Now, what do you want to know?”

Oh crap…I mean frass; just what I didn’t need, more work.

See, for me, the germination of ideas usually comes from my characters. It’s a process of getting to know them, how they think, what motivates them, what makes them really uncomfortable, and what flips their switch. For me the heart of the story is always about the character. What does she what? How will she get there? What’s stopping her from getting there? What will she do to overcome? Or, more importantly, how much is she willing to change in order to overcome?

Weird for a guy who writes a series about an alien insectiod who’s incapable of character growth…or is he? I guess we’ll see, I’m still interviewing the bug, still getting to know it.

More often than not, the stories come from me wanting to know my characters better. I like to drop them into situations that will push them beyond whatever limits they may have. Sometimes though a story idea comes to me that has noting to do with character, but I think sounds cool. Then I think, who can I drop into this situation? J Parker, PeeDee3, Jazz, Eve Hallows, Rescueboy? Once I’ve set a character into said terrible situation, it’s just a matter of waiting to see how my hero/heroine/insectiod responds. Then I report what transpired to you.

Ut, oh, this guy in an Edwardian coat and vest and a pair of spats is asking if he can join me at my table. I should say no, I really need to finish this blogpost, but he is wearing at hat that appears to be living octopus. I better get this.

I hope you didn’t cheer too loudly, I really do love the bug, but it’s time to get a few other worlds spinning. 

Of Men and Mountains is not about alien insectiod assassins, it is about dreams, dreamers, the adventurers that dare, and the obstacles they face. Only this dream comes in the form of a metaphoric mountain climb. I think it’s a lot of fun. 

Don’t have an ereader? No problem, you can download the story to your smartphone, laptop, PC, or Mac. Don’t have any of those, then drop me an email. With the right encouragement I’ll start publishing the stories in hardcopy as well. 

Read more about Of Men and Mountains, get a free sample section, or get the entire story by clicking HERE 

New to Smashwords, visit my handy guidelines HERE. 

And please, if you read and enjoy the story, go back to Smashwords and leave a review. 

Jazz: Monster Collector, begins in two weeks and life on Merth will never be the same. 

Bonus! Just for reading this far, get Of Men and Mountains for FREE by using coupon code PJ45T at checkout. This offer is good until May 16th, 2011.