Telltale Takes Off, eh!

Yes, it's true. I've joined forces with Felix Baron and our good friends Laurie Clayton and Michael Crawley. telltale.ca rattled around my brain like loose Scrabble tiles until our webmaster, Kim Crawley, sat down to play. This is us, online.

To celebrate this momentous occasion we're having a contest. The winner will receive three autographed novels from the four authors. (I'm not being enumerate here, one of the novels was written by Laurie and Michael.)

visit:

http://telltale.ca/

to join in the fun.

It's taken a while to get to this point but it seems all four careers are taking off. So please try to swoop by the website and join in this auspicious occasion.

We're here!


http://telltale.ca

We're here!

Am I Good or Am I Bad?

First, a little history: Felix and I moved a year ago. We moved down the hall in the same apartment building. We thought it would be an easy move. We thought we could just walk our stuff from one apartment to the other, without the need for all those pesky boxes. We thought wrong.

Our neighbours at the other end of the hall, Leslie and Joy, loaned us two dollies. Those dollies helped save our skins.

Leslie had a stroke a few years ago. He uses a walker and a scooter to get around. Joy seemed perfectly healthy.

So I was shocked to see Leslie, alone, in the elevator and to hear that Joy had gone into the hospital, been diagnosed with cancer, and freakin' DIED, all in a matter of six weeks.

I expressed my heartfelt condolences. Good.

He told me when and where the viewing was happening and asked if I would come. I said "Yes." Good.

He said he'd watch for me.



Friday night Felix and I headed over to the funeral parlour for the viewing.
We had another engagement at eight thirty, so we made sure to arrive at the funeral parlour by eight. Plenty of time, we thought. There were almost no cars in the parking lot. Inside, in Joy's viewing room, we found Leslie and his sister, son and daughter-in-law, and two pesky kids. Family only.
Family was absolutely thrilled to see us.

We viewed the body with Leslie. He had tears in his eyes. He's a Scotsman, so I wasn't surprised to hear that he'd visited her two or three times a day by riding his scooter to the hospital.
I said if I'd known we could have given him a ride. This was true.
Two goods. One for attending the viewing, one for saying we'd have driven him to the hospital. Actually, tack on another good for staying until nine, when the viewing ended. So, all good, score 5.

We did not go to the funeral, even though we knew there would be almost no one there. Bad.

Felix made a Shepherd's pie and we took it down the hall to Leslie's apartment. Good.

Leslie invited us in and we went in. Good.

We chatted for a few minutes. Turns out he's now driving himself around in the car. He seems to have eschewed the walker as well. My suspicion, that he worked poor Joy to death, grew. Bad?





I couldn't stand being in his apartment. It smelled of death. We left. We scurried down the hallway to our apartment, with me hissing about the stink of death. BAD!

Oh, also we gave him our phone number and took his and offered to help him in a jam. Good.

All the way back to our apartment I whispered fiercely about the stink of death and how I couldn't stand being in the apartment and if I'd stayed any longer I would have gagged, I tell you. Gagged. BAD!

I cry - not because Joy died or because Leslie is alone but - because Felix is 19 years older than me and I'm afraid he's going to work me to death or leave me all alone. Bad.

I confess to Felix that I cannot take on this old man. I can't do it! I can't I can't I can't! He points out that I don't have to. I moan about the way the apartment stank of death. He points out that Joy died in the hospital. Right. The apartment probably stinks of an old man who can't take care of himself. I relate to his tragedy only in terms of what it means to me. Bad.

When my mother was diagnosed with cancer I was her primary care giver for an anticipated death at home. We were entirely successful in that endeavour. She was very grateful to me. I was grateful to her, too. It was a success, and so we will give me a Permanent Good for that.

When I returned to my home after she died, I took on the case of an older man, a good friend, who needed back surgery. I arranged for the surgery to take place about a year sooner than he'd managed to arrange. Good.

He made me be his caregiver. I did my best. When he was released from the hospital he called for me to come get him. It took me awhile to get there and when I did he said he'd given up on me and called for another ride. Oh - I had pms, if that matters, which I think it should - I blew up and yelled and screamed at him for ruining my life. Permanent BAD.


I pray that Leslie never phones us. Bad.

Have I weighed the good and bad properly? Given too much good to myself and not enough bad? Or am I too hard on myself, given myself too much bad?

Am I good?
Am I bad?



Am I sane?
Am I mad?

Am I Mad.
I am.

Images:
Death Dealer by Frank Fazetta
Angel's Blessing (bart.com)
Devil's Tea Party by Nancy Farmer (nancyfarmer.net)
Angels-Devils-one-in-same by Luke Chueh (lukedchueh.com)

Yippee!

My short story, "Lust As Old As Us" has been accepted by Kristina Wright
for her new antho, Dream Lover: Paranormal Tales of Erotic Romance.

I'm really excited about this. It's banished a lot of my post-novel blues.
I want to say more stuff but I can't think what to say except, "YIPEE! I'M IN DREAM LOVER!"


Here's the lineup:

Foreword Megan Hart
Introduction: All I Have to Do is Dream
Love Resurrection Justine Elyot
Dreaming by the Sea Delilah Devlin
Devil’s Food Shanna Germain
Rainmaker A.D.R. Forte
Shattered Belle Craig Sorensen
Living Off Lovers Kristina Lloyd
Where the Heart Is Saskia Walker
Freeing the Demon Sacchi Green
Old Fashioned Glamour Nikki Magennis
Moongirl Meets the Wolfman Alana Noel Voth
Vanilla Victoria Janssen
For Humans, Love’s All About Weight Lana Fox
Succubus Comes Home Lucy Felthouse
Folly Kate Pearce
Lust As Old As Us Madeline Moore
The Eye of Pearl Ericka Hiatt
Thief of Dreams Kristina Wright



Also, I'm not a Praun anymore. Hurrah! I heart neurosurgeons.
xoxo Madeline

I'm a Typing Praun!

Lookit the cute little Praun, writing erotica at her keyboard.
Doesn't she know non-humans aren't allowed to write erotica?

See?




Oh how I long for the day when humans and non-humans live in peace.



But until then, I'll write whatever I damn well please!!




I can practically hear the neuro-guy muttering, 'Writers . . . '


photo credits:

torontoist.com
photobucket
bighollywood.breitbart.com
movies.about.com

I'm a Praun!

Argh. Did you see District 9?
I hope you weren't trying to eat while you watched it, which I, briefly, was.
I stuck with it though, and I'm glad, because now I'm becoming a PRAUN and if I hadn't seen the movie I wouldn't know what was going on.

It would be good to do links and pictures and stuff but I can't, really, because my PRAUN HANDS are very poor at fine motor skills. Good thing I practised working with my feet when I was a kid (just in case I lost my arms in an accident - so you see what kind of girl I was) because soon I'll be typing with my toes.

Okay (which is how OK is spelled, in case you folks in the UK were wondering) here's what's happened. My forearms, from my elbows to my wrists, and on the right, up through two fingers, were going numb. Yikes. I NEED those arms.

It got so bad I saw my doctor, who referred me to a neurosurgeon. OMG. I do not want neurosurgery. I was honestly afraid, because typing is a part of my writing process. I do not believe I could write by speaking into a microphone, although I suppose I should try, some day . . .

See they move the nerve from one side of the elbow to the other and - ahhHHHHhhhhHHHHHHHHHHH! NOOOOOOOOOO!

Okay so the neurosurgeon had good news All I have to do is wear a wrist brace on each arm, as much as possible, for the foreseeable future. Not only will the beginnings of carpal tunnel syndrome be arrested, but I will repair any damage has already been done! Man was I relieved. The test was sort of painful, in an electroshock sorta way. When I yelled, "I give up! I'll tell you everything I know!" he muttered, 'Writers.' hoho. I shoulda muttered, 'Neurosurgeons' but I didn't. I was being a good patient.

So good news. Plus, I ran my 'I put my hand cream in the fridge yesterday, does that mean I have early onset Altzheimer's?' fears by him and he said no.
He told me a few funny personal anecdotes - his sister once dusted his brother's room with Raid instead of Pledge. So double good news.

I bought the two braces, with steel running down the top and bottom, Velcro, straps, you probably know what they look like. IF not, use your imagination.

Well, after I tried them out I called the maker to find out what the materials that make up the braces are, cause I was itchy. I wondered, wool?
The helpful fellow I talked to said No. I kept pestering him about how
itchy the braces were. Finally he suggested I go to the pharmacy (chemist, for the Brits) and get a sleeve. Apparently they make a sleeve to go under these braces. Gee, what a good idea. I told him so. We hung up.

SO now I can rinse out my extra sleeves and have fresh ones for every sweaty,
WTF long night-of-the-brace. Yikes. The darn things are working tho! I have feeling in the two numb fingers, for the first time in - well - awhile.

But not much fine motor ability. Yet.

And I feel like a Praun. I want to feel like Rosario Dawson (I think) in 'Crash' (Cronenberg's movie, not the new one that won the Oscar.) but I don't. I feel like a Praun.

Not to worry tho. Until I start eating the cat food.

xoxo Mad.

There are no pictures or links to this post. This is a do it yourself post.

ps - I really loved 'District Nine.' Talk about yer unusual buddy pic!!