RIEPE'S WORLD

I love the serenity of Mystic Canyon here in New Mexico it's been a great source of inspiration for my stories. I felt the spiritual elements the first time I walked the deep wide arroyos. We writers get our inspirations from the strangest sources. On occasion however the wife and I hop in the land yacht and cruise up to LasVegas for business, friends and family. For some time now I’ve had the pleasure of chatting with my neighbor in Las Vegas, Edward 'Rex' Riepe. He is the author of the popular Fema Camp novels set in a grim future where the government has failed miserably. The once proud American way of life has been replaced by concentration camps, slavery and cannibalism.

He’s published twenty-five books predominantly in the speculative fiction genera, apocalyptic being his specialty. Among his works the 2101 Chronicles [8 books and over a million words], the Fema Camp series six books, The God Trilogy, Las Vegas Worm Club, and Arks from HEAVEN just to name a few.

Many writers begin right out of school and work for decades spinning yarns about life in their carefully crafted worlds. Rex by contrast has lived a rough and rambling life and then started writing rather late. I can relate to that. His work is course, gritty and lacking in fine silky finesse but then real life is seldom silky and almost always gritty. I totally get that as well. He spends night after night listening to Pink Floyd, sipping whiskey over ice in a coffee cup and banging out explosive violent chapters. A writer after my own heart.

In truth it was not his body of work as a late blooming author that got me into writing this piece. It was the life altering events, and the strange source of his ‘divine’ inspiration that really got my attention, so it begins thusly.

KCV: I’d like to write a story about your life and art. I think it would be interesting.

REX: Aw hell, my life’s not interesting.

I would have to disagree with him on that point, but ‘interesting’ might not be the correct word. Riveting. Yes, that’s the word. The guitar playing rocker has traveled a well worn path that has left many a scar from road rash on his weathered carcase. I was determined to peal back some of the scabs and see what lay beneath.

Oh don’t get me wrong it’s not that he’s terribly shy about talking, Rex can go on for hours and never skip a breath. But as I scribble notes with pen to paper I can’t keep up and he’s already two chapters ahead of me. Then I get side tracked as we digress into talking about writer stuff which we love to talk about. The stuff that really wouldn’t interest anyone but slang slingers like us. So it’s taken a dozen visits to compile this short piece.

Born in Kansas City to a family of modest means there were no silver spoons. At the tender age of eight young Rex was stealing fruit and vegetables from a kindly German lady, Mrs. Gufthaus. She caught him but rather than seek punishment she gave him a job and he became a wage earner rather than a criminal.

REX: Mrs Gufthaus was a wonderful woman, she paid me thirty cents and hour.

In his early teens he began to play guitar and later would play backup and opening acts for some of the great legends of Rock-N-Roll. He played for me some of his tunes on his digital guitar it was amazing. His fingers danced over the strings like butterflies seeking musical nectar.

KCV: So you were a Rock Star?

REX: No, not a Rock Star, just a musician... but a damn good one.

As the turbulent sixties came to a close so did a tragic episode of American history. In 1969 Rex was a senior at Florida’s Oviedo High. I perused his year book, he’s on every other page. Football, Sax player in the band, building bonfires. He boast of getting into fights with a coach and teachers but managed to stay in school. Oh yeah, this crewcut sporting jock was also captain of the basketball team. He delighted in pointing out all the pretty blonds he cavorted with but there was one picture of a shy girl that somehow avoided the rowdy Casanova. But her story doesn’t begin for another twenty-five years.

Segregation was ending but racial tensions were running high. Five white team mates failed to show for practice when four black players joined the team. Rex stayed on in spite of the usual name calling and peer pressure. It’s good to have the hide of an armadillo, it helps to deflect the bullshit.

KCV: So why didn’t you quit with your teammates?

REX: I love basketball, and the girls were always coming around. I didn’t care who I played with, I had a lot of fun with those guys.

Donald Sterling apparently didn’t get that message forty years ago. Rex went on to collage and eventually graduated after some... shall we say disciplinary differences. Okay, he was a smart ass there too. After collage he tried a suit and tie for a spell but being a respectable Joe just never played well with the rebel and another clean cut youth fell prey to the lure of Drugs, Sex and Rock-N-Roll, yeah baby.

While he was a damn good guitar player music dollars were fast and loose. Over the years he was successful in the computer business and other endeavors but marriage was not one. Finding himself a single father dropping the kids of with the Ex., his life had taken a down turn. No he never reached the highs of a Rock Star but he certainly partook of the earthly pleasures of one. On a dreary Christmas eve after dropping off the kids he wandered into a bar looking for a friend in a glass. His roving eye spied a couple of girls at the bar one in particular drew his gaze.

REX: She was a real looker, but I didn’t recognize her as anyone I knew.

As he was about to embrace the sweet caresses of a seven and seven a voice from his past penetrated the purple haze he’d fallen into.

MR: You’re Rex Riepe aren’t you?

REX: Who are you?

MR: Marcia Beasley. We went to High school together.

REX: Well you sure have change, in all the right places.

He hadn’t seen her since high school, two and a half decades had passed but she had certainly grown up. In that moment the fog cleared and his life suddenly took a new turn. Santa Claws had come for Rex Riepe and delivered an enduring love affair. They were inseparable in play and work from that moment on. They moved around a lot and Rex worked in construction. Marcia was no house bound daffodil she took up carpentry and they worked side by side.

REX: That’s how we shared our lives. We did everything together.

Money was decent and the road had smoothed a bit but when you least expect it there’s always a sharp turn. In 1998 while working on a roof in Florida he heard Marcia yelling his name amid vicious growls. From the roof he saw a massive black and tan Rottweiler dragging his owner like a sack of potatoes. The huge canine had her pinned down, she blocked with her arm as the dog went for her face. Rex leapt into action by jumping off the roof and landed flat footed near the great hound. Finishing hammer in hand he beat the beast off her until she could scramble away. Marcia escaped permanent injury save for a persistent fear of dogs. However, two days later suffering from excruciating back pain, Rex learned his third and forth vertebra were compacted from his hard landing. The damage required a long rehabilitation. It was a big hit in the bank book but they persevered and eventually started over.

Another ten years would pass and the pair would share every day with work, family and the usual stress of life. In Vegas that’s rich food and cheep drinks a combo that ushers along the ravages of time, and age was creeping up on the love birds.

Along about 2009 Rex was suddenly gripped with chest pains. A crushing spasm that surly felt like the hand of God was holding his heart and giving it a playful squeeze. Unable to drive he surrendered the keys. Marcia took the wheel and headed for the hospital. The pressure from his pounding heart increased and Rex was becoming delirious. Traffic was at a crawl and out of desperation Marcia took the car onto the sidewalks and zoomed around the jam. They arrived at the emergency room none to soon for a few minutes more and the guitar picker would have been strumming a golden harp.

REX: She saved my life, no doubt about it.

During his recovery the doctors discovered large tumors in his body and evidence that the hard working life had taken a hefty toll. Recovery was slow and painful. During his convalescents he began to have dreams, spiritual in nature. Later he would recall them vividly. A movie would play in his head staring characters bearing a strong resemblance to his German-Indian ancestors. Strange worlds in far flung star systems, dark apocalyptic visions swept across the movie screen in his head. He started to write the stories down and the visions continued they seemed to carry a prophecy of man’s rejection of the Word of God and the dire consequences to come. The dreams grew more powerful and the movie in his mind more graphic. The message was crystal clear. Time is running out for you Rock-N-Roller.

The tumors were inoperable and the notion of giving up liquor had little appeal. So Rex consulted with his God and decided to proceed on faith. A deal of sorts began to manifest requiring him to deliver a message laced in his high adventure prose. So proceeding with powerful inspiration from a divine source, Rex picked up his key board and has been writing like a man possessed ever since. A pile of rejections sit on a shelf but he publishes his works on Amazon and sales mount daily as a legion of fans clamor for more of his dark prophecies. He has defiantly truck a cord that appeals to a great many.

REX: Marcia is my editor, critic and co-writer. It’s what we do now to share our lives. They’re just stories but we’re having fun. When it stops being fun I’ll quit doing it.

Their stories foretell of a government turning on its citizens. Spying on Americans, stealing their property, taking their guns, and a diabolical collaboration of the super rich and the mega powerful to wield ultimate control. Foreign powers seeking world domination and the crushing boot of oppression on the traditional values of family and freedom. No I’m not repeating today’s headlines, I’m talking about Riepe’s World... Or am I?

My friend is still dreaming and still writing and the world is still headed towards his apocalyptic prophesies. Is he worried? Not as long as he has Pink Floyd and and a cup of cool sweet Seven.

PASS THE CALAMINE PLEASE

I've been dark for a while and it has been hell. Not prowling the web and posting is my life now and checking in on all my friends. I wouldn’t even post this explanation but it seems I'll be off line a little longer than I first thought. You see it all started with what I believed was a backache. About three days before Christmas. That evolved into a racking spasm wherein I became bed ridden for two days and nights in agony. An internet search suggested a kidney infection or possibly a stone.

Now why didn't I run to the Doctor you ask? Well it was Christmas and my Doctor closes his practice on Holidays and the worst of it hit me over the weekend after Christmas. But as dawn came to Monday I called and got an appointment. I staggered into the shower dragging my feet like one of the Walking Dead. Not the fast ones mind you the real slow ones dragging a knotted rope of guts behind them. Yep that's what I felt like too.

It was at that moment that I caught a glimpse of big red spots in the mirror. OH shit! I said aloud to me in the reflection. Only one thought came next for I only knew of one thing that caused this much excruciating pain accompanied with such an inflamed red rash. I hobbled to the computer and ran one word. Shingles. Yes, the symptoms were all there.

My visit to the Dr. confirmed my suspicion but he was also concerned about my kidneys and sent me to the hospital for ultra sound and other tests.

I'm off to see him at 2:pm today for analysis of those tests... More on that later.

I'm back and the test were pretty much negative and the medicine I'm taking along with calamine lotion is already turning back the shingles. I'm starting to feel a little better too. So in a few days I should be back in action posting pics on BMSC and I have a new story for this blog. Thank you for following my efforts.

A SPLASH OF COLOR

 

 

I'm a big fan of comics, fantasy art and graphic designs with a dark mysterious flair. The darker and scarier the better. That said I also enjoy a little splash of color and humor stirred into the mix just for contrast. This I feel has to be done with care or you end up with a sappy mess. Just where that blend begins and ends is up to the writer initially and then you add the art. Here's where you either are a multi talented genius and can do it all or you're me. Oh sure I can string a few words together and tell a story on my computer as long as I have my son Patrick as back up. He's the tech savvy computer wiz, and my wife Carol as my financier and agent to keep me from falling off a cliff.

Growing up in Texas as a wild child in the sixties I was surrounded by relatives that could draw and paint with some skill. Unfortunately that particular talent was not in my genes: can't out draw a first grader.

I have been fortunate in my travels in that no matter where I land; no matter how far off the expressway I traverse. I can always find talented artists to collaborate with. Here in remote Mystic Canyon, nestled among the coyotes and cacti I have discovered a budding flower of artistry. Not yet nineteen Julie Edwards has that perfect blend of dark chaos and comic color.

For so long my crossbreed characters lived in E-books visual only through the reader's imagination. Now they have faces and form for which the eye can see. Here they are for your viewing pleasure.
 

“I am Skullduggery, and I serve my master Lazarus Zurga, Czar of the un-dead,” an evil laugh filled the arena. The truck's rear doors slowly opened, a purplish gas belched forth when a platform slid out the back, on it lay a highly polished black coffin etched with silver glyphs and writhing serpents. The platform tilted so the coffin came to rest in a standing position. The dancing girls pulled open the lid, inside a tall gaunt figure lay in a deathly repose on purple velvet. A sickly, pale greenish pallor made it seem as if he truly was dead. The girls touched and stroked the corpse in a sexually suggestive manner, yet dead he remained. The Bleeder fans were becoming agitated and began to chant his name. “Zurga! Zurga! Zurga!”

Skulduggery laughed his diabolic laugh. “As desirable as the devil’s daughters are, you know only one thing will bring the master back from the black sleep,” crazed howls and screams came from the throng. “Let the blood flow!” he demanded.
At that the devil girls produced a tall silver goblet and went around the fence holding the ornate cup so the Bleeders could cut their fingers and drip their blood into the skull shaped vessel.
The Voodoo dancers collected the gruesome elixir and made a show of pouring it on the dead man’s thin dry lips. Afterward, they resumed the suggestive attempt to revive him and this time his yellow-green eyes opened, he rose from his resting place to the deranged, delight of his fanatical followers. Crimson ooze trickled from his mouth, a long forked tongue darted out and captured the red liquid. A twisted smile let the fans see his sharp, curved fangs.

A steel step lowered to allow Zurga to easily get into the tall truck. The bovine beauties assisted him onto the elevator step, slowly it carried them up. Standing on the running board outside the cab posing for the fans in a black costume with imperial purple trim, he spoke to them in a strange lisping accent. “My devoted fans, I have risen once again to do battle for your pleasure. I serve you and only you. I know your needs as well as I know my own,” drawing his words out slowly, excitedly, as a schoolyard pervert seducing a virginal youth. A sickening grin stretched across his pale, shallow face, as he stroked each girl from their supple thighs to their sharp little horns. “How do you like my horny— heifers?— They’re so devillicious, are they not?” Wolf calls, howling and barking filled the arena. “In you go my pets.”Both girls bent over exposing their shapely rears to the crowd. Zurga

patted their firm, butt cheeks and stroked their tails as they crawled inside. “After the battle I think

I’ll get a little tail.”

The mob lost control and attempted scaling the fence; screaming and chanting. “Zurga!

Zurga! Zurga!”
The strange creature called Lazarus Zurga, held out his arms to the mad howling mob, as if
to absorb their primal essence, sated with their blood lust he bowed low to them, then vanished
into the Monster Hearse.
The mighty Skullduggery revved and roared. “Bring on all challengers and let the blood
flow.”

Murphy was just about to impute the gate code, when everyone’s attention turned to a faded blue Chevy pickup truck, careening around the corner. Engine racing, tires squealing, smoke blowing from the exhaust. The driver jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, whipping the truck toward the men. Gravel sprayed in all directions as the vehicle slid sideways. Abruptly, the driver hit the brakes, causing the pickup to grind to a halt in a cloud of dust. Griff and Butch had instantly adopted defensive postures.

Murphy grimaced and fanned the dust with his hat. “Tequila, that beater is older than I am. What’re you trying to do throw a rod?” his voice low and scolding.
The blinding glare of the sun made it difficult to see the driver clearly through the dusty windshield, except for a wide brimmed hat and a wild shock of hair. The driver’s door swung open with a rusty-metallic screech.“Now don’t use that tone with me, you grouchy old meany head.” The young girl drawled, as she slid from the cab and lightly landed on the ground. Her black western boots barely made a dint in the gravel driveway, as she squared off opposite the men. Sprouting from the high top boots a pair of long shapely legs, bare up to her blue denim shorts. The cut off hems rolled tightly around her silky thighs. The shorts snug over her curvy hips were synched tight around her thin waist with a black belt and silver buckle, adorned with a brace of pistols. Hanging from the belt a black leather holster cradling a Smith and Wesson .38 Special, with a white pearlescent grip.
“You don’t wanna get me mad now... I just might have to do a Texas tap-dance al-l-l over you,” Tequila's slow western drawl snuggled around her words like a cozy kitten.

Butch took Jessie's new gun and went to work programing it, after a half hour he was satisfied and handed it to Jesse. “All set, all you need do is strap it on.”

Jesse did as instructed, the holster clung to his leg like a custom fit. “It’s light, I like that.” He reached down and took the grip. Instantly he felt it charge. Then he drew it out.

“Howdy deputy, name’s Hoss and I’m ready for duty,” the cyber pistol spoke in a scrappy

little robot voice with a country twang.

Jesse looked at Butch; siting back in his chair appearing pleased with himself. “Hoss? And

what’s with the deputy bit?”
“All I did was set him to the western mode so you two would fit together, I didn’t pick his name. Talk to him, not me. Tell him who’s boss.”

“Okay, Hoss, I’m Jesse Colt Badham worlds greatest stunt rider and trick shot, got it?”

“Your DNA test checked out or you’d be down in the dust pard, I know who ya are.”

“Good then let’s get a little practice in so you can get use to my style.”

“Set up a target tenderfoot, let’s see what ya got.”

Butch quickly set up a chunk of deadwood fifty feet away.

“Set to level one, pard and try not to shoot your own foot.”

“He’s kinda sassy,” Jesse observed.

Butch grinned, “I like him.”

Jesse gripped and ripped, the draw was slow and clumsy, the shot missed the stump.

“My granny can draw fastern’ that,” Hoss quipped
Jesse tried again.
“Ain’t no second place in a gun fight pard.”
Again.
“Missed, if that was a rattler he’d a bit ya.”
“Something is wrong Butch fix it.”
Butch chuckled at Jessie’s frustration. “It’s just that your not thinking right. He’s cyber-linked to your brain and you’re still trying to draw like you had a regular gun. Open the link, and let him work for you.

Khimaira lounged seductively, just out of reach of his claws. Her graceful lines strong, athletic, her long antelope horns gleamed in the fire light. “Which would you prefer to devour? The dead fish or sate your natural hunger with me. To taste my tender living flesh in your mouth, to feel the hot spray of my blood on your face as you slice open my veins with your fangs.” Stroking her inner thigh as she spoke.

“Come a little closer,” his voice a low growl.
She smiled at him. “Yes, I have no doubt you would kill me. Sadly, you would let me rot and eat the dead fish. You’ve become too civilized, we of the wild understand the dynamics of the predator and the prey, one cannot live without the other. It’s the natural order.” Using her spear, she pushed the table to within his reach.
“Last meal for the condemned?”
“Only if you wish it.”
“Let me guess, you keep me on a short leash as your well fed and pampered pet. For a price.” His snow leopard tail twitching.
“Join me Butch, I don’t want you to die. It’s your choice, but either way, you should eat.”
He sniffed the food and water suspiciously.
“Really Butch, if I wanted you dead or sedated I would’ve had the guards do it. I much prefer you awake and talking to me.”
Surrendering to his raging hunger, he set upon the feast. Between mouthfuls he managed to get a few words out. “Your spies should have told you— the machine doesn’t work.”
“Not yet, but they say you’re the grand master techie.”
“I’m not good enough to crack the DNA key code,” talking and chewing.
“You think I’ll free you, if it doesn’t work?”
“Not at all. I think you’re a sick bitch, who takes pleasure in watching helpless men die in agony. You plan the same for me.”
“You’re wrong, I do what I’m forced to do. We must survive any way we can.”
“By Murdering for AARDVARK?”
Her cheek twitched at the name. “You could change that. You could be our teacher. You could have anything you desire.” Her hands caressing her breasts.
“The fish wasn’t bad, just a little overcooked for my taste.” He downed the last of the water and licked his lips.
Khimaira shot to her feet twirling her spear over head, eyes flashing, her proud amazonian breast glaring at him. The deadly spear tip came to a stop, aimed at his chest.
The claw of his pinky finger picked at his teeth.“Is this where I cower at you feet, begging for mercy?”

Griff shouldered the 12 gauge and probed the blackness, his night vision could gather low light enough to see large objects, but fine details eluded him. The room was huge and required a thorough search. He kept Ursula close behind as he crept forward. Several times he paused listening for any sound. His first warning of danger came not to his ears, but from a fetid stench, faint at first, but soon became overpowering. The malodorous reek of animal musk and decomposing flesh.

Behind him he saw Ursula covering her face with her white cloth, and fighting the urge to retch. Slowly he backed her up, guiding her in the dark with his free hand. As they retraced their path backwards, a shuffling sound began to trail them. Griff held her still and peered down the long barrel of the formidable weapon. Slowly and very gently so as not to startle her he pushed her toward the entrance. The stealthy shuffling began again on feet not wholly human, then a large black shape shifted from behind a massive machine. Only for a second, then moved back out of sight. Seeing they weren’t alone he urged her down the hallway. The stalker’s foot steps kept pace with the quarry. 
Griff moved away from the rasping sound, taking care not to make any noise, yet it
continued to follow. As it drew closer they heard heavy breathing. He turned to Ursula and signed for silence and made a running gesture with his fingers.
She got the message and as quietly as possible hurried to the end of the hall. Griff slowly retreated
backward while facing his deadly shadower. The huge dark mass suddenly appeared in the doorway,
filling the space with it’s bulk. Briefly, he caught a glimpse of a rack of twisting horns, the lower
pair curved down around the small dark eyes. The thick powerful arms supported it’s upper body.
The wide snout flared and sniffed the air. A broad leer scalped the lips back showing a set of
gleaming white teeth, the great mouth parted slightly and a low mirthless laugh drifted out of the
cavernous hole that was it’s gullet.
Griff braced himself and drew a bead. Breathing deep, slow and steady he marshaled his wits and will as every instinct argued in favor of running, steady as an oak, he stood his ground.
Ursula reached the door, as six rapid blasts reverberated down the hall. They all cringed at
the blood crazed howl that followed. A second later, they heard rapid foot falls rushing toward
them. Griff flew through the door so fast he couldn’t stop til he slammed into the wall at the opposite end of the room.
“What is it?” she yelled.
Sucking in a single gasp of air he choked out one word. “DEMON!”

Julie is working on another piece I can't wait to present it to you.

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THE GOLDEN EASTER EGG

 

I haven’t posted in a while because I was writing a new story. I just finished it and now I'm doing the arduous task of editing. Hate that part. It is not related to the crossbreed books. It will be the start of a new series based loosely on characters and adventures played out at the Blood Moon Social Club. Let me reiterate and say “loosely based”. This book is inspired by storylines I wrote for our inter active theater Blood Moon events. There were hundreds of vampires, werewolves, demons, mummies, ghosts, and human hunters running around the Blood Moon Social Club every month for years. Not all were directly involved with the main plots some were doing their own thing. However, to base a story on that sort of dynamic I had to condense the story from a big chunky stew down to a fine sauce. So I compressed many characters into composites and tried to capture the essence of what Blood Moon was all about.

The plot of any good story nearly always involves the characters be engaged in a hunt for the Golden Easter Egg. So it often was at Blood Moon. The GEE can be anything of worth from an amulet, enchanted sword, magic jewel, or a crown that grants one the power to control giants as in Jack the Giant Slayer. What an awesome movie I loved it. This plot device is used by every writer and film maker, the legendary director Alfred Hitchcock called it the MacGuffin.

I recently watched TNT's The Librarians their GEE was a magic crown worn by King Arthur. CW's rendition of DC's The Flash has a variation of the GEE. Barry Allen “The Flash” is searching for the mysterious killer of his mother. The same GEE is being used in Gotham the teenage Bruce Wayne is after the killer of his parents. A live person is a perfect GEE. Imagine if you knew the whereabouts of such an individual. You might claim a reward or blackmail the GEE. But then you might end up dead and the plot thickens. Of the three examples I won't be following the Librarians it was a too silly for my tastes, and I was not drawn to the characters or the clunky dialog. The Flash is well done and holds my interest but it is a little weak on intensity. Gotham is wonderful. I absolutely love the new look at old BatMan villains back when they were young and had not donned their familiar costumes. This is a great rejuvenation of an iconic storyline. In addition you have a plethora of characters and many subplots revolving around the main plot. Much room to screw with your perception and create conflict and chaos.
The GEE, whatever it may be works best if you have a lot of characters running around in your story. One finds the Golden Easter Egg and has it for a while then someone steals it and now everyone is after them. Think of it as a football game if one team has the Golden Football most of the game the excitement level slows. But if the football changes hands a lot the pace picks up. If the score stays even right to the end the suspense builds to an explosive climax. {Yes I know mixing sports and sexual metaphors is cliche but I just couldn't stop myself.}
The writer can control the story's pace by manipulating the GEE and who has it. In Marvels Agents of Shield the writers do an excellent job of having more that one GEE and they keep them changing hands. Another tactic is you never know who is on what team. The characters are always dying or defecting. They also come back from the dead and then you're not sure of anything.
Agents of Shield is well written and keeps me wanting more. But where it shines is in the character dialog. I really care what happens to them. So you see the GEE is not always what makes a story compelling it's the characters competing for it.

In my own humble effort at writing SciFi action adventures, I try my best to involve the reader in the lives of the characters. In Crossbreeds 1: Battle Butte I send my Soldiers of Fortune Griff, Butch and Jesse off to find an artificial intelligence brain essential to making ancient technology work for the people of Battle Butte. However, my high tech GEE is not the primary focus of the story. It is the women these three reckless daredevils encounter. You see I find that the best way to create conflict and chaos; very important for any story, is to introduce strong independent women. Once you do that the male characters do what all men do. They become entangled in romantic webs and now you have real life unfolding in your fantasy world.
In my new story Death and Domination I have interesting protagonists and sinister antagonists. Some are the aforementioned dynamic females. Building strong character composites from those played by the ladies of Blood Moon wasn't difficult. Nor was it tough to interject romantic webs to entangle my male characters. Blood Moon was rife with supernatural lust.
Even with all of that going for me I decided to employ yet another writer's tool. As I said the GEE can be anything and doesn’t necessarily need to be the main focus. That said, it sometimes turns out that the GEE is so important that it becomes a leading character. Such as when the GEE is a live person, or when the object is so much more than everyone looking for it even realizes. I'll end right there before the teaser becomes a spoiler.