By 2g1c2 girls 1 cup
Welcome back to MichaelBekemeyer.com! I have more exciting news to share with all of you. Many of you know about Farrago: The Michael Bekemeyer Project and that it has been released on Amazon for the Kindle and also through Smashwords for all other eBook formats. Farrago was released on Sunday October 31st and its sole purpose is to help me raise money for a film project. I am happy to report that it has been selling very well and I am amazed at the number of people through Facebook and Twitter that have gone out and purchased a copy for themselves. THANK YOU!!!
And many of you know about Nexus: Another Michael Bekemeyer Project, which is being spearheaded by my dear friend and writer Aisling Weaver. Her idea was to take on NaNoWriMo and write 50,000 words in the month of November and take sponsors to donate .01 per word to help me raise money. Now, I took out my calculator and did the math… that’s $500 raised for the cause. We’ve already had $100 of Aisling’s words (that’s 10k of the 50k words) sponsored, so we’re inching closer and closer to the finish line. That’s absolutely AMAZING!
But, it gets even better. Aisling has had a generous commitment made to her through her website. For every dollar she raises with her word count, the amount will be totally matched. Crazy, right? The commitment has been made anonymously and my friend spent a week checking it out before even telling me about it. That can only be attributed to the quality of her work and the loyalty of her personal fan base. Thank you Mr./Ms. X!
So, here’s the plan: I am going to spend the rest of the month of November bugging the absolute dickens out of you guys on Twitter and Facebook to do all that I can to raise as much money for Nexus as possible. I took out my calculator again and did the math. We can get up to $1000 for this with Aisling’s words and our anonymous benefactor.
Starting this week I am planning to do small web-a-thon style video webcasts, with the first official one to be on Friday, November 20th. It’s going to be a long day of me nagging and nagging you, NPR style until we reach our goal. However, you can also look for an impromptu, test run webcast sometime mid-week.
I promise you once we reach the goal I’ll shut up. But until then, you’re stuck with me yammering on and on. So, won’t you please help us out? There is a button to donate your desired amount at the top right hand side of this page. It’s going to be there for a while. Feel free to click it as many times as you want.
Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your generosity and endless support. I am absolutely humbled by it every time I sit down and think about all that has been done for me by my friends.
And as promised…
I am once again humbled to report to you that there is yet another Michael Bekemeyer Project. It’s called Nexus and it’s being organized by my friend and fellow writer Aisling Weaver. She’s decided to use NaNoWriMo as a way to help raise money for my film.
For those of you that don’t know what NaNoWriMo is, click here to find out all the details. But, essentially it’s a challenge to writers to write 50,000 words in the month of November.
What Aisling has decided to do with Nexus is to get every word she writes for the project sponsored at .01 a word. 50,000 x .01 = $500 for the filmmaking fund. That’s a pretty amazing commitment and she’s already well past the first 10,000 words and she’s pushing through to the 50,000 word goal every single day. Once completed and edited Nexus will be available for purchase on the Kindle and through Smashwords, just like Farrago is right now.
Aisling Weaver is a very talented, published writer and has become a close friend in just a few months. Please visit her website to find out more about her work and to find out all there is to know about her awesome NaNoWriMo project Nexus.
Meet John B.: Writer, blogger and DIY author. His blog, Peeking Through Weary Eyes is a poetic, sarcastic, funny document of his adventures on Seattle public transportation system.
Here’s a short passage from Peeking Through Weary Eyes,
A hum of a car can be heard before it appears from around the bend. The moment feels like an exact one twenty-four hours past. It was where the identical chill gnawed at my fingertips and earlobes, the Sun continuously attempted to break through a sheer membrane of vaporous water, and the same sad Celtic ballad drummed through my seething mind.
I take a deep breath that twists itself into a soul-departing sigh as I discern the bus groaning from that same northerly place…
It will take me closer, but still so utterly far that I shall suppress that swell of disconsolation into the farthest recess of the mind to carry on as I must.
April 1, 0631-0641 Diary Entry
I wasn’t even going to write today, being of unsound mind and somnolent body to the point of perhaps an acute case of social dyslexia (in other words, more normal than usual). However, certain recent events have occurred in these past ten minutes that would never disallow their inscription upon tangible pages or cyber vellum.
It started not two stops down from my own. A rather obnoxious rotund woman lumbered up the bus stairs, swiped her pass through the meter and proceeded down the aisle. She lifted her head that had been previously bent down to summarily scan each and every occupant on board the bus.
Since her movement educed a glacial passage, it allowed her the luxury of maneuvering her gaze further and further toward the rear of the bus. Quite accidentally, I made eye-contact with her, being a tad inquisitive at what was taking so damned long since the bus driver would not insist on any forward progression until all were seated. This state of circumstance was not only frustrating, but started to border on extreme levels of vexation.
As soon as her eyes met mine though, I knew she had decided then that I was the one she was going to sit next to. I internally groaned and attempted to jut my backpack into the seat adjacent so to act as a deterrent to any and all. I studied her as she continued forth, for now that she had found her “mark” she crooked her head down and extended a longish tongue between her snaggleteeth.
She reminded me of a dead pig being prepared to suckle on a large red apple. The rest of her coincided with the said description: she wore a bright pink pant-suit that was stressed so completely by every square-inch pushed out by lumpy cellulite the seams could be discerned on the verge of all splitting open. I imagined them doing so with every undulating step, while yellow globules of fat trickled out from them with at first a seep, then eventually a catastrophic gush. I believe I allowed an overt shiver to escape from myself at that point.
At this exact moment, she alighted my position. Her ragged breath hissed nasally through her discolored snaggleteeth. She steadied herself in ponderous fashion at the end of the row upon two knee-less stubby legs. Her head cocked upwards yielding two beady and opaque eyes of nondescript hue. Across her face the snaggletooth mouth gradually opened into a gaping maw of immense ill-proportion. I knew I was in for it (but really no idea of the depth), and I felt my body tense and transform into a defensive position before the mind could register the instinct.
“Mmmm!” she rasped with enthusiastic eagerness.
With my outward conveyance of attitude intact at indifference, I shifted my pack onto my lap. Next, I pushed myself against the fuselage of the bus in response to her will. My right cheek ended up being barely a centimeter away from the window so as to allow for a minimal squash of my person. This would not come to pass however, for she slammed her rear down into the thin vinyl cushioned seat with a colossal carom-like smack. With unhesitant swiftness she wiggled her shoulder in such a way that a giant wave crested downwards the length of her porcine trunk until reaching her lumpy globe-shaped hips, where the transferred energy from the spastic shoulder snap terminated. As soon as her right elephantine buttock rose itself to shift closer to my seated self a high-pitched release of vaporous discharge buzzed into the air like an overstressed chainsaw.
I barely could get the hated whiff of the blasted gaseous rectal waste into my nose since her left fanny-half arose which finally empowered her whole corpulent anatomy to plummet into me causing interruption. Her final collision elicited a gasp from my involuntarily contracted lungs. I took a quick influx of reactive breath which was none other than the topical salvo of raw sewage fumes.
“Whatcho name pretty boyee?” she drawled.
I flinched into a coughing seizure, thus creating a delay in my response. This must have annoyed her since she pushed her vast weight firmly against me with suffocating and rapt pressure.
“Ja – Jak –J…”
“Huh? What boy?”
“Jake!” I spat unthinking.
“How old are yew?”
“Mmmmm. Yer sure are yummy fer being so young. Uh huh!”
I kept my mouth shut at this remark. I learned long ago that keeping quiet and offering the least amount of information was the best philosophy, although I was failing at it presently.
She continued, “Ya know who ya remind me of thar boy?”
“No. Who?” I asked, being slightly curious.
“Me nephew, God rest’em.”
I turned an appraising eye toward her to observe her unsaid communiqué and recognized an ostentatious sorrow in the form of a quivering lip and a croaking yowl that went on for an extended period while I waited for her to continue.
“He was me only one. Ya know that? He dead now as a fire-encrusted dude ranch. He’s nuth’n but a ghost nephew now.”
“Ghost nephew,” I said; not as a question.
But that is how she took it.
“Yeah, ain’t you heard? I got’em though. I got’em.”
“Him! Him, you delectable little boy!”
I screwed my face up into a pensive frown. I figured she was a nut-job, the depth at which I was soon to find out.
Without pretense, the piggish woman commenced to rummage through her great big brown “pleather” purse. It was more like fake suede. It was all fuzzy and reminded me of a splat chunk of mud that hung on her hoggish façade.
She pulled this rather large rectangular crystalline object, transparent in manner and that was about the size of an elongated Rubik’s Cube. I saw that there was something inside of it, but she was moving it around so much with her fidgeting that I couldn’t recognize right away what it was.
“What the hell lady! What is that?”
“I told ya. This here is me ghost nephew.”
About the author:
John B. recently published his first novel, entitled Last Exit, which you can purchase on Amazon.
To read more of his blog, visit his website and you will find years of past posts.
Please check out John’s personal projects and support his work.
And as usual, if you want to hear me talk about everything, including what I had for lunch, follow me on Twitter.
Thank you all!
Meet Morgan Elektra, writer and fellow filmmaker.
She’s another one of the amazing authors who generously contributed a story to Farrago: The Michael Bekemeyer Project.
Here’s the video Morgan sent in to explain why she got involved in the Farrago anthology and to talk a little bit about her submission…
Here’s a short section from Morgan Elektra’s dark, sexually charged Farrago contribution, which you can read in full when you purchase a copy of Farrago: The Michael Bekemeyer Project, which is available for purchase now!
A slow cramp rolled through her abdomen as she studied her face in the mirror. She saw the tightening of her mouth, her lips thinning to white, making the lines around them deepen and become more apparent. Sighing, she ignored another kind of tightening across her belly and returned her attention to the mirror.
Her golden blond hair curled over her forehead and fell to her shoulders in soft, loose waves, but up close she could see how dry and brittle the strands were. At least the style covered those ever deepening frown lines on her brow. She tried to relax her face, to lessen the appearance of the crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes. She widened them slightly to downplay the slight sagging of the lids. Nothing could be done for the lines around her mouth though. She’d spent diligent minutes earlier hunting and plucking some stray wiry hairs from eyebrows and chin. Now she smoothed foundation over her cheeks, covering the uneven tone and somewhat rough consistency.
She brushed more foundation down her neck, which seemed to her to sag more noticeably every day, and into her abundant cleavage. Nothing wrong there that a good bra couldn’t handle, at least. And this was a good bra… one of the expensive ones from a non-chain lingerie store. Her nipples chafed only slightly against the lace. A little plum eye shadow, dark brown liner and some mascara on her curled lashes showed off her green eyes. Not as bright as they had once been, but still striking. It was hard to look your best at times like this though.
As if in response to that thought, the band of pain around her midsection twisted. A wave of it ran up her spine, and the beginnings of a headache throbbed at the back of her skull. Nausea bubbled up her throat, thick as tar. She clenched her teeth, and her fingers tightened on the edge of the sink until her fingernails paled. After a moment, she smiled a little weakly, slicked on some warm rust lipstick, and gently rolled her lips together to spread it evenly.
She pulled on a matching pair of panties, smoothing them up over her hips. Her hands strayed over her stomach, which had recently begun to soften. It was still mostly flat, but the muscles bulged a little over the waistband of her panties. The expanse of pale, dimpled flesh belied the slow breakdown of cells that she knew had begun beneath it. Not bad though, considering. She felt the throb of her heartbeat, the heavy weight of blood settling between her thighs. A flush of heat ran up her chest and into her cheeks, staining them pinker than her light blush.
She headed back in to the bedroom and her open closet. She trailed her fingers over the fabric of the variety of dresses inside. Heavy silks, soft cottons, light poly-blends. Some of them didn’t fit anymore, were too tight across the belly or showed off too much thigh where the muscles had become just a little looser. But she kept them… because… well… she planned to wear them again. Soon, she promised herself. Soon.
For tonight, she chose a thin silk shift dress in a soft brown that complimented the rust of her lipstick and gave her pasty complexion the illusion of a warm glow. She drew it on over her head and shivered as the cool fabric slithered over her skin. It swished lightly against her thighs, sending tingles shooting into the pit of her belly. Everything was so sensitive right now! She knew she had to go out tonight. Had to, before all she was capable of was curling into a tiny ball from the pain.
She sat on the edge of the bed and rolled her stockings up her legs, hooking them to the garter. Just the brush of her own knuckles on the tender skin on the inside of her knees made her shiver, and the headache throbbed in time with the increased beat of her heart. She straightened the seams and slipped on a pair of her highest heels. She looked good, and looking good made her feel a little better. But still, as she headed out the door the leviathan curled in her belly and her temples throbbed with pain. It was nearly too late.
About the author…
Morgan Elektra is a writer and filmmaker. She is half of the husband and wife team that is Trickster Moon Productions. She is a life long horror fan and you can find out about her various film projects and writings at the Trickster Moon Productions website.
Please take the time to check out her website and projects.
And if you want to see what I’m thinking as I am thinking it, you can always follow me on Twitter.
Be well my friends…
Meet David Sobkowiak writer, voice actor and audio wizard. One of the handful of Farrago authors I have actually been in the same room with. He’s been a long time friend and supporter and I am lucky to call him a personal friend.
He also was one of the first writers who committed to submitting a story to Farrago: The Michael Bekemeyer Project
Here’s the video he sent in to explain his involvement in the Farrago anthology and to talk a little bit about his other projects.
Thanks Dave and the outtakes from that video were absolutely classic!
Here’s an excerpt from David’s incredibly vivid Farrago story entitled I Remember.
I remember waking up in my crib when I was about three years old. I stood there, looking around my room for a long time, not trying to get out, ’cause I could just hop over the side if I want to at this point, but I don’t. I just look around and stare at the walls, the ceiling and the floor. I’m confused. Something doesn’t look right to me but I can’t tell what it is. Is it the shelf with the bank on it shaped like a globe, pock marked with dents from my playing, and my brother’s knuckles? Is it the rug color?
Before I can decide what it is I hear the sound of a lawn tractor outside and a lot of kids shouting. It’s a happy noise. My brothers are excited, and I hear a girl’s cheering too, which I’m guessing is my cousin. I call for my mother, and through the house I don’t hear anything. The windows are open as it’s summer and the sound is closer now, probably in front of the house by my parent’s window. They’re really excited and I remember my Grandfather has a lawn tractor with a trailer on it that he sometimes drives us around in. I’m jumping up and down and my mother is coming in to the room and I’m reaching for her.
Alex? Alex? Is there anything else that you remember?
I’m being carried out of the room by my mother and I’m seeing the room pull away from me as I’m facing backward and I think I remember why it seems strange. It’s not something in the room that strikes me as odd. It’s the room itself. Why am I in that room? Why am I in a crib? I’m not a baby anymore. Why am I being carried?
I’m in the hallway now, seeing the house pull away from me, through the dinette, across the kitchen and in to the garage. It’s warm. I’m wearing my favorite pants that my mother made for me. They’re jeans, but the fabric shows the characters from Disney’s Robin Hood.
I’m so young.
The sun is bright. Hot. Nice. The sound of my brothers and my cousin yelling is so loud now.
I turn around and see my grandfather driving his tractor. He’s got a pipe in his mouth. He’s happy, but he looks serious. That’s just his look. It’s not that he doesn’t show happiness, he just shows it differently. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of his green work pants, the ones he gets in the mail I think. He and my grandmother get swatches of fabric in the mail and sometimes I get to feel what the material feels like when they let me. It’s smooth, like dress pants. Not like his work pants at all. I guess he doesn’t get his work pants from the mail after all.
What else? Anything?
It’s hot, but there is a nice breeze. My mother is lowering me in to the back of the trailer with my brothers and my cousin. They’re so happy and I’m happy too. My grandfather stopped the lawn tractor so she can put me in. She’s saying something to me but it’s so loud I can’t really hear her, and I’m so excited now too. I’m bouncing around in the trailer with the three of them now too. The engine gets really loud now and there is a jerk. I hit the back wall of the trailer and it hurts for a second, but I’m too excited to care about the bump now since we’re moving forward. The sunlight is filtering through the trees and I can smell the fumes from the engine and freshly cut grass from somewhere else. The tractor isn’t cutting the lawn but maybe my father did. I don’t know where he is, but I’m too happy.
Is that all Alex?
No. There’s more. So much more. We’re being pulled down the sidewalk behind my grandfather and waving at the neighbors and we’re heading toward the park. My grandparents live around the corner from our house, and he won’t take the tractor through the park, but I can wave to my friends and I do.
We’re not moving too fast, but the breeze feels nice and I can hear the sound of other children playing, and other lawn mowers close by.
Alex? I’m going to count to five, and then you’ll wake up.
We’re past half-way to his house now and we’re turning the corner on to his street, but we’re still on the side walk.
Up the driveway now.
Pulling in to the yard but he’s turning
We’re driving across the grass in front of his house. Around pine trees that reach to the clouds.
My grandmother is waving to us as she works in a flower bed. We’re passing her now. I love you, Grandma!
We’re in his backyard now, and the trees are so tall.
You will open your eyes now and remember everything we’ve talked about.
The yellow swing is on our left…
By the big tree.
“How long have you had that memory Alex? Do you know?”
“It was like I was there, Doc.”
“Yes, memories can be vivid under hypnosis Alex. But how long?”
“Oh. I don’t know. My whole life I think. Since I was three, at least. I’ve always had a very good memory, Doc. What do you think it means?”
“Well, we’re out of time for this week Alex, but we can pick up there next session.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks doc. It is a nice memory, even if I could have told you without the hypnosis. Same time next week?”
“Yes, Alex. You know the way out? Through the door on the left?”
“Yes, Doc. I remember recent things too.”
“Ha-ha, yes. That’s good. I’ll see next tomorrow. Goodbye now.”
About the author:
David Sobkowiak is an audio guru and is an original member of Broken Sea Audio where you can find hundreds of episodes of audio entertainment. Fan fiction in full audio drama format, just like the old radio plays. They are amazing to listen to. True ear candy.
Please check out David’s personal website, www.DavidSobkowiak.com to find out more about him and his work.
Follow me on Twitter to keep up with all that’s happening with Farrago and to find out what I had for breakfast.
Do not forget these links…
Hello friends and supporters,
The day has come. Farrago: The Michael Bekemeyer Project, the anthology of shorts stories that was put together to help me raise money for a film, is finally available for sale on Amazon and Smashwords.
Here are the links that will take you directly to the book’s page on each of those sites.
If you are just now hearing about Farrago: The Michael Bekemeyer Project, please feel free to scroll through the recent posts in this blog to find out all there is to know. But, here’s the official book trailer that will fill you in on all the important stuff.
To those of you have purchased, or are going to purchase a copy of the Farrago anthology, I thank you, thank you, thank you!!!
Stay tuned to this website today (Halloween, October 31st, 2010) to see more videos submitted by the authors and to find out more about how you can help Farrago become a success.
And as always, you can follow me on Twitter to stay up to date with all things Michael Bekemeyer.
Meet Jim Ryan, a man of the funny, a man of the written word, and the only human I’ve ever known to write love poems from the Wookie’s perspective.
From his website:
While his true origin remains a mystery (or at least relatively uninteresting) the escape pod from which Jim Ryan first emerged was discovered on the shores of Myrtle Beach, SC back in the 1970′s and he’s been terrorizing the human race ever since. He mostly accomplishes this through his theatrical antics online, in person, on stage and, lately, via podcast.
He’s also a contributing author to Farrago: The Michael Bekemeyer Project. Here’s the video he made to tell you guys all about his work and his Farrago story.
Here’s a short excerpt of his story, The Cat Came Back, which you can read in full when you purchase a copy of Farrago when it comes out on October 31st, 2010.
The Cat Came Back
Normally when a stray cat wakes you up in the middle of the night, it doesn’t do it by knocking on your front door like a person would. And yet, when I blearily got up, donned my robe and opened the door to my apartment’s entryway, there was a large, grey tomcat sitting out in the hallway. It was one of those really big ones that walk the thin line between zoo animal and house cat. There was no indication of whoever had rapped lightly on the door – just the cat. He looked up at me and began meowing insistently.
I wasn’t about to take in a stray, so I started to close the door. He scampered through before I was able to get it shut.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I said, following him into the living room. He stopped in the middle of my carpet and meowed again.
“I’m not feeding you,” I told him. “Now get back outside so that I can get some sleep!” I bent down and made a grab for him, but he darted away from me and into my study, where I kept my office. He was pretty spry for such a big creature.
I followed him and saw that he had bounded up onto my desk and had begun pawing at my planner.
“Leave that alone!” I came around the desk to shoo him away and saw that he had brought up my recent appointments. I tried to pick up the small, electronic tablet but the cat slapped his paw down over one corner and meowed at me in what seemed to be an admonishing tone. Then, with his other paw, he carefully pressed one the buttons repeatedly until one of my appointments was highlighted. Then he looked back up at me, meowed again and moved over to the other side of the desk.
I snatched the planner up. The cat reached his paw out toward it, as though pointing. I looked down at the appointment that was highlighted. Then I looked up at the cat and back down at the planner again.
The entry was for Dr. Andrew Gorman of the Manhattan Biotechnical Institute. It showed that I’d visited him on September 23rd, 2095 to oversee the installation of his new security system. That had been a few months ago. As I recalled, he’d been working with animals as part of his studies of artificial intelligence and he’d requested a sonic cage that could be turned on and off to keep his test subjects in. Using sound waves is tricky, but it’s good if you want a barrier that stops living creatures but doesn’t get in the way of prodding them with long needles.
When I looked back up at the cat, he was sitting next to my computer keyboard. The monitor had switched on, my word processor had been brought up and two words had been written in a new document.
They said: HELLP ME.
About the author…
Jim is a writer and podcaster and an all around nice guy. Stop by his website JimYesThatJim.com He’s got a lot of things going on and he’s a very funny guy to talk to.
From his website…again….
Jim enjoys entertaining people. To this end, he has at various times worked to put together theatrical productions, free-press fiction & nonfiction journals, free press comic books, short stories, long stories, monologues, tabletop & live-action role-playing games and various audio thingies.
He is also a hopeless geek (or nerd, if you prefer) and is deeply enamored of such things as fantasy, science fiction, movies, games (both analog and digital) and British comedy. His favorite authors include Douglas Adams, Roger Zelazny, Gene Wolfe, Neil Gaiman, H.P. Lovecraft and many others. It would also be fair to say he’s been heavily influenced by the work of filmmakers like Terry Gilliam, Orson Welles, George Lucas, Peter Jackson, David Lynch, the Cohen Brothers and probably quite a few more.
Please take the time to stop by his website and check out his work.
More Farrago author posts coming soon and as always if you need to find me, you know where to find me, right?
Meet R.E. Chambliss, author, podcaster, mom.
And New Media activist. She’s taken it upon herself to contribute a story to the Farrago anthology. Here’s a video she sent me, talking a little about her work and her involvement with Farrago.
Was anyone else as excited as I was to see the bonsai trees in the background of her video? It makes me think of Mr. Miyagi and that makes me smile.
Here’s a section from her story The Reprieve, which you can read in full when you purchase a copy of Farrago: The Michael Bekemeyer Project when it’s released on Sunday October 31st, 2010.
R. E. Chambliss
I don’t know how much longer I can take this, Kate thought as she dashed down the hall. She could barely hear the phone ring over Connor’s cries and didn’t think she’d make it before the answering machine picked up.
“That’s my sweet boy,” she said, bouncing him on her shoulder as she ran, praying that by some miracle he’d settle down. But the sight of his red, sweaty face in the hall mirror, the feel of his tense little body clutched to her shoulder, not to mention the frantic, almost hysterical, tone to his voice told her he wouldn’t be calming any time soon.
Once they reached Jim’s home office, she glanced at the caller ID screen hoping she wouldn’t have to answer the phone, cringed when she recognized the number, and geared herself up to sound cheerful. Fortunately, for some inexplicable reason, Connor’s wails were quieting to whimpers—maybe Jim wouldn’t hear. Kissing the baby’s soft, fuzzy head gratefully, she picked up the receiver.
“Kate, what the hell is wrong? Why didn’t you answer the phone?”
It was only then she noticed the answering machine’s blinking red light—two missed calls. Obviously she hadn’t heard the phone ring during the last 45-minutes of screaming.
“Uh, I was out taking Connor for a walk in the stroller,” she lied. “I thought it’d be good for him to have a change of scenery.”
Jim sighed, so forcefully Kate could practically feel his breath rushing out through the receiver. “Honey, we discussed this. I don’t want him to get sick. Ruth and I didn’t take Chloe anywhere until she was three months old and her immune system was more mature.”
“I know, I know,” Kate said, fighting to stay calm; the mention of Ruth, Jim’s first wife, always stretched her poise to its limits.
Meanwhile, Connor’s little body was going rigid, a sure sign that he was about to start up again. Kate cradled the phone between her neck and shoulder, gripped him firmly with both hands, and began some vigorous deep knee bends—a motion that usually soothed him somewhat. She twisted her chin away from him, trying to get baby and receiver as far apart as possible.
“We just went around the neighborhood,” she said. “He seemed to like it. And we didn’t see a soul. I don’t think he was exposed to anything.”
“Well, okay.” Jim’s voice had softened, and she could tell he was smiling now. “Put him on so I can talk to my little guy.”
“I don’t know, Honey,” Kate said, fearful any change in Connor’s situation would disrupt his current uneasy peace. “He’s almost asleep.” But her guilt at telling another lie broke her concentration and the knee bends became too half-hearted for Connor’s taste; he shrieked in outrage, louder and more piercing than the alarm on their home security system.
“Jesus, what’s wrong with him?”
“Oh…” Kate answered, thinking fast and dipping frantically up and down once more, “I think he needs to be changed.”
“Well, I’ll let you go then. Poor little guy, having to sit around in a dirty diaper.”
Kate gritted her teeth, her thighs quivering from the knee bends, and boosted Connor up to a more comfortable position on her shoulder.
“It hasn’t been that long, Hon, I promise,” she said, amazed at how evenly she was able to speak.
“I know, Kate. You’re a fabulous mother. I’m sorry.”
But she didn’t get a chance to bask in her husband’s compliment. As if he’d taken it upon himself to prove his mother truthful, a shudder rippled through Connor’s body, and Kate felt an explosion under her left hand, the one supporting his bottom. His troubles apparently over, Connor slumped against her chest—finally at ease. His tiny eyelids drooped like wilted flower petals.
Spellbound by this abrupt transformation, she forgot all about Jim.
“Kate? Didn’t you hear me?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said, struggling for a moment to remember what he’d said. “Thanks…. Well, I should probably go and get Connor changed….”
“No problem.” Jim’s words were muffled now, like his mouth was right up against the receiver and he didn’t want to be overheard. “I miss you and Connor so much during the day,” he murmured. “I can’t wait to see you both. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she answered, but he’d already hung up.
About the author…
R.E. Chambliss’ novel Dreaming of Deliverance can be found in print on Amazon and you can also buy it in Kindle and Nook versions for your e-reader of choice. As if that wasn’t enough, you can also read a free excerpt on her website, or even listen to full audio version of the novel, for free on Podiobooks.com.
Here’s a quick blurb about her novel Dreaming of Deliverance…
Five years ago when Lindsay Paulson, a naive college student and talented distance runner, was 18, she was convicted of drug smuggling. Now, halfway through a 10-year prison sentence, she begins having what seem to be dreams, in which she leaves her cell in the night and visits another reality called Trae. Dreaming of Deliverance tells of Lindsay’s experiences both in Trae, where she finds herself among people who think she can save them from the terrifying creatures who have enslaved them, and in prison where she tries to make sense of what’s happening in her sleep: Is she actually escaping from prison somehow or is she losing her mind?
Please take the time to visit her website www.rechambliss.com and find out more about R.E. Chambliss and her work.
To meet more of the authors of Farrago and to stay up to date with it’s progress stay tuned to MichaelBekemeyer.com
And as always, you can follow me on Twitter.
Be well my friends,
Be well and I’ll more stuff for you guys all weekend and next week.
About six months ago I was sitting in Borders Books and Music, dreaming big and working on a budget to a film. I had made small films before. I had done the low/no budget thing. I had been a guerrilla filmmaker before and had always found myself wishing I hadn’t had to cut the corners I had to cut, just to get a small film made, that frankly not many people had ever seen.
I was through with all of that. This time I wanted to make a film with a budget. I’m not talking about Steven Spielberg budget, but what exactly would it take to make a film where everything got done the way it should be done. No midnight requisitions, no borrowed equipment, nobody asked to work for free, or what we clever filmmakers like to call “deferred payment”. There would be none of that. Just good old-fashioned hard work with some money to help.
As I often do, I turned to Twitter and said something to the fact that I was working on a budget and soon people started replying back to my tweet. “Oooh, ooh what are you working on?”, they said. “When will you be making this movie?” And “Do you need any help?”, they all asked.
This last question is what I absolutely love about Twitter. “Do you need any help?” Well, at the time I was sitting in a book store on the free wi-fi, looking at a working budget that was actually making me reconsider my dedication to this new idealistic quest for legitimate artistic integrity. I was literally thinking to myself, how the hell am I going to get THAT much money?
So yes, I needed help. A lot of it. Boat loads of help. But, how could Twitter help little old me?
Enter Jennifer Hudock with a humbling stroke of genius. To those of you you know Jennifer, you not only know her as a brilliant and committed writer, but more importantly she is a dedicated friend to all creatives. She has a real desire to see anyone succeed at their dream, whatever it may be and she will go out of her way for the creative community as a whole, to make sure she helps that dream come true for all of us. More than once, I have referred to Jenny as my hero and I know from inside out I will many times say it again before all is said and done.
She said to me, “I’m putting together an anthology of fiction for you and you get to keep all the profits to finance your film.”
I was like, “WTF?”
She continued, “I’ll put a call out to any writer who wants to donate a story to the cause, I’ll edit it and we can put it on Amazon and Smashwords. You keep everything.”
I was blown away. I was humbled and I was astonished when within an hour she already had more than a dozen writers who had committed to contributing brand new, unpublished stories to the effort that would help me get a film financed. And in that moment Farrago was born. Some of these writers had no idea who I was and none of them had any idea what my film was going to be. They just wanted to help a brother out.
A confused mixture; hodgepodge; medley.
I’ll use it in a sentence for you. This anthology, which has also been called The Bekemeyer Anthology is a farrago of stories from all kinds of writers that have been brought together for a singular purpose.
Pretty frickin’ amazing, right? I’m still blown away that the idea ever even existed in the first place, let alone that the book is actually getting ready to come out later this month. I keep reminding myself that at the time of the inception of this idea, I didn’t even know many of the people who got involved. That’s exceedingly humbling to me and I will never quite be able to put into words how it feels to be embraced and helped by complete strangers.
You will hear me talk and tweet about this a lot in the coming weeks and months. We have a few ideas bouncing around in our heads that will give you a taste of what Farrago is going to be like. It really is a melting pot of fiction. I know I’m a unreliable narrator, but ignore that fact and believe me when I say that the stories in this book are so wide, varied and unique unto themselves that you can literally find something to suit your fiction needs within the pages of this book.
That’s all I’m going to say for now. Like I said, I will have more for you later. Including a few opportunities to meet the writers who have generously donated stories to this anthology, which is a first ever event. They all have their own projects, books, podcasts and an infinite supply of their own ideas that deserve our attention as well. When the time comes, I hope you can find it in your hearts, minds and pockets to purchase a copy of Farrago. But, between now and then, I hope you will also take the time to check out the fantastic and generous writers who all gave their words to this effort.
I thank them all. And I thank you all as well.
Feel free to please check back on this site often as there will be new stuff pretty frequently about Farrago. And as always, if you want to follow me on Twitter, so you can find out more about the progress of this project, or any other thought, whether it be minuscule or grandiose; please follow me here.
Be well my friends,
Writer, Filmmaker, Dreamer