A post about upcoming posts...

It's been awhile since I posted any news on my blogs.

It's not that juicy news hasn't been happening, it's just that I've been buried up to my eyeballs in schoolwork and this is a scenario that is not likely to change anytime soon.

I have a couple of items I want to post about concerning upcoming stories of mine that are being published (think zombies, ghosts and a meteor strike).

The biggest news is my story 'The Lust, The Flesh' has been accepted for publication in the upcoming local anthology 'Zombie Nation: St. Pete.' I am working on a post with various news items and links about this project that could be a big step forward in my writing career.

I have other publication news to share also in that upcoming post. I'm working furiously between school studies trying to put together this post and another one, about a special memorial service that my husband's family had for him in Massachusetts last month.

About my college career. I attended an orientation meeting Monday afternoon for the Phi Theta Kappa International Honor Society. I signed up to be a new member. Looking forward to the academic benefits of being a member of that organization.

These last couple days has been all about me joining organizations. Last Thursday, I became a two-year member of the Florida Writers Association, another group that is sure to benefit me greatly.

The future is looking very bright.

Old Man Carver Opens A Can Of Whoop Ass

This story was entered in Michael J. Solender's micro-flash 101 word contest "Dog Days of Summer" in which the words "summer" and "heat" had to appear in the story. Michael has published an e-Chapbook over at his website: "NOT from here, are you?" I am thrilled that my story made the cut, and appears in Michael's book. Many of the #fridayflash community participated in this fun contest, including the winner: Sam Adamson. Go give them all a read. It's only 101 words. You can read them by clicking on the links above.

The TV was loud. A Miami Heat game. Old Man Carver, asleep in his recliner, sparse grey hair flying in the summer breeze through the open window, didn’t hear the intruder enter the decrepit farmhouse. 

Boots (the cat) heard and saw; hissing from atop the parlor table, fur rising. 

“Who that?” Carver shook himself awake, then looking up, saw who. 

“The hell with you! I 'aint goin’!” 

The intruder said nothing. 

Carver stood, brandishing fists. “Try me, you bastard!” 

Minutes later, the black-hooded figure limped up the lane, fiddling with a PDA. 

“I was so sure it was today,” Death whimpered.