Hate

Hate  

Chapter 1

You don't have to tell me. Hate is such an ugly word. Not just the meaning, but even the arrangement of the letters themselves. It's also a widely abused term. We say such things as, I hate Korean food, I hate baggy pants, I hate the color orange, or even, I hate Mondays, but these aren't hates, they're dislikes. To hate something... no, that's wrong. To hate someone, to REALLY hate someone, you have to have loved them first, and like as not, still love them. They have to have crushed your heart, possibly in spectacular fashion, for you to really hate them. Add to that fact, that hate (I have discovered) is simply love, magnified. You think that term is incompatible, don't you? Bear with me. When you love someone, you can love them completely. Am I correct? Blow me! You KNOW I'm right. BUT, when you hate someone, it can become an all encompassing emotion that wraps you so completely in its cold embrace, that little else in life seems to matter. Your ONLY desire is to even the score. To crush the object of your hate in a manner that makes what they did to you seem irrelevant. Am I close? Denial is a petty attempt at dishonesty. Deep down, even if you're ashamed to admit it, you know it to be true.

So, having gotten that out of the way, who is it that I hate? Who is it that I love so completely, that I want to go biblical and have them turned into a pillar of salt?

Patricia... that's her name. Medium height, incredible figure and hair so black it would look divine on an Egyptian Goddess.

My name is Kate...

Book 1 in the Dear Roz Series - The Lover's Workshop

Rozlyn Rook is a quick thinking, no-nonsense mistress of her own destiny. With a successful advice column under her belt and an even more lucrative "male-trapping" workshop several times a year, her days are filled with the quiet satisfaction every alpha female enjoys. However, a problem appears on the horizon in the shape of Sue Peoples, a vicious magazine critic. Sue has enrolled into one of Roz's workshops for one reason. Roz stole her boyfriend, and nobody does that to Sue Peoples and survives.

Enter an English Knight. Nathan Knight, writer of an advice column for men about women for a rival newspaper. Although they have never met, the two have sparred using their columns as weapons. He has read her provocative words, finding them ignorant and arrogant, much like he assumes she would be. When Nathan's friend and boss conspires to have them seated next to each other for his own amusement at a charity event, the fuse gets lit. Best to stand back. Roz already has her hands full with a vicious magazine critic who set her career-destroying sights on her. One is a thorn in her side, the other, a pain in her... assets.

Roz quickly finds herself one down in the one-upmanship game that Nathan started. That is totally unacceptable to the Queen of the advice column. She is now battling on two fronts and in danger of losing on both. How can she thwart a critic hellbent on her destruction while dealing with a vile, irritating, conceited, incredibly annoying, mildly attractive English upstart at the same time? His actions have already cost her the boyfriend she unwittingly stole from Sue. Roz is two down and blazing mad. It doesn't help that Nathan of the 'Nathan Knows Best' column appears unscathed through it all. The gloves are well and truly off and she will have her revenge. Or will she?

Book 2 in the Dear Roz Series - Rook Battles Knight

Roz and Nathan lock horns almost immediately. Roz rashly decides to confront Nathan at his place of work. Bad idea. Her usual razor sharp tongue and wit lets her down, but awakens a sleeping desire in Nathan to entertain himself at Rozlyn's expense. His lesbian assistant, Betty, warns her boss about playing with fire, but Nathan is having way too much fun to heed her advice. They are two diametrically opposed forces, Roz will never admit defeat, and Nathan has never encountered it. Undeniable chemistry clashes with unyielding wills.

Nathan is using Roz’s successful seminar model as the lattice work for his own seminar, which proves to be just another source of irritation between these two powerhouse relationship gurus. Roz's disdain for Nathan's tactics masks an attraction neither one will readily admit, but one their close assistants, Maxine and Betty, recognize and exploit.  When the two get together and concoct a plan to put the heterosexual pair through a crazy ‘Lesbian List of Love’ test, all hell breaks loose. Fueled by a desire to prove their assistants wrong they compare their test scores over several beers. Inhibitions and suspicious natures disappear as fast as the alcohol. Their worst fears are realized as desire overpowers objections, leading to an unforgettable encounter. Roz recognizes the danger that Nathan represents but despite her best intentions, is drawn to the charismatic Englishman. As for Nathan, he can't get her out of his head... and finds himself lacking the will to try.

They attempt to out prank one another in a futile effort to camouflage their real feelings. Both are scared of commitment, one more so than the other. Which one will be strong enough to put aside their pride rather than risk losing the other?

The Idiot Savant of Dating

Note: As someone who loves humor (yes, dark humor too) I wanted to try my hand at a YA novella, mixing quirky humor with the early rise of romance in youths as they stretch toward adulthood. Here is a rough premise to this story.

Dave is very savvy but not too good looking. Ted is good looking, but daft as a brush. Ted is whining to Dave about a girl he really likes, but who barely acknowledges his existence. He doesn't know how to respond. Dave decides to take poor Ted under his wing and give him questionable advice.

"Listen Ted, a girl isn't going to give you the time of day if she sees that she can walk all over you. That's just the way life is."

"So what's your suggestion?"

"Make a comment that sounds like a compliment, but carries a barb with it. This will, and should, confuse her."

"What can I say that would carry that double edge, and wouldn't she be pissed off with me for saying it?"

"Okay," Dave said, "let's say that the two of you bump into each other. You don't stop and have a conversation."

"No?"

"No. What's this girls name, by the way."

"Julie. I love that name."

"I once had a hamster called Julie."

"Is that what you want me to say to her, that I once owned a rodent that carried her name?"

"No, you muppet. What you say to her, in passing, is... Wow, those extra couple of pounds really look good on you. Then you carry on going wherever you were going. Just casually pass that remark and keep going."

"What result, exactly, am I going for here?"

"Technically, you've given her a compliment, but if there is one topic that all women can't get out of their head, it's their weight."

"So, basically I've called her fat."

"You never heard me mention the word fat, did you?"

"I'm thinking that might be a technicality."

"Now you're getting the general idea."

"How will I know if the insult worked, and please explain to me again, why insulting her will make her look upon me more rather than less favorably."

"This one's easy. Inside ten seconds, sometimes less, she will feel her own thighs, to see if she can feel the extra weight to which you cleverly alluded. Your comment will make her think about you every time her hands slide over her thighs."

"You're suggesting that she'll check to see if she's suddenly got fat, and all of this inside ten seconds? Bullshit! I don't know where you come up with these ideas, Dave, and I know you're good with the girls, despite your looks."

"What do you mean, despite my looks? I'm a handsome fella. Tell you what, I'll prove it to you right now. Here comes Shirley. She weighs about as much as a wet sock, agreed?"

"Agreed."

"No way can she believe that she's anything other than skinny, am I right?"

"When you're right, you're right."

"Would you say that her thighs were slender, at best?"

"I've seen more meat on a butcher's dog."

"Watch this, and marvel at my knowledge of the female psyche."

"Hi, Shirley," Dave said, as she passed by.

"Hi, Dave," she replied, without breaking stride.

"I have to say, Shirley, those extra couple of pounds look fantastic on you."

Shirley stopped in her tracks, turned, looked suitably confused, then continued on her way.

"Wait for it," Dave said.

Both of Shirley's hands slid down over her thighs, as her walk slowed. She patted them a couple of times, then picked up the pace again.

"Wait 'till she gets to the elevator," Dave said, still studying her.

Shirley duly arrived at the elevator, and pressed the button. Twice before the light signaled the arrival of the elevator, her hands checked out her skinny hips.

"I'm totally impressed," Ted said. "It's like you had a crystal ball. How did you know?"

"Psychology, mate. Once you know how the female mind works, they become putty in your hands. Your problem, Ted me old son, is that you spend all of your time swooning over this Julie. Swooning carries very low marks in a woman's eyes. It shows that you're subservient. Women want their man to be in charge. It's bred into them. You're trying to swim uphill with a lead ball tied to your leg."

"So, I should definitely insult her from here on in, yes?"

"I didn't say insult her, Ted. Throw her off balance. You can even get away with being sexually suggestive, as long as you're not downright rude. Rudeness also carries low marks, unless you know what you're doing."

                                             ------------------------------------------------

It was two days before Ted got a chance to engage the woman of his dreams. They were on a bus packed with old and young alike. Standing room only, but that suited Ted just fine. He took it as an opportunity to get closer to the object of his affection.

"Hi Julie."

If she heard him, she didn't show it.

"I dreamt about you last night. Oh, what a dream."

Nothing.

"Some might think your ass is fat, but I'm partial to a bit of meat."

"What did you say?" Julie gasped, turning pink and staring at him in disbelief.

Dave was right. This works great, Ted thought.

"I don't have a problem with girls who have fat asses or saggy boobs, especially if that girl's name is Julie." He offered her his sexiest grin.

Julie pushed her face close to his. "My ass isn't fat and my boobs don't droop, you cheeky bastard."

More than a few eyes turned in their direction.

"I suppose you're going to tell me you don't have the urge to feel your thighs, right about now."

"My thighs? You mean my fat thighs, just below my sagging boobs?"

It was right about now, that Ted experienced that nagging feeling that perhaps he hadn't fully grasped the correct technique required in the application of Dave's lesson.

"I'm not saying that they do sag... much. Of course, when you get older, it's only natural that they will, and they are sure to look just as good. Your wrinkles won't bother me either." He wanted to shut up, the same way that a man standing on a ledge ten stories up, doesn't want to look down.

The bus pulled in to the side of the road.

"My stop," Ted lied. "See you."

"Hold on, I've got something for you," Julie said, and slapped him hard across the face. "Dream about that, why don't you."

The wind was taken from poor Ted's sails. The slap wasn't the worst of it though. That would be the size 8 shoe that tried to investigate his colon, just before he disembarked. The bus pulled back out into traffic. At a loss, he waved to her as if they had recently parted after a cozy lunch date. Reaching behind himself, his hands went not to his thighs, but to his bruised starfish. Well, he thought, he got half of the technique right. She appeared suitably insulted. Dave would know how to bring his ship back to an even keel.

Chapter 2

Julie and Kirsten were sitting opposite each other in their local ice-cream parlor. 

"Do I have saggy boobs?" Julie asked.

Kirsten grinned.

"What?" Julie wanted to know.

"A boy's involved. True or false?"

"Do they sag?"

"We're eighteen. Of course our boobs don't sag. Who told you yours did?"

"What about my thighs?"

"They don't sag either."

Julie could tell her best friend was enjoying her discomfort. She leaned in closer.

"A good friend would tell her friend if she was getting fat. That's how friendships work."

"What's his name?" Kirsten asked.

"I don't fancy him, even if he is good looking."

"His name?"

"He told me I had a fat ass and drooping boobs. In front of millions on a bus. Can you believe that?"

Kirsten gave up. She resigned herself to the inevitable. Julie would divulge the name of the boy who had offended her in her own good time. Years of conversations between them had made that fact apparent.

"I've got a driving lesson this afternoon," Kirsten said, staring into the distance.

"I put my foot up his ass as he left the bus."

"The millions inside made room for you, then?"

"It was a tight squeeze and I'm not denying I hurt several toes."

"What was his reaction?"

"He smiled and waved at me, the cheeky sod."

"Do you ever get mixed up with the brake and the accelerator pedals?" Kirsten wanted to know.

Julie searched the air above her friend's head.

"When my foot found his ass, it was all acceleration."

Kirsten didn't respond.

"Ted," Julie said after several seconds of silence.

"Robinson?"

"That's the one."

"He's got pretty eyes."

"They both almost left his head when my foot connected."

Kirsten snorted. She tried her best not to spit the mouthful of strawberry milkshake back into the glass. Spit or choke. Those were her options as she envisioned Julie's description of Ted's face.   

"That's gross," Julie remarked as the pink liquid exploded from her friend's nose.

Kirsten grabbed both her napkin and Julie's as she wiped her face clean.

"You waited till I had a mouthful of milkshake before telling me that. Admit it."

Julie grinned. "Maybe."

Kirsten glanced around to see if her indiscretion had been noticed by any of the other patrons. Two tables away, a young mother was trying her best to keep her young son from staring at them. The woman's scowl told of her feelings about bearing witness to Kirsten's nasal expulsion.  

"He fancies you, doesn't he?"

"You've lost me," Julie admitted. "What kind of idiot tells a girl that her boobs are reaching for the floor as a pick-up line?"

 "Girls brains mature quicker than their male counterpart," Kirsten answered. "It's why women are smarter than men."

"I knew that. Who doesn't?"

"Brains develop from the back of the head to the front," Kirsten continued. "It takes longer for that to happen for boys, and the front of your brain is what produces smart comments instead of dumb ones."                         

Chapter 3

"You said WHAT?" Dave asked, his eyes as wide as the time his ex tried to rip his balls from his body due to a misunderstanding.

"You told me to insult her."

"Not true, Ted. I told you to throw her off balance with a comment that could be taken two ways. Telling her she has a fat ass can only be taken one way. Same goes for suggesting she has saggy boobs."

"Give it to me straight, Dave. "Am I screwed?"

"Screwed? Heck no. We just have to shift gears is all."

My Weakness is Organizing

As you read my article title, what are your thoughts? Ten to one you're thinking that I am ill adept at organization. However, I'm here to tell you that the weakness I'm talking about is my love of organizing. That's right. My love of organizing. It's a sinister form of procrastination. Here's how it works. At the time of this writing, I own seven flash drives, thumb drives, call them what you will. To say that I own them is somewhat misleading. Two of them I appropriated from my kids. Appropriation in this case means that until I'm finished with them the kids are not getting them back. I merely have to convince them that my stuff is slightly more important than their stuff and as long as that holds true, Alex's appropriation committee has the right to hold onto their stuff. All parents know this to be an accepted rule of thumb. (thumb drive, rule of thumb... I know, I know, but sometimes I can't help myself) I digress.

I need a new flash drive. Why? Isn't it obvious? My other seven flash drives are full (mostly). Many of them contain the same material. Stuff I copied and sent to a particular flash drive because I didn't remember that I had already copied that same info onto another (or two) of my flash drives. I can't delete any of them. The second copy is a backup of the first and the third copy is a backup of the second. Obvious, right? I need a new flash drive to organize all of the really important stuff that I saved on all seven flash drives onto a master flash drive. A master flash drive. That's the key.

Did I mention that I'm a firm believer in Pareto's Principle? The 80/20 rule. You wear 20% of the same clothes 80% of the time. You eat the same 20% of your favorite food, 80% of the time. 20% of your work activity is responsible for 80% of your income, etc. I'm a new Indie author and therefore 20% of the crap I've accumulated on those seven flash drives are responsible for 80% of the actions I need to take to write, publish and promote my books. But which 20%? Let's say I have 50 (and that's conservative, but I don't want you thinking I'm a hoarder) products all to do with various aspects of book writing and publishing. Some books attack promotion only, others promotion and marketing, yet others on marketing and book cover creation. Then there are the folders which cover Facebook ads, permafree info, countdown deals, website URL's that will accept my free or almost free books (some depending on if my book has several 5 star reviews, others not so picky) Folders with articles on keyword and category importance, book blurb, author bio, secret techniques only previously known by seven figure authors... you get the picture.

Here's the kicker though. This is the magic moment where I reveal why organizing is my weakness and a tool in my arsenal of procrastination. (Oh, yes. I have an army of such tools at my disposal) I convince myself of the importance of tackling my flash drive problem, but at what expense? Writing time. If I don't write, I can't increase my written assets. 20% of my written work will result in 80% of my sales, but 20% of twenty books will provide more income than 20% of ten books. I need to write. Yes, promotion and marketing are super important, but marketing twenty books is more profitable than marketing ten books. There is an order for all authors in the cosmos. You can't promote or market what you don't have. Therefore, writing has to come first. So, please excuse me. I have to attend to my cosmic duty. Technically, writing this article was a form of procrastination. A sneaky way for me to avoid writing the next chapter in my current book. Oh, I'm good. I sneaked up on my procrastinating self, yet again.

Book 3 in the Dear Roz Series - Checkmate, My Love

Maxine has Roz half convinced that Nathan fully intends to pop the question... and he does. Just not the question she expects. She feels devastated and embarrassed. She knows it's not his fault, but that knowledge doesn't lessen the hurt.

Nathan is oblivious to the part he played in Rozlyn's mood swings and seeks Betty's help in understanding Roz's depression. Betty is only too happy to verbally slap Nathan around. How can a relationship expert be so dumb, she needs to know. All women will recognize the symptoms and the cure that can't be administered for reasons only women will understand. Betty's advice is priceless, but it is up to Nathan's bosses wife to heal the wound and answer the question about what makes men cry. Armed with this knowledge, Roz has Nathan convinced that Roz wanting him to admit to weeping on occasion is some kind of fetish. One that he in no way adheres to. Things are for the most part back on an even keel.

Not so fast. An incident happens on one of their workshops involving a woman that would look at home modeling Victoria Secret underwear... and her sights are set on Nathan. Nathan finds this woman incredibly attractive and jokes about it to Roz. A joke is one thing, but when evidence, first and second hand back up his desire for this beauty, Roz's life is turned upside down. Only now does she realize just how much of herself she has given to her English boyfriend. She is at her most vulnerable and he does nothing to alleviate her distress. If Maxine and Betty can't find a way to reunite these two hard headed individuals, then all is lost.

I Can Write Romance, I Swear

Chapter 1 - The Language of Love

"Up to My Balls in Love," said Billy, "now that's what I call a title. He waited for a response. He knew that Debra, or D, as he often preferred to call her, harbored suspicions that writing any type of story that required dealing sensitively with female emotions, was not his calling in life.

"Perhaps not using that particular word might attract more readers," she replied, after careful consideration.

"D, for heaven’s sake, if I don't put the word 'love' in the title--"

"Balls," Debra said, with a grin.

"No, I'm serious," replied Billy, "you can't leave 'love' out of the title."

Debra laughed. That was one of the things she loved about her boyfriend of eight months. Despite his intelligence, his complete inability to see what was sometimes right in front of him, fascinated her. It pleased her that he was making every effort to curtail his profanity, though the substitutes were often transparent..

"How about, Up to My Neck in Love?" she said.

"Is there something wrong with my balls?"

"Your balls are just fine, Billy. Perhaps just not for the title of a romance novel."

"I was thinking more of a short story, D. Novels can be an absolute beeatch to write."

Debra studied Billy's features. Not bad looking at all. He could do with shaving more often, but it was his eyes that captured her attention. Dark brown, almost black, with an intensity that belied his verbal shortcomings. He was working hard on that aspect, however, replacing cuss words with improvised alternatives.

"Shock value, D. That's what sells books. You can't afford to bore people in print."

"I kind of like that remark. Did you make it up?"

"No, I read it somewhere, but it's the truth. You can be outspoken, and controversial, and still make a fortune. Just don't bore people to death."

"That definitely fits your profile," she said, "not the boring part, the other two."

His eyebrows closed the gap between each other, making lines in his forehead visible.

"That would be a good start, D. The most brilliant of writers are outspoken and controversial, no matter the topic at hand."

"You should learn to type using both hands instead of just two fingers, though. Then we can be rich sooner."

"It's amazing what I can do with these two fingers, D," Billy said, wiggling his index and forefinger in the air."

Debra merely smiled.

"You're a dirty bugger, D," he said, as they shared a chuckle.

She could tell that his feelings for her went deep. His penetrating gaze always softened when turned on her. "Why don't you enter one of these writing competitions advertised in that magazine you're always buying? Five hundred dollars are being offered for first prize, and I'm sure it's for short stories."

Billy glanced down at his hands before returning his attention to his girlfriend. "You think I should?"

"Why not, you do want to be a professional writer, don't you?"

"Do you think I'm good enough?"

Debra cocked her head to one side. "Do you doubt yourself?"

"Hell to the no! How much is it to enter this competition?"

"It's free."

"Free? The competition will be stiff then. Which magazine did you see it in?"

"That one over there," she replied, twisting around and pointing to the pile of magazines on his bedside table. "The one on top."

Billy sidestepped a cushion on the floor before sliding the magazine in question off the pile.

"Page fifty eight, I think," Debra said.

Billy flicked through the dog-eared pages. Page fifty eight it was.

Debra watched as Billy's eyes flew over the page.

"It has to be emailed in by Tuesday of next week," Billy said.

"You'd better get a move on then. Good job it requires no more than fifteen hundred words."

"Shorter can be tougher than a Hippo's unwashed scrotum," he replied, still with his attention glued to the page. "Hey, look at this, D."

"What is it," she said, diving across the bed, close to where he held the magazine.

"There are actually two competitions, but you are only allowed to enter one."

"What's the second one?" Debra asked, grabbing for the magazine.

Billy snatched it out of her reach. "Another five hundred smackeroos, too."

Debra's eyes rolled towards the ceiling. "Read it out loud then."

"Write four engaging opening sentences for each of the following genres. Romance, Sci-Fi, Horror, and Comedy. It has to be in for Monday of next week. That's only three days away, D."

"Three days and sixteen sentences, or four days and fifteen hundred words, which one will you pick?" Debra asked.

Billy's expression was pensive. "If I go for the fifteen hundred words, I have to come up with a storyline, engaging characters and add a twist that can't be seen coming, while watching my word count at the same time. I think I'll take a crack at the contest requiring the opening lines."

"Billy, do you realize that it's been almost five minutes since you swore?"

"Shut the front door, that’s nuckin futs. Mind over matter, D, that's all it is."

"Nonsense, Billy. It was because your attention was diverted elsewhere, with something that intrigued you."

"Sounds like a load of old cobblers to me, D."

"That's because you aren't up-to-date on the finer points of psychology."

Billy’s tone was suspicious. "And you are?"

"I watch Oprah." An all encompassing statement to be sure.

"Oprah?"

"And Hannibal Lecter."

"Didn't know he had a show."

"He doesn't, but I watched both of the movies with him in it."

"That’s not helping me right now, D.

"So why are you wasting time talking to me about Hannibal Lecter, instead of coming up with--"

"Is this one of those psychological tests, D? You know, the one that determines if it's in your DNA to strangle your girlfriend after she pushes every last one of your buttons?" Billy’s facial expression matched his question.

Don't know what you mean, my love. Get writing, will you?"

Billy sighed. "Which would be easiest to start with, Horror or Sci-Fi?"

"Romance, of course," Debra replied. "Let's face it, you're a natural romantic."

"Too flippin’ right there, D. I'm up to my balls in love, to quote a shortly-to-be-famous author."

Debra decided that Billy needed to be galvanised into action and chose her words accordingly. "My right foot is going to send your balls up into your throat at twice the legal speed limit, if you don't start putting pen to paper. You have a competition to win."

"I wonder if I can use that phrase of yours for one of the opening sentences in a horror story?" Billy tapped a forefinger against his chin.

"Which phrase?"

"The one about your foot and my balls. I think it has potential."

"It'll go down as non-fiction if you don't extract the finger and start writing."

"Slave driver!" he said.

"Procrastinator!" she replied

"Most famous authors prefer solitude when writing creatively, did you know that, D?"

"You're making that up."

"That's possible."

"Well, are you?"

"You wouldn't believe whatever I said."

"Try me?"

"Famous authors do prefer peace and quiet when pondering their next masterpiece."

"Liar!"

Billy tidied up his stack of magazines. "D, do you think you could go into the bathroom for an hour or so?"

"What am I going to do for a whole hour in there?"

"Same as you do every other night would be my guess."

"Hah! Start with the comedy openers, Bozo. Just don't look for any extra-curriculars later on."

"Who's Ron?"

"Bathroom here I come," Debra said, tossing the cushion from the floor in Billy's direction, without checking to see if it made contact.

"Okay," said Billy, "to work."

                               ---------------------------------------------------------                                     

Blue ink met white paper. Half an hour had passed and Billy was deep in the throes of creative writing. He decided to start with romance after all.

           

His balls were blue, not that wishy-washy light blue, but more of a royal... no, that wouldn't do. A little too romantic, perhaps. He started again.

 Maureen was wetter than a duck's backside at high tide. That wouldn't do either. Ducks don't swim in the sea. At least not that he knew. Crud-bucket, this was more difficult than he first thought.

The love Gordon had for Marcia was as deep as the ocean and as wide as an elephant's backside. Hmm! What if it was only a baby elephant. Good job he was on top of things. Anybody else might not have picked up on that.

The pain was unbearable. What pain was unbearable? The pain of his shattered heart? The pain from the zip that tore its way up his cock when he wasn't paying attention in the bathroom? He wondered how Debra was getting on.