Song a day (5 days): Building Arcadia
Title: Building Arcadia (Blueprints not Included) (sorry GR is acting up so I can't stick the link in.)
Notes: Contains erotic content, particularly of m/m, however the story journeys towards f/m/m.
Buy Link: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...
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Building Arcadia (Blueprints Not Included) has a soundtrack. For the next five days on my blogs and my Facebook page, I will be posting one song from it along with the related excerpt. I hope you all enjoy it!
We start with a cover of Muse's Stockholm Syndrome by Vitamin String Quartet. BA(BNI) starts off at a frenetic emotional pace--a man, Connor, held in a small interrogation room, reeling from a violent attack against him and his best friend, Sam. He doesn't know Sam's fate, and the person interrogating him isn't giving him any clues as he pushes Connor for the truths of that evening... truths that Connor cannot remember.
The frantic sawing in the beginning is soon underscored by the romantic, contradictory peaceful instrumentation of what could have been. The two moods war with each other, alternately taking both the prominent and then the reduced, almost hidden, positions in the song. In this way, the song becomes not only representative of the opening chapter but of the book as a whole.
Listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUuqIt...
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Related excerpt:
Connor had been waiting in the room for an hour, if not more. The room was claustrophobically small: space only for a table and four chairs. Nothing engaged him in the overhead light or the grayish walls, so Connor had spent most of his time looking in the mirror that took up half a wall watching the skin around his left eye swell up.
The painted steel door opened; a man with salt-and-pepper hair wearing a gray suit entered with a paper coffee cup in hand.
“I’m Special Agent Haven.” Popping the lid off the cup, he sat down opposite Connor. Connor’s eyes watered as a robust freshly roasted scent wafted upwards. “How are you feeling, Mr. Adams?”
“My head hurts. I... I want...”
Haven sipped and waited.
Connor pressed his palms against his temples. He couldn’t think. “Is Sam all right? Where is he?” He forced himself to look at Haven, though he wanted to run to the wastebasket in the corner and vomit.
Haven appeared deep in thought. Either that, or he was passing judgment without even a facial tic to give away his verdict. Connor waited, caught in the middle of a breath, for Sam’s fate.
Haven said, “We’ll get to your friend later.”
Bile rose up from Connor’s throat and touched the back of his tongue. He swallowed it back down. “Is he dead?”
No one had told him anything about Sam. No one had said anything apart from “This won’t take long,” and “A few more minutes.” There had been blood in the alley. Connor had gotten it on his knees, and a detective had come and made him take his jeans off right there. The detective had stuffed them in a plastic bag and given Connor a pair of medic’s scrub bottoms to wear. They felt like pajamas and smelled like death.
No reaction from Haven. He didn’t even put the coffee down. “Do you know where you are?”
Connor looked around, as if there might be a logo on the wall that he hadn’t noticed. “You’re...you’re like cops, right?” He’d figured that much from the room set-up, and the fact that no one he had seen so far had smiled.
“You’re at AFOSI. That stands for Air Force Office of Special Investigations.”
“Like the FBI?” Connor could see Haven being FBI.
“Yes. But for the Air Force.”
The Air Force. Connor was certain his confusion showed on his face, but Haven sat as if he had nothing better to do than wait for his coffee to cool while Connor worked himself into a frenzy wondering why the hell the Air Force had him in a tiny room with no windows and a big mirror.
“Why am I here? Where’s Sam?” If Haven would tell him about Sam, Connor could handle the rest, whatever it was. He needed to know Sam was safe.
“An airman was killed tonight, Mr. Adams.”
“I don’t understand.” What did he have to do with a dead airman? It was a joke. This whole thing was a terrible joke, probably one of Chad’s, which were always well-planned and horribly executed. “You know Sam’s brother, right?” He’d bet anything that Sam was in on it. He was outside, ready to show Connor the blood packets that he’d taped under his shirt to make the stunt look real. Of course he hadn’t been shot. Who would shoot Sam?
Haven put the coffee down. “We have a few questions.”
He didn’t look like a man who knew what a joke was.
The relief Connor had talked himself into vanished. His eye started throbbing again, and imaginary hands closed around his head and squeezed. He was aware of every discomfort, including a need to pee that warred with his need to wet his parched throat.
The coffee smelled like a hazelnut blend. Connor’s mouth watered. Haven tapped the lid against the table.
Taptaptap taptap taptaptap.
Connor swallowed.
Author info:
facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ryanlovelessb...
blog: http://ryanloveless.dreamwidth.org
twitter: http://twitter.com/ryanloveless
goodreads: http://goodreads.com/ryanloveless
Notes: Contains erotic content, particularly of m/m, however the story journeys towards f/m/m.
Buy Link: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...
****
Building Arcadia (Blueprints Not Included) has a soundtrack. For the next five days on my blogs and my Facebook page, I will be posting one song from it along with the related excerpt. I hope you all enjoy it!
We start with a cover of Muse's Stockholm Syndrome by Vitamin String Quartet. BA(BNI) starts off at a frenetic emotional pace--a man, Connor, held in a small interrogation room, reeling from a violent attack against him and his best friend, Sam. He doesn't know Sam's fate, and the person interrogating him isn't giving him any clues as he pushes Connor for the truths of that evening... truths that Connor cannot remember.
The frantic sawing in the beginning is soon underscored by the romantic, contradictory peaceful instrumentation of what could have been. The two moods war with each other, alternately taking both the prominent and then the reduced, almost hidden, positions in the song. In this way, the song becomes not only representative of the opening chapter but of the book as a whole.
Listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUuqIt...
****
Related excerpt:
Connor had been waiting in the room for an hour, if not more. The room was claustrophobically small: space only for a table and four chairs. Nothing engaged him in the overhead light or the grayish walls, so Connor had spent most of his time looking in the mirror that took up half a wall watching the skin around his left eye swell up.
The painted steel door opened; a man with salt-and-pepper hair wearing a gray suit entered with a paper coffee cup in hand.
“I’m Special Agent Haven.” Popping the lid off the cup, he sat down opposite Connor. Connor’s eyes watered as a robust freshly roasted scent wafted upwards. “How are you feeling, Mr. Adams?”
“My head hurts. I... I want...”
Haven sipped and waited.
Connor pressed his palms against his temples. He couldn’t think. “Is Sam all right? Where is he?” He forced himself to look at Haven, though he wanted to run to the wastebasket in the corner and vomit.
Haven appeared deep in thought. Either that, or he was passing judgment without even a facial tic to give away his verdict. Connor waited, caught in the middle of a breath, for Sam’s fate.
Haven said, “We’ll get to your friend later.”
Bile rose up from Connor’s throat and touched the back of his tongue. He swallowed it back down. “Is he dead?”
No one had told him anything about Sam. No one had said anything apart from “This won’t take long,” and “A few more minutes.” There had been blood in the alley. Connor had gotten it on his knees, and a detective had come and made him take his jeans off right there. The detective had stuffed them in a plastic bag and given Connor a pair of medic’s scrub bottoms to wear. They felt like pajamas and smelled like death.
No reaction from Haven. He didn’t even put the coffee down. “Do you know where you are?”
Connor looked around, as if there might be a logo on the wall that he hadn’t noticed. “You’re...you’re like cops, right?” He’d figured that much from the room set-up, and the fact that no one he had seen so far had smiled.
“You’re at AFOSI. That stands for Air Force Office of Special Investigations.”
“Like the FBI?” Connor could see Haven being FBI.
“Yes. But for the Air Force.”
The Air Force. Connor was certain his confusion showed on his face, but Haven sat as if he had nothing better to do than wait for his coffee to cool while Connor worked himself into a frenzy wondering why the hell the Air Force had him in a tiny room with no windows and a big mirror.
“Why am I here? Where’s Sam?” If Haven would tell him about Sam, Connor could handle the rest, whatever it was. He needed to know Sam was safe.
“An airman was killed tonight, Mr. Adams.”
“I don’t understand.” What did he have to do with a dead airman? It was a joke. This whole thing was a terrible joke, probably one of Chad’s, which were always well-planned and horribly executed. “You know Sam’s brother, right?” He’d bet anything that Sam was in on it. He was outside, ready to show Connor the blood packets that he’d taped under his shirt to make the stunt look real. Of course he hadn’t been shot. Who would shoot Sam?
Haven put the coffee down. “We have a few questions.”
He didn’t look like a man who knew what a joke was.
The relief Connor had talked himself into vanished. His eye started throbbing again, and imaginary hands closed around his head and squeezed. He was aware of every discomfort, including a need to pee that warred with his need to wet his parched throat.
The coffee smelled like a hazelnut blend. Connor’s mouth watered. Haven tapped the lid against the table.
Taptaptap taptap taptaptap.
Connor swallowed.
Author info:
facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ryanlovelessb...
blog: http://ryanloveless.dreamwidth.org
twitter: http://twitter.com/ryanloveless
goodreads: http://goodreads.com/ryanloveless
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