500 MILES by Parker Williams...

I get such pleasure from discovering new authors. We all have to start somewhere and I love, love, love the experience of reading the 'starting points' of other authors.

Only...well, hell...this new author, Parker Williams, bounded from his starting point and just jetted right into awesomeness!

This scrumptious story, 500 Miles, is part of an anthology, Mixed Tapes, from MLR Press, by the way. And, if I'm not mistaken, it's Mr. Williams' first published work. What a beautiful beginning he's made with this lovely contribution to this collection of stories.

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It's the tale of Mark, who is fourteen at the beginning and has a huge crush on his older brother's best friend Jase. When the brother and Jase both head overseas for the army, Jase leaves Mark with a cassette tape assuring him he will never leave him. Sure, he will be miles and miles away, but his spirit will never be any further than at Mark's side. And Jase leaves a recording of the song 500 Miles at the end of the message. 

That song carries a much deeper message that Mark will one day understand. And so will the reader by the time they've come to the end of the wonderful story.

This story immediately touched my heart because (no plot, remember, that's what the blurb is for...lol) it dragged me back to my own past, to a secret love for a soldier overseas in a war. To a youngster who loves that older sibling's friend with a yearning that's not any less true just because the dreamer is just a kid. With me, it was the Viet Nam era, a boyfriend of my older sister's. Just like Mark in the story, I wrote letters to him, clung to his every response, dreamed of him and missed him something fierce. 

I daresay many folks have been in this position and will relate to this poignant telling of just that sort of young love. It's a common thing, told in a very UNcommon sweetness that was very, very deep and personal and heart wrenching. 

The other facet of 500 Miles that impressed me, that was such a delight, was the prose. This is not fancy writing. And by that I mean it's natural as breathing yet powerful as a heartbeat. It IS a heartbeat, a lovely VERY personal rhythm that melts the reader right into Mark's very mind and heart. Only problem with that is that the reader's going to bawl with Mark, hate with Mark, love with Mark, smile with Mark and fly to the moon with ultimate happiness with Mark. The reader is going to BE Mark. And that, my friend, is good writing. 

The prose was down to earth. Not like an author telling Mark's story but like Mark sitting on your porch with you, telling it to you himself. The beauty in that is that you come away from the book knowing Mark and never forgetting him. He made a friend of you. 

Mind-blowing perfection in a short package. Perfect characters, very real characters. Perfect, well-synchronized plot fit into that small space. And a perfect ending. 

Perfect. 

WHISTLE PASS by KevaD...

Blurb:
On the battlefields of WWII Europe, Charlie Harris fell in love, and after the war, Roger marched home without a glance back. Ten years later, Charlie receives a cryptic summons and quickly departs for his former lover’s hometown of Whistle Pass.
But Roger Black isn’t the lover of Charlie’s dreams anymore. He’s a married, hard-bitten political schemer who wants to secure his future by destroying evidence of his indiscreet past. Open homosexuality is practically a death sentence, and that photo would ruin Roger and all his wife’s nefarious plans.
Caught up in foggy, tangled events, Charlie turns to hotel manager Gabe Kasper for help, and Gabe is intrigued by the haunted soldier who so desperately desires peace. When helping his new lover places Gabe in danger, the old warrior in Charlie will have to take drastic action to protect him... or condemn them both.

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As always, I'll leave you to the blurb for plot details. But I will tell you the setting was a new one for me.

A town called Whistle Pass, not much of a place in the big scheme of things; but, in story telling, it's a luscious locale that seems all quaint and homey on the surface but underneath that diners-loaded-with-smiles-and-cherry pie veneer is a snake pit of corruption, violence and homophobia. It's a delicious setting straight out of a George Raft movie. And just as noir and tantalizing.

If Whistle Pass was a motion picture and if I was an Oscar judge, I'd---first of all---give the book an award for its rich description of the world the reader is drawn to. KevaD is extremely gifted in transporting us to the era. The imagery, not only in visuals but all the other senses---smells, touches. With KevaD, I'm inside automobiles, sitting in a diner's booth, hiding in dark corners in the rain, looking in a hotel mirror at myself, smelling the freshly lit match, fingering the worn deck of cards, sniffing a dame's strong perfume and----ah, wonderfully last but not least---rolling around in the warm, fresh scents of masculinity and Aqua Velva and the fingers-on-bristly-beard.

Whistle Pass is chock full of sights and sounds I've personally never experienced in fiction---the railroad. The town is a spot where railroaders lay over and I enjoyed the flavor this aspect contributed to the story.

I'd give Whistle Pass an award for characterization. Charlie and Gabe, Roger and his scheming wife, the waitresses in the cafe and all the townsfolk---good guys and bad guys.

Charlie and Gabe are lavishly realistic.

Charlie's no angel, plain and clear. No bones about that. He's a shell-shocked veteran with some boulders on his shoulders all wrapped up in a gorgeous man's body. Virile, steely, slick, rough, seasoned, keen to his surroundings. He's a lumberjack. Oh, yes, I loved that! Wait! What's a lumberjack doing in a noir-type story? Well, read it and find out!

Gabe? Young hotel manager. Sophisticated, swank, dark hair always perfect, good looking, gentle yet strong as a lion when he needs to be. And he has a secret beneath all that sweet kid coating. Yet I adored him and I accepted him and all his frailties and life decisions. I very much loved his loyalty to his friends and to his new lover Charlie.

And, oh, man, oh, man, did I ever FEEL Gabe's longing for Charlie and Charlie's attraction for Gabe. Sizzling. One of those get-together-why-don't-you-already type relationships that I love to read.

Roger. The former lover who wasn't so lovable anymore. But, in spite of his fall from grace (or at least the grace Charlie had fixed in his mind from the past), I still kind of liked Roger. Because he was, underneath it all, just a human, too. A human gone bad and greedy. And, to me, that's a literary accomplishment to develop the protagonist so carefully that the reader can't really hate him even though they want to.

But, alas, Whistle Pass is not a movie. It's a book. So I give it a whopping award for being a book that reads like a wonderful, well-detailed, opulent, lavish big-screen production.

Highly recommended.

 

Dear Father...

 “It never gets easier, missing you. And sometimes I wonder if it ever will.” --- Heather Brewer, "Ninth Grade Slays"

 

This is a re-post of a blog I originally wrote in 2009, the year my dear father passed away. My sister asked if I would repeat it this year, in honor of Father's Day.

And I might add that, even after four years, I miss Daddy just as much as ever.

Here's the post...

****************************************************************

I’m listening to Neil Diamond’s “Dear Father” from “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” right now.  Seems appropriate. 

Today is your birthday, Daddy.  You would have been 83. I lost you on February 29, this year. And, oh God, this is your first birthday away from us.  Before you tell me you’re in a better place, I do know that. I find comfort in that. Comfort in the fact you’re whole, healthy. In fact, I still keep seeing visions of you at 18 years old, in the army.  Before I knew you.  And I tell myself it’s really you, not just a wishful thought. It’s you, telling me you’re fine. That you don’t need your oxygen machine anymore. You can go anywhere you want now without having to lug your little portable oxygen device. And you assure me that is something I should be happy about. And I am. Believe me, Daddy, I am. 

But. Of course there is a ‘but’ to this. I went to Walmart on the way home from work today, Daddy. I needed to go the card aisle to get you a birthday card; and, damn it, I got hit with it. Hit like a piano falling from a five thousand story building. You are gone. You are gone. No more birthday cakes. No parties. No cards. Never again. 

I mean, really. Do you realize how hard it was to find the perfect card for you every year? You hated those schmaltzy cookie cutter cards just as much as I did. And they were SO not you. So my yearly mission was to find the card --- the card that reflected you. And let me tell you. It was hard. Because you weren’t one of those Hallmark Daddies. You were good ol’ Daddy, plain ol’ Daddy. 

The cards were right about one thing, though, Daddy. Every single one of those pesky cards said, “I don’t tell you I love you as often as I should.” How did those card writers know that most of us kids do not do that? Well, I suppose they were all kids, too? Well, they were right. I did not tell you as often as I should. Heck, looking back, I don’t suppose I told you much at all.  I figured you knew, anyway. And I’m sure you did. But I bet you would have loved to have heard it more often. 

Well, we won’t have to be bothered by those irritating American Greetings anymore, will we? 

Oh, Daddy, I wish it really did make me feel better to tell myself that. That I’m glad to be relieved of that chore every year --- that quest for the Ark of the Covenant of birthday cards, the Holy Grail of greetings. 

But it does not. I’d gladly spend all night in stupid Walmart to find you a stupid card if you were just still here. All night, I’d look for a card.  I wouldn’t care how sugary it was, how silly. If you could just be here for me to give it to you. 

Well, I’ve whined enough. Your birthday is nearly over now. Good. So maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and not miss you so much? Fat chance.

Daddy, I sure do miss you. I miss you so much. Didn’t get you a card. But --- wherever you may be --- Happy, happy birthday. I love you.

"FINDING JACKIE" by Lou Sylvre...

What. A. Book. Finding Jackie by Lou Sylvre. 

This was the third installment in the Vasquez and James series by this author (the series also included a short novella titled Yes), and I would advise reading the books in order to get the maximum benefit of the series. 

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First of all, let me mention Sylvre's writing style. I know, I know, I've bragged about it very often---it's magical, lyrical, there's just something about it. How can I describe it? It's not even just the prose, but the presentation. Reading these books, the Vasquez and James delicious installments, I sort of get this light, airy but can-be-very-serious tone as though I'm listening to a delightful narrator with a very simple, very blunt and almost dry humor reading it to me. An arresting delivery like in the film Vickie Christina Barcelona. In fact, I can almost hear Giulia y Los Tellarini singing the zippy tune Barcelona as I read. How Sylvre does this is pure magic. Such serious themes---in Finding Jackie, a kidnapping and torture of a young boy is the heart---and yet presented in a perfect balance of drama and light comedy. A perfect balance.

For instance, I loved this bit: At the Monaco, they’d been offered the Ambassador Suite, but Sonny had insisted the purple furniture would prevent him from sleeping, so they ended up with the Monte Carlo suite. So adorable and yet somber, you just know Rod Serling is just sitting somewhere offstage, narrating. 

Sylvre displayed her trademark knack for showing not telling her characters, and I was particularly touched by the humanness of one character, a drag hooker named Rita:  Well, you know, Vasquez. I know I’m not like I used to be. I don’t draw the same clientele. You know what I mean?” Luki did know. Rita hadn’t been a street-corner “ho.” She’d drawn her clients from the richest, the most prestigious men in Chicago, both the flagrantly criminal and the supposedly legit. That was the reason she’d been useful to Luki. Small-time thieves and conmen weren’t the people Luki needed to know about when he was working for ATF. Rita hooked the big ones, and her trade in gossip was as lucrative as her trade in sex. Or possibly more. When Luki didn’t say anything, Rita deflated a little. She attempted a laugh but choked on it. 

So subtle, just a teency touch of body language, and Rita's entire persona is sewn up in vivid color. A sad wishing that someone would tell her, no, you're still beautiful, you still got it going on, girl.  But no one contradicts her and she deflates but carries on. Body language. A gift of Sylvre's. 

You know I don't talk much about plots, and this is no exception except to say this particular story line was absolutely riveting. Big time. Sylvre knows her stuff. Weapons, computer technology, strategics, logistics, all the goodies that make for good action and adventure.

But...but...Ms. Sylvre also knows something ever bigger, even better. Humans. What one person has that makes another person tick. What one person has that dries another person ape shit. What one person has that makes another crazy with desire. Love, sensuality, deep-in-the-gut emotion, no holds barred. The good with the bad, the pretty with the ugly. Humans. The way we really are. 

Sonny James and Luki Vasquez are two of my favorite fictional characters of all time. Something about them...just something about them. Beautiful, gentle but-can-be-a-force-to-be-reckoned-with Sonny James. So loyal, so enamored of his husband Luki. A perfect character, so well drawn I feel as though I could just pick up the phone and call him. So well drawn I find myself wildly attracted to him. 

And then there's Luki....confirmed bad-ass who is growing a heart over the course of the series and who is softening up a little because of that heart. 

Their dynamics---in and out of the bed---are fabulous. Oh, and speaking of the bed. One unforgettable scene---in a bath tub---ay-ay-ay! I even stopped reading to make a comment to the author. Oh, hell's bells. Can Sylvre write the intimate scenes. And they are not hump-it-baby-oh-yeah-baby fare. Her sex scenes are hot as Hades yet so damn classy. The lovemaking session by the water. On the rock. Beautiful, intense. 

For you readers who are devoted Vasquez and James fans, you will not want to miss this installment. There are excellent flashbacks into Luki's past, when he was eighteen. There is a final confrontation with his childhood, when he faces the ghosts---thanks to the love and patience of Sonny---of the incident when his face was slashed. It's a wonderful insight into Luki, his growth, his triumph over his demons. And a beautiful tribute to his Sonny who has stood by him through all these fabulous books.

Finding Jackie. If I gave stars, I'd have to give this read its own constellation. Yes. It is that good. 

Thanks, Ms. Sylvre, for another beautiful, satisfying read.

YES by Lou Sylvre...

First thing in order is an apology from the Zampster to the author, Lou Sylvre, because I had not read this short story sooner. I had my reasons for holding off on this giant gem of a book, but---now that I braved the emotional waters to read it---I only regret I didn't do it long ago.

I'd been blunt when Ms. Sylvre announced the release of this book. The subject matter---cancer---sent ice through me, scared me. Just prior to the release, I'd lost my son-in-law to cancer and I quickly informed Lou I was pretty sure I wouldn't be touching this book, that I could NOT deal with this issue in fiction. To compound my stance, it just so happened I'm an ardent fan of the characters of this series by Ms. Sylvre----the Vasquez and James series---and here the author was, telling me my favorite character was going to have cancer. No can do. Nuh-uh. Next book, please. 

Well, since the author has another new Vasquez and James release coming up, I wanted to prime myself for the upcoming story (titled Finding Jackie), and bite the bullet by reading this short story titled simply Yes. 

And my initial reaction after finishing this story? A resounding DAMN!

I seriously doubted----remembering the long emotional journey in watching my son-in-law battle cancer---that a story could efficiently address the complex nature of the illness. The moments from diagnosis to treatment to healing or the unthinkable---death. I was so sure I'd come away from the book with all sorts of points that had been missed. The emotions. The details. 

I was wrong.

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Somehow, Ms. Sylvre did manage to address this issue so fully, beautifully as I should have expected of her. She's a magnificent author, a gifted wordsmith, a talent I am in awe of. And why I ever doubted her handling of this subject, I don't know. 

Luki Vazquez, as his fans have grown to know, is a bad ass. How was he going to handle the big C? How was Sonny, his lover of six years, going to handle it? 

For one thing, with an odd sort of Luki-style humor which has become a beloved trademark of Lou Sylvre's writing style. 

Remembering the day I sat with my father in the doctor's office when he got his lung cancer diagnosis, I laughed out loud at the truth to this moment with Luki when he is delivered the same news….and made his lung look like an almost egg-shaped hole, and the tumor look like a yoke splatted in the middle of it. Mr. Vasquez, I’m afraid you have a fried egg in your lung. Luki didn’t realize he’d chuckled aloud until Sonny clamped a hand on his shoulder, and he saw a shocked look on the doctor’s face. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I was thinking about… something….” 

True Luki Vasquez. True human. So real. That haze between reality and disbelief.

Chills gripped me. My Luki. But with Sylvre's lovely sense of humor, the scene was put on a realistic, personal level. This fictional character is a real guy, just like you and me. 

The most beautiful, poignant, powerful part of this story, though, is Sonny's battling with the illness of the man he loves more than his life. 

The confusion, the pain, the hope, the loss of hope, the denial, the helplessness, the protectiveness, the over protectiveness, the craving for sex and intimacy but making do because love is more important than sex, the thought---that awful thought---of maybe losing them forever. The anger because they got sick in the first place. 

And---oh, damn---Sylvre even added humor into one of the most base aspects of it. A moment when Sonny worries that Luki has expired in the bathroom...What if Luki died in some laughably compromising position? What if he, the most dignified and contained man Sonny had ever met, was held up for ridicule just for dying wrong?

Luki's illness carries into the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays, so very perfectly. I won't say much more, in fear of gushing too much. Although I sure could gush without end.

Luki's Christmas gift to Sonny. A tribute to how very little Sonny really wants from Luki---or should I say how much? Sonny's gift to Luki. Just the ending is reason alone to warrant reading this luscious masterpiece of prose. 

And speaking of the ending. Lou Sylvre at it again, weaving this tapestry of words into the perfect ending with the end that ties the whole thing together. And the meaning behind the title, Yes. Ah!

So I apologize, Lou Sylvre. There's a reason you're one of my most beloved authors, why I love your work. You managed to incorporate a full-blown journey, jam-packed with every emotion possible, into this short story.

 I should never have doubted you. 

HONOR C...

Artwork by Paul Richmond

It's here. The finalized cover art for my novella, HONOR C.

I think, if I should live to see a billion books released, I'll never get tired of the thrill of seeing the cover for my book.

It's at that stage---for me, anyway---that you know it's real, it's beautiful and it's about to happen. Your babies coming to life before your very eyes. Oh, sure, they always were alive from the moment you conceived them.

But just something about seeing them in living color. No words to describe that excitement. Not for this gal's limited vocabulary.

I'm lucky in this rendering because the artist, Paul Richmond, has brought my characters, Honor Castillo and Jorge Villagomez, to gorgeous life. Not only did he paint physical likenesses of them, he somehow incorporated their spirits into the cover. The intimacy, the romance, the setting.

And I wanted to take this moment to brag on Mr. Richmond. He took special pains to make this cover meet MY vision. He tweaked when I squeaked and assured me the image would not be considered finalized until it matched the vision in my heart and head.

And he did it.

So that is the final step in the book's production. Next step. Release. My boys will soon be released from my hands and out into the public.

Here's the blurb:

When Honor Castillo convinces himself he isn’t gay, he begins a new life. He ends his affair with his lover, Jorge Villagomez, and marries Rebecca to establish a life with her as a respected San Antonio businessman. They have a son and he tells himself he is happy.

Eleven years later, Jorge returns to San Antonio, and his path crosses with Honor’s once more. The flame of their passion never died, and neither did Jorge’s love for Honor.

When Jorge approaches Honor to design his studio, Honor believes he can walk the line between friendship and lovers. But when a sudden crisis threatens to take Jorge from him forever, Honor must choose between his duty and his heart. Most of all, he’s forced to decide what he’s willing to lose in order to be true to who he really is.

Again, I thank Paul Richmond for his talent, his time and his insight. I thank the entire Dreamspinner staff for their time and talent in every step of production.

And I think, from the bottom of my heart, the publisher for believing in me and making my story come to life.

C. Zampa's Not-A-Review: Let's Hear It For The Boy by T.A. Webb

I've missed gushing about my favorite books! So many wonderful stories out there, so many fabulous authors and so many delicious, unforgettable characters!

In trying to get back into the groove of sharing and bubbling over about the stories that have touched me, made me cry, made me laugh, made me mad, made me love, I'm sharing a short story with you today.

I just finished a beautiful, poignant, sticks-with-you-long-after-you-read-it book by author T. A. (Tom) Webb, LET'S HEAR IT FOR THE BOY.

Blurb:
Auntie Social is the biggest, baddest drag queen in Atlanta—she knows what she wants and she gets it. She’s tough, merciless, and top dog. That’s what Paul Stewart, reporter for the Journal, had heard, and all he expects when he’s assigned to interview the legend.. But nobody really knows the person behind the make-up.

What if…what if the person behind the sarcasm and music was more than just a man in a dress? What happened in his life that, thirty years later, made him a successful CEO, a philanthropist, and a legend in the gay community? Thirty years and almost a million dollars raised for people living with HIV/AIDs, yet still no one knows the real story.
Until one night, one man breaks through the shell, and Matthew Trammell—Auntie Social—opens the door he closed many years ago and lets his secrets spill out.
Pain is like rain, it covers your skin and soaks in bone-deep, but it eventually recedes and allows fresh things to grow.

(Click on Cover to Buy)

Where to start?

Auntie Social, that was his name. The blurb says it all. Drag Queen, but as he says, he's not your mama's drag queen. He's burly, big, sexy, virile, hairy legs and all, and I loved him. I just pure-d loved him.

The premise of the story (no plot does Zampa tell, remember) is an interview by journalist Paul Stewart of the legendary Atlanta drag queen, Matthew Trammell, aka Auntie Social.

Digging deeper, past the surface of Matthew's story, Paul presses for the heart of Auntie Social, for the soul of the man instead of the usual newsie type stories the public knows.

And Paul gets that story. And we get that story through Paul.

And if you had not already fallen for Matthew right from the start (I did), he will have owned your heart by the end of his story.

This is a story about AIDS. It's Matthew's story about the intrusion of AIDS into his own life, how the devastating disease touched him deeply and personally by way of infecting someone he loved dearly.

I'll admit I hesitate for a long time to read this. The author knew it, too, I was honest and told him I was afraid it would hurt my heart. Hey, how could it not? It was about AIDS, after all.

And it did hurt my heart. In a beautiful way, though. In a tender, gentle delivery that is trademark of Tom Webb. The trademark of a man who has worked in the community in many facets and knows the disease---it's statistics, its destruction but also the powerful love it can draw from those affected and those who love them.

Oddly, one of the elements of the story that hit me hardest was that sick-in-the-gut moment when Matthew recounts how the man he loved told him about a mistake he'd made in a bar. How he had sex with a man without protection. How he noticed, when it was too late, a lesion on the man's skin.

That blood-draining-from-your-head flash that I felt I was actually living through Webb's telling. That scene is still so strong in my mind. I still shiver thinking about it. None of us have NOT experienced some sort of horrific dread upon realizing we've made a terrible mistake. Or that ungodly awful meeting, face-to-face, with our own mortality.

Mr. Webb presented a powerful image with his prose of the fear, the regret, the resignation, the decisions. The losing of a loved one and what we as individuals do once that body---never the soul, though, and never the memory---is gone.

The beautiful, beautiful thing about this story is how Auntie Social used his inner strength, his love and his precious memories to stare AIDS down and campaign in his own special way to offer aid to those affected by the disease.

Tom Webb somehow, wonderfully, turned this into a story of triumph, not defeat. A tale of love and faithfulness, not loss. I cried, I knew I would. But I cried because I loved Auntie Social. I loved his strength, his tender heart.

And the urn on Matthew's dressing table. I cried about that. Again, not from sadness but just the beauty of it, the tender love.

Oh. And there's a nice surprise at the end. I cried about that, too. Then I smiled. And I'm still smiling.