Part I: Origin Story #2

Shaking and sweating, he hugged his knees and buried his face into the sleeping bag. Hot then cold, his mind racing. Jesus! He thought he’d gotten over this dope sick shit after that first month behind bars. Cold turkey they called it. More like one sick, puking hot pile of chicken shit was how it felt. Till finally, at the other end of it, he’d promised himself no more. A clean slate, head on straight, he was going there no more. So he’d accepted Henry’s offer of help and home and ended up, ended up…

“Fucking it all up again.”

Chapter 2: Approaching Earth: an excerpt.

Except for that article. That photograph that had him halfway across the country parked in a cornfield waiting for dawn and hoping none of those distant headlights were cop cars searching for him.

He dug in the backpack looking for the page he’d torn from the magazine, but his search turned up a different mystery first. He pulled out a folded, creased paper that had yellowed with age. He hesitated, afraid to look at it again. Why had his father kept this all those years? Why hide it in a locked desk drawer?

He’d been searching for money. His father away, Eric’s need at its greatest, he’d been looking for cash to fix what was wrong, whatever that was. Instead, he’d found a child’s drawing, that was all. A stick-drawn little girl with a smile on her face, holding the hand of an adult male with a feathered band across his forehead. All around them crooked, triangular teepees had been drawn with charcoal crayon swirls of smoke spiraling upward.

Why had this one drawing been the impetus that finally drove him away from home?

Eric vaguely remembered it. Was it from kindergarten? Pre-school? Could he even remember that far back? Stupid to think so, even stupider to think something about it had changed. It wasn’t even his drawing. At least, he didn’t think so. The initials M.R. were carefully lettered in the bottom right corner.

So why had this one drawing been the impetus that finally drove him away from home? He had no answer to that any more than he had an answer to the feeling that something about the image was wrong, out of place. He could remember seeing the stick figure of the little girl before, but there had been a woman with her, hadn’t there? A woman with an angry frown. And the little girl had been frightened and crying.

Part I: Origin Story

The electronic tether weighted Eric’s ankle like an iron ball and chain. When he stepped forward, the sole of his right shoe scuffed against the kitchen floor as if a few ounces of plastic and microchip could magnify the force of gravity and pull his soul down with it as well.

Chapter 1: Fortress of Solitude: an excerpt.

He pulled the September issue of American Living toward him , staring at page twelve. Capital Hill. The Space Needle in the background. The green and white-striped awning with the restaurant name. The street-side diners. The passersby. The young woman with her face half turned away as she threw a comment at someone lounging against the building.

“A wizard to guide him through destiny,” he whispered. Strong young woman, sun beating on the back of her head. Red flames of hair licked her shoulders, burned at the ends of dark strands grown tangled and unruly.

No fear, beckoning to him. A guide for lost souls running scared day by day. The room tilted forward, drawing him in. A nauseated surge turned his stomach, his mouth a desert of coarse sand. An itch in his blood for the pierce of a needle, the rush of a drug. The need, the need looming to strike, to devour. He felt himself swallowed whole, one foot still in Chicago, the other on the pavement of the Seattle street, his hand reaching out to touch her, to turn her chin to face him, to see him. See me.

Not a Street Story Novel. Not really. A story of what might exist on the streets in a world of magic and possibilities.

He jerked and pulled back. An invisible cord pulled tight, stretched, snapped, licked in his direction to bind him again.

“No.” He stood up from the table; the chair skittered back across the tiles. Cobwebs in his brain again, voices whispering, laughing, mocking. “Crazy bitch,” he called himself. “Crazy, dope fiend bitch.”

They should have kept him locked up. Thrown away the key. Put him in a white jacket and a room with cushioned walls to drown his screams of fury and hate. House arrest, what a joke. What a fucking joke.

The Current Project

It has been three years since my fourth Street Stories novel, Cry Baby Cry was published. I have been busy writing during that time,  and there are plans to continue the series, but the project taking my attention right now is a sort of offshoot of the series. With the working title of The Wizard Within, I have taken a homeless youth off the streets of Chicago and placed him in a world where magic exists in every single human being. I see this as a metaphor for the potential within all of us, and hope you will enjoy it when it is completed as much as I am enjoying creating it.

Continue to look for updates here and on my author site


When Lonny moved on, Avril walked over to the mirror on the far wall just to check that the woman hadn’t been making fun of her. Nope. Still fabulous. Still sparkly with the glitter and hairspray she’d spritzed on before leaving the house.

With the pre-order for the completed Cry Baby Cry going up on Amazon this week, this will be the last sneak preview excerpt for CRY on this blog. I hope you enjoy it and will check back for future notes when I start to birth my next Street Stories novel.

Avril had seen an article once on coffins made with glitter. They came in any color. She would pick all the colors, she thought. Tell them to spray all the damn sparkles on the thing when it was time for her funeral and toast her with champagne as they lowered her into the dirt.

She looked down at her body without shame or hate or disorientation. The penis she had securely tucked beneath her red, white, and blue tutu didn’t mean she was a man any more than yearning for real breasts meant she was a woman. Her body simply was and whether she changed it to reflect who she was inside or not, she would always be Avril McCartney because that was who she chose to be. Who you made love to didn’t define who you were, either. Loving at all, that was what defined you: treating people, treating yourself, with compassion and humor and camaraderie.

Cat Pee and Deadlines

Jo threw her toothbrush into her makeup bag, the other hand holding the phone to her ear. She tried not to let annoyance get the best of her as she listened to Avril make life more complicated than it needed to be.

The bad news: At 5000 words short of my goal, it looks like I’m not going to make my May 1 deadline for having this first draft done.

The woman had practically begged to be allowed to take care of Topaz so Jo wouldn’t have to delay her trip downstate, and now she wasn’t readily available to pick up the keys.

“Well,” Jo said, trying to remain reasonable. “Where do you live? Maybe I can drop the keys by on my way out of town.”

“No, no, that wouldn’t be a good idea. You’d be going out of your way. Isn’t there someplace you can leave them for me? Work? Do you have a doorman in your building, or a neighbor? You know, someone who would believe that the six foot tranny who comes by to pick up the keys is the person you told them to expect?”

The writer in 4B did owe Jo a favor for beta reading the tacky romance novel he’d finished last month. Sanjay would count it as her owing him a favor, rather than as payment of his, but he was an agoraphobic who never set foot outside his door so at least he’d be available regardless of when Avril stopped by.

The good news: The writing pace has picked up the last few days. I got over 2000 words done today.

Jo told Avril which apartment number to buzz to gain access to the keys, and which apartment was Keisha’s.

“But you’ve got to promise to be here before seven o’clock to give Topaz her supper. I was only a half hour late one time and the damn cat peed on Keisha’s favorite throw pillow. She will get revenge if you cross her.”

The Cheese Stands Alone

Like the nursery rhyme game, each Street Story novel stands alone. What does progress throughout the series, though, is Jo growing as a person. Jo’s relationship with Jack is one way to show that growth.

Once the two of them were settled, Jo pulled Jack out into the hallway with a firm grip that left red prints on his forearm. When she saw there was no one else in the corridor, she put one hand on her hip and stabbed him in the chest with her other finger.

“I know you’ve got rules you need to follow, Jack,” she said, seething. “And there’s good reasons for them, I realize that. If there weren’t rules, it would be too easy for assholes to really exploit these kids by pretending they were helping. But I say fuck those rules, Jack. Today I just want to screw all the rules and do the right thing. If you can’t get her into Maddy’s Place, then that’s fine. I’ll figure out something else. But they’re not calling her family, you hear? Please don’t let them do that.”

Then suddenly his arms were around her and she was pulled close to his chest. She stiffened at first, but he felt so good, he smelled so good—all man and dried sweat and some remnant of aftershave. And, God, he was a good hugger. Her arms were trapped between them, so she couldn’t hug him back, so instead she just let herself go, closed her eyes and let herself get lost in the hug.

It wasn’t a romantic embrace, although she’d imagined that happening quite a few times in the darkness of her lonely room at night. It was an “I’ve got you” hug, a “don’t worry about a thing” that was comforting and warm and believable. She never wanted him to let go.

He did, of course. After a long, sweet minute he pushed her away from him, just a little, his hands holding her arms. Were his cheeks flushed? They were. He kept looking away from her, too, like he was embarrassed to look her in the eyes.

Another theme that progresses throughout the books is Jo’s relationship with her father.

What was it about Lily’s scream that had touched a raw nerve in her? Jo almost shuddered as she remembered. She’d been worried and anxious about Lily’s situation and her reaction to the subject of contacting her family, but that scream had taken Jo beyond those mostly detached emotions. The scream had shaken her—she tried not to think it, there had to be a better to way to say it, wasn’t there? But no, maybe not. Jo had been shaken to the core. A gut wrenching, tearing sensation that touched a nerve so deep she didn’t want to know where it came from.

Did it have something to do with her father? With why she couldn’t seem to let go of her distrust? She was reminded of a dream she often had: a young boy dead in the gutter of a dark street, hand stretched out as if reaching for rescue. Was there some deep dark secret memory she didn’t want to look at?

Then she realized Jack was standing there watching her with a line between his eyebrows that couldn’t have been any clearer if it had formed a question mark. How long had she been standing there struggling internally? She was losing it, for sure. And in front of Jack no less.

Jo smiled, a little, her gaze meeting his, then away, then back again. “Thanks, Doc, I needed that.”

She turned and walked back to the office, satisfied. Just the right mix of sincerity and humor, she thought. Confidentiality crisis averted; friendship saved.

Conversation Without Condemnation

As Jo shut the door behind her, something on the bulletin board across the hall caught her eye. The perfect Caucasian family smiled from a poster: mother, father, son, and daughter with bright white teeth and perfectly groomed features. Above their heads the poster read “And God created them in His own image. Male and female he created them.” The words below the model family were “Empowered Identity Workshop: Wednesdays @ 6 p.m.” In smaller print was a notice that the cost for attending the workshop series was $200. The sessions were open only to girls aged twelve through sixteen.

The workshop, and many of Martin Oberhaus’s words, reflect a real pastoral interview I found while researching the subject of gay conversion techniques.

“Did you have questions about the workshops?” someone asked from down the hall.

Jo turned to see Martin Oberhaus smiling widely. His teeth were as white and well ordered as the lion’s mane of hair on his head. He could have been the grandfather of the family pictured on the poster.

“You don’t look old enough to have a daughter to participate,” he continued as he walked toward her. “But if you have concerns about some other young woman, I would be happy to talk to the parents about the benefits of having their child attend.”

“This is only for girls?” Jo asked.

He had stopped in front of her and stood with fingertips tented in front of him. He bowed slightly, still smiling. “We are hoping to offer a similar series to young men sometime in the future. The intent is to offer an environment where the girls feel free to express themselves.”

“What is this, exactly? A support group for gay kids?” Jo was pretty sure the idea was the exact opposite of that. The age restrictions seemed odd to her, and the bible verse quoted inferred otherwise.

Oberhaus’s face creased with anxiety. “Oh no. We specifically gear the workshops to girls who are too young to really grasp the implications of their sexual identity. This is the age where young people may begin to question their sexuality and they often need guidance to make the right decision.”

“And the right decision is …” Jo paused, waiting for him to fill in the words, “To walk the straight and only acceptable path.”

Instead, he hesitated, his smile a bit brittle but only for an instant. “We offer conversation without condemnation. No one demands they make a particular decision. Participation is totally voluntary. I mean, think about it. Who would agree to be counseled or mentored by someone trying to shove an opinion down your throat?”

Someone troubled and lost, Jo thought. Someone looking for a strong role model because of their own low self esteem. Someone like Lilly.

When Backstory Comes Forward

“WESTMONT HIGH SCHOOL” The words engraved in plaster above the door drew Lily’s eye as she walked up the front steps.

Her heartbeat sounded loud as bass drums in her ears. The voices of the other students were a slow motion wave of sound both garbled and hostile. Their bodies a blur as they rushed past. Their glances foreign and invasive.

This dream scene from Cry Baby Cry actually started out as a backstory I wrote at the beginning as I was getting to know Lily better. Go read the original post HERE if you want to see what it started out as.

A hand grabbed her, some boy’s arm encased in a red and yellow letter jacket. “Hey. Who are you? You don’t belong here.”

Lily squeaked, ducked, slammed into another body. Smaller hands gripped her arms, gentler hands.

“Whoa there.”

The girl’s eyes warmed her like blue flames. The hallway had emptied out.

“Slow down, new girl,” Jean said, and smiled.

Chaos swirled to a halt and Lily could breathe again.

“Jean,” Lily said. “Jean.”

Relief swept over her.

“No, silly, it’s Bella. Remember?”

They were standing by the side of a swimming pool. Bella’s breasts pushed against the Hawaiian print blossoms of her bikini top. The cleft between them, shadowed like a chasm between snowy mountains, drew her fingers toward them.

The Sins of the Daughter

Lou ran a hand through his hair, causing the short strands to stand up even further. He had failed his Lord. That is what bothered him, more even than the threat of being reported to the police.

I was having a hard time writing one of Lily’s scenes and realized it was because I needed to know more about her father, so I decided to write a scene from his perspective.

Their cause was righteous, therefore God would protect them. The Lord had laid this mission upon his heart, to save these misled sinners and set them on the true path. But how could he be forgiven the sin of his failure to save his own daughter from the mouth of hell?

He dropped to his knees beside the couch, head bowed, clasped hands pressed tightly to his forehead. “Please, Jesus. Grant me the wisdom and courage and strength to do what must be done to save my grandchild. Forgive me for my failure with Lily. Thank you for bringing Martin to my aid. Without his support and guidance, I would be lost. A lamb caught in the brambles, Lord. But thou art my shepherd, I shall not …”

Since Lou Beckett is not one of my point of view characters, this will not appear in the book in this form, though the information contained within it will come out in one way or another.

The prayers continued long into the night, until Martin returned and found him there. Startled, Lou looked up when he approached.

“Is it done?” Lou asked.

“She has agreed to our terms.” Martin dropped down onto the couch and placed a reassuring hand over Lou’s clasped fingers. “She will come with us when we talk to the Bernabi’s.”

Lou, still on his knees, could smell on Martin traces of blood and sweat and semen, their weapons against the wages of sin. His joy nearly overwhelmed him. God always provided, as Martin had preached last Sunday.

He leaned forward eagerly, then hesitated. “How can we be sure she will say what we tell her to? What if it is a trick to try to escape again?”

“Zara Rose is important to her. She would not risk her life again. But—” Martin rose, began unbuttoning his shirt as he walked across the room. “If she tries to double-cross us, to tell them anything she shouldn’t, we shall be very disappointed, won’t we, Lou?”

He stopped and turned, his shirt unbuttoned, his belt pulled from its loops. He continued slowly. “We … shall be … so very … very sorry that her soul has been lost beyond redemption. And we will tell Gemma and Carl that the liar we brought to them is a warning, an example of what could happen to their own daughter if they do not permit me—us—to show her the error of her ways.”

Martin’s somber face, the intonation of his voice, the tall, erect posture, reminded Lou so much of his father. A man who had ruled his family with an iron fist and the holy cross of Christ. A man who would not have failed.

Lou stood up, his resolve strengthened, his faith restored. They would not fail, either, praise the Lord. If he could not save his daughter, he would, by God, see that the girl’s sickness was not passed down to her offspring. Lily would not spread the seeds of sin like her mother had.

“Now.” Martin turned away again. “Let me shower and wash that bitch’s smell off me and then we will sit down and talk about our next move.”

Jo Likes Tequila

“He makes my skin crawl.” Why had she told Lily that? Jo poured another shot of tequila and sprinkled cinnamon on a slice of orange. Keisha’s breakfast nook was already littered with a half dozen naked strips of orange peel, flecks of cinnamon dust, and a quarter-sized puddle of spilled Don Julio.

Jo is not me, the author, although all my characters have traits I can relate to. However, I had fun making tequila Jo’s alcohol of choice because it is mine as well. Especially with cinnamon and oranges.

“Bottoms up,” she told Topaz as she licked the cinnamon, swallowed the alcohol, and bit into the orange. “Mmmm. Better than salt and lime any day.”

The cat blinked, bored, and licked the pads on one paw. She’d been sitting on the chair opposite Jo for the last half hour, watching her every move like a feline federal judge about to pronounce sentence.

“I’m only over here because it’s unhealthy to drink alone, you know,” she told her inquisitor. Then, noticing how slurred her words sounded, she added, “Shit. I better stop now or—”

She lost the thought, ate the rest of the orange pulp, and reached for another slice. Sans tequila this time. “Pace yourself, girl.” She picked up her phone and squinted at it to read the time.

Midnight. Jo spend a good ten minutes trying to figure out how that translated to Keisha’s time zone, gave it up and dialed her anyway. Topaz made a poor substitute for a best friend.

“Hello?” The groggy answer told Jo that no matter what time zone she was in, Keisha had been asleep.

“Sorry to wake you,” Jo said. “But it’s your fault really, for not teaching your cat how to talk.”

“Jo? You drunk, woman? ’Course you are. What time is it? Oh Lord, really? What’s going on? You okay?”

“You kidding? I’m great. Now, anyway. I made an ass of myself earlier today. Yesterday?” She pulled the phone away from her face to check the time. “Yep, yesterday.”

“What did you do this time? You didn’t call your boss a dick again, did you?”

Jo snorted. She’d been a reporter—barely a reporter, a gofer, really—for a short time at the renowned Chicago Tribune but had given that all up when she told her boss to get his fat hand off her fine ass.

“Nah. Nick’s not interested in my ass. Yours neither. Now Kevin Costner’s ass, that he could get behind.” She suddenly realized what she’d said and started laughing hysterically at her unintentional joke.

“Get some sleep, Jo. When you start thinking you’re a comedian you’re way past your limit.”