Hello Friday! For some of you out there, however, this is Saturday and your weekend is now half over... awe. My weekend doesn't start until tomorrow when some of you will already be dreading the return of your work week. And next week, let me grab the salt, I'm only working 4 days before I have another mini-vaca.... That's right, another 4 days off. Holy Hannah's Banana!
The dog collars I ordered a week ago arrive yesterday. Because of their lateness, a credit had already been issued to my account - I'm Amazon Prime. I notified Amazon, ready to return them, and I have to say... the woman I dealt with was so... dense. She kept saying "we can give you a $5 credit because they are so late," and "your credit has already been processed. It took me explaining for several minutes before she said... "as an exception this time, there is no need to return them, you can keep them." Heavy Sigh. So I shot a little video this morning of the dogs... wearing their new collars.
Editing "The Body in the Well" is going well. Sixpence asked about nookie... sorry, no nookie. I write adventure mysteries in which the main ingredients are: mystery, suspense, and action (and a bit of humor). This one is no different, except there are snakes. I'll leave the nookie to the women who write gay romance novels. Here's the intro:
Chapter 1 - Colorado.
“And there were gunslingers camped out on the ridge above the Uncompahgre. A body had been found hung up on the rocks at the bend in the river, murdered for his three tiny nuggets of gold. They were that kind of killers. Knowing a posse was headed up from Rattler’s Den, they had chosen to rest for a few hours before heading down to Pope’s Pew. In the smokey glow of their small campfire they waited, with nary a whisper among them. They knew there was going to be hell to pay.” Sunny looked at the tourist faces gathered around her, dressed in their brand, spanking new western gear bought specifically for this trip. Sitting on their Palominos, they were expecting tales spun from the truth about the three ghost towns on the tour before she wrapped things up with the Bar-B-Que in Bartlett’s pear orchard. Of course, she always cleaned the tales up, didn’t tell them Dan Bailey was shot in the back of the head, or that his entire gang, except for one, was killed in that final gunfight. Even glossing over the details, the stories of gunslingers and the blood they spilt were gory enough for most.
“Look,” one of the tourists shouted, pointing over Sunni’s shoulder to a spot on the ridge. “Is that one there? A gunslinger?”
Turning and using her hand as a visor, Sunny peered up, trying to pick out some motion in between the rocks and timber pines. Ah, yeah, there it was, small and moving fast.
Can you hear my evil laugh?