Peter Prasad's Blog: Expletives Deleted - Posts Tagged "romance"
The Zest for War: 500bc to Present Fictions
In the historical fiction genre, gals pounce on bodice-rippers. Men in wet wool uniforms opt for the clash of swords in the open air. We dig into history to hold a battle line or shield wall and our favored authors put us there, sweat-stained, gore-splattered and gawping.
Flash forward and the kimono of crime scene tape is lifted. We’re invited to gape at heinousness, then ape the good guys. We romp through mayhem, scared witless, and marvel at Miss. Marple’s astute views. If she’s a kick-butt P.I., all the better.
Toss in a top gallant, a slaver and chains, and dialogs turn salty. We celebrate like a rum-soaked bawd. Historic noir is a place for peak experiences only when you’re already a bent penny.
Today’s crime thrillers are the historical fiction of tomorrow. Our hearts throb in the boudoir as he fumbles to be less than straight-laced after twilight. Outside, the posse races with evil intent to run the rapscallion to ground or put him up a tree at the end of a noose. Our collective cellular memories revert to when we sacked anyone not of our tribe -- brown-eyed, blue-eyed, wooly-haired -- pick your side.
Historians marshal facts; fiction writers season the epic stew with tastes, smells and the steps of the espadrille. In black ink, evil threatens all until a hero draws a line in the sand and lust floods the street beside the house of the rising sun. We’ve all been those children in the learning lab of centuries, where students had no choice, hardly a voice, and never a stun gun.
Since Moses came down from the mountain and Hammarabi scratched his tablets, we’re told it doesn’t pay to be cruel in the village that raised us, so we take it outside to the vellum between the sheets of a hum-dinger pulp fiction.
So, dear reader, toss a copper coin to the bard. He sings history so we’re glad we escaped it. We mow down Yankees in cornfields from Pork Chop Hill -- killing is a crime and reading it is a thrill.
Problems? Overnight them in the dungeon and we’ll hear confessions in the morning.
Ah-ha history -- let’s all be kind to readers and writers so we can make more of it.
Back at 101 writer’s block, my latest best effort awaits your persnickety peepers at:
http://www.amazon.com/Goat-Ripper-Son...
On’Ya, readers & writers all!
Flash forward and the kimono of crime scene tape is lifted. We’re invited to gape at heinousness, then ape the good guys. We romp through mayhem, scared witless, and marvel at Miss. Marple’s astute views. If she’s a kick-butt P.I., all the better.
Toss in a top gallant, a slaver and chains, and dialogs turn salty. We celebrate like a rum-soaked bawd. Historic noir is a place for peak experiences only when you’re already a bent penny.
Today’s crime thrillers are the historical fiction of tomorrow. Our hearts throb in the boudoir as he fumbles to be less than straight-laced after twilight. Outside, the posse races with evil intent to run the rapscallion to ground or put him up a tree at the end of a noose. Our collective cellular memories revert to when we sacked anyone not of our tribe -- brown-eyed, blue-eyed, wooly-haired -- pick your side.
Historians marshal facts; fiction writers season the epic stew with tastes, smells and the steps of the espadrille. In black ink, evil threatens all until a hero draws a line in the sand and lust floods the street beside the house of the rising sun. We’ve all been those children in the learning lab of centuries, where students had no choice, hardly a voice, and never a stun gun.
Since Moses came down from the mountain and Hammarabi scratched his tablets, we’re told it doesn’t pay to be cruel in the village that raised us, so we take it outside to the vellum between the sheets of a hum-dinger pulp fiction.
So, dear reader, toss a copper coin to the bard. He sings history so we’re glad we escaped it. We mow down Yankees in cornfields from Pork Chop Hill -- killing is a crime and reading it is a thrill.
Problems? Overnight them in the dungeon and we’ll hear confessions in the morning.
Ah-ha history -- let’s all be kind to readers and writers so we can make more of it.
Back at 101 writer’s block, my latest best effort awaits your persnickety peepers at:
http://www.amazon.com/Goat-Ripper-Son...
On’Ya, readers & writers all!
Love blooms in chapter one
I forgot how much I love the opening of this book, Gurl-Posse Kidnap.
CHAPTER 1
Jake settled on a stool with one boot atop the rail. He twisted to ease the ache at his beltline where a bullet scored a divot weeks earlier. Tanya sailed by, smelling like angel cake, and set down a glass of ice-water by him. He smiled. She smiled. Ever observant, she hovered an inch away from out of reach. “For your veins?” she teased.
She returned with his dinner on an oval plate. A barricade of crisp garlic fries restrained succulent juices. With knife and fork he carved into the roast beef mounded on toasted sourdough. The odor steamed up his sinuses, cleared the rain and damp from his thoughts and warmed his heart. She laughed all the way back to his elbow with a cloth napkin. He’d have felt less vulnerable had he known she delighted in the pure nurture of her man.
A quarter hit the juke box and rolled down memory lane. Dolly Parton’s voice sidled up to the guy one stool down, keen to squeeze lost love from his chill IPA. After a respectful pause for heartache, Tanya rolled another quarter Jake’s way. It was spackled with chips of red nail polish, round like a bullet hole. He punched up a classic by a local boy. Horns kicked the sky higher and bounced off a base line with a boogie beat. Huey Lewis let loose, “You don’t need no credit card to ride this train. The power of love…”
Her green eyes vaporized his heart and her shoulders shimmied with approval. His throat knotted. He wanted to clear the verbal logjam by whispering in her ear on a pillow bound for far away. A heartbeat later, Dolly’s ornery soul mate wiped a labored hand over his rough stubble, tapped his glass to signal refill and tapped Jake’s glass too. Tanya nodded and turned to the draft beer tap. “What a crock,” the guy muttered. “That singer is too drunk on what nobody serves no more.” Jake winked at Tanya and saw pure gold ore.
Once a skinny rail with pony tails, orchid tattoos now bloomed from her elbow to her sleeveless top. She’d rounded into all he held dear, his touchstone of sanity with a hint of flint. That put her at the top of his Christmas list, underlined and circled twice. And he had no idea what might express all that she deserved.
He glanced at her emerald eyes, a sparkle he’d searched the world for and only found in her. She pulled away, tawny hair tied to the side, her grin quivered into throaty chuckles, not quite a giggle. Jake laughed at himself, captivated. She floated back with a draft IPA. She stretched, looked at Jake and did the oddest thing with the tip of her tongue. He imagined a lynx on a tree limb over a game trail. He longed to be king of her jungle, oh Jesus please.
Gurl-Posse Kidnap: http://www.amazon.com/Gurl-Posse-Kidn...
CHAPTER 1
Jake settled on a stool with one boot atop the rail. He twisted to ease the ache at his beltline where a bullet scored a divot weeks earlier. Tanya sailed by, smelling like angel cake, and set down a glass of ice-water by him. He smiled. She smiled. Ever observant, she hovered an inch away from out of reach. “For your veins?” she teased.
She returned with his dinner on an oval plate. A barricade of crisp garlic fries restrained succulent juices. With knife and fork he carved into the roast beef mounded on toasted sourdough. The odor steamed up his sinuses, cleared the rain and damp from his thoughts and warmed his heart. She laughed all the way back to his elbow with a cloth napkin. He’d have felt less vulnerable had he known she delighted in the pure nurture of her man.
A quarter hit the juke box and rolled down memory lane. Dolly Parton’s voice sidled up to the guy one stool down, keen to squeeze lost love from his chill IPA. After a respectful pause for heartache, Tanya rolled another quarter Jake’s way. It was spackled with chips of red nail polish, round like a bullet hole. He punched up a classic by a local boy. Horns kicked the sky higher and bounced off a base line with a boogie beat. Huey Lewis let loose, “You don’t need no credit card to ride this train. The power of love…”
Her green eyes vaporized his heart and her shoulders shimmied with approval. His throat knotted. He wanted to clear the verbal logjam by whispering in her ear on a pillow bound for far away. A heartbeat later, Dolly’s ornery soul mate wiped a labored hand over his rough stubble, tapped his glass to signal refill and tapped Jake’s glass too. Tanya nodded and turned to the draft beer tap. “What a crock,” the guy muttered. “That singer is too drunk on what nobody serves no more.” Jake winked at Tanya and saw pure gold ore.
Once a skinny rail with pony tails, orchid tattoos now bloomed from her elbow to her sleeveless top. She’d rounded into all he held dear, his touchstone of sanity with a hint of flint. That put her at the top of his Christmas list, underlined and circled twice. And he had no idea what might express all that she deserved.
He glanced at her emerald eyes, a sparkle he’d searched the world for and only found in her. She pulled away, tawny hair tied to the side, her grin quivered into throaty chuckles, not quite a giggle. Jake laughed at himself, captivated. She floated back with a draft IPA. She stretched, looked at Jake and did the oddest thing with the tip of her tongue. He imagined a lynx on a tree limb over a game trail. He longed to be king of her jungle, oh Jesus please.
Gurl-Posse Kidnap: http://www.amazon.com/Gurl-Posse-Kidn...
Expletives Deleted
We like to write and read and muse awhile and smile. My pal Prasad comes to mutter too. Together we turn words into the arc of a rainbow. Insight Lite, you see?
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