A Vote For Me Is a Vote For Babies & Puppies

I like to win things. I really, really, like to win things. However, very rarely do I win things just because. Like, if I enter a writing contest, I’ll do well. I’ve even placed among the top 40 and will see my piece published in an anthology.

Don’t believe me? Click here.

That’s me under the grand prize winner. And you can read my winning entry, here.

But I don’t want to win something because I put in an honest effort. Been there, done that. I want, like most Americans, to win something just for being lucky. That’s where you come in.

First, everyone here knows I’m the biggest Battlestar Galactica fan in the history of ever. Don’t believe me? Click here. And here. And here. Well @SyFy is giving away an honest-to-goodness Cylon Toaster and I want it. Badly. If you are on Twitter, follow @SyFy and send them a tweet telling them (in 160 characters or less) why I should win the toaster.

Let’s face it, via my blog and my Oprah-like powers of persuasion, I’ve gotten so many people to watch/rent/buy Battlestar Galactica, SyFy probably owes me some dough. But the toaster aside, and I do want the toaster, you should follow @SyFy for updates on Battlestar Galactica: The Plan, Eureka, Warehouse 13, Caprica, and all your other sci-fi faves.

Also, a friend of mine convinced me to enter my blog in the Black Weblog Awards 2009. My blog is being considered in the following categories:

Blog To Watch

Best Writing

Best Family/Parenting

Best Personal Blog

Best Microblog (if my tweets have you all atwitter)

Of course, I know of a few deserving blogs in each of those categories, but the bloggers aren’t black. I am. So, sucks to be them. Nobody told them to be white.

If you’ve been enjoying my blogs since back in the day (2006), I’d appreciate your votes. Click here to do so.

Vote away! And remember, a vote for me is a vote for babies and puppies.

You don't want them to die, do you?

At Last

He sat at his usual table – second row, far left. It afforded him a clear view of the stage. It was Thursday night, and he arrived at 7:30 sharp as he had every Thursday night for the past three months. She didn’t go on until 8:30, but he liked to get his table and order two drinks before she did. He would have another two while she sang, but never more than that.

He wasn’t the only regular there.

Two tables to his right was Kris Kringle. It wasn’t his real name, of course. Just a nickname given because of his perpetually rosy cheeks and wet eyes as if he had just entered from the cold. It was 7:45 and Kris had been there at least an hour. He would look like that way the whole night – red-faced, and watering eyes, shaky hands tossing back drink after drink. He remained sober through perhaps half of the set and sat through the rest in a whiskey-induced fog. Shortly before closing, Silus the bartender would close out his check and put Kris Kringle in a cab.

He found this most undignified.

At 8:15 he felt her before he saw her. Her presence was as palpable as a heartbeat. She entered the room from the blue door behind him marked, “Employees Only.”

He heard her before he saw her. She was greeted by Rachel, the waitress with the buck teeth and crooked nose. They exchanged the usual pleasantries and then she laughed at something Rachel said. It was a laugh that washed over his arms and caused heat to rise up his neck. He tightened his grip on his cocktail class, hoping the ice cubes would reverse the effect up his arm, across his shoulder, through his neck, and over his face which was as red as Kris Kringle’s.

The owner, a short repulsive man built like a fire hydrant, slid from his bar stool and put an arm around her waist. He could see this from the corner of his eye and it caused him to grip the glass tighter.

“Are you ready, doll?”

Doll. What an insult. She was an angel. She was perfection. She was too good for this place with its chipped tables, smoky interior, and menu that consisted of buffalo wings, potato skins, and a curious dish called an Onion Bloom.

She walked by him in a wave of lilac. He inhaled deeply hoping the scent would last until she passed again. Some nights she’d walk the tables as she sang, occasionally pausing to pay special attention to a fortunate male patron. In three months, she had never stopped at his table. He did not mind. Unlike the others, who fawned over her with unabashed adoration, he did not need special attention. In fact, he preferred it this way. Anonymous. Special in its own way.

She began to sing promptly at 8:30. She sang the blues with the experience of someone twenty years her senior. She sang the blues as if her heart had been broken a thousand times. He wanted to protect her. Mend her heart. Right the wrongs. From the look on the faces of the other men in attendance he was not the only one. She cast her spell with each note. A spell that lasted long after the final song.

Tonight she was covered in a sea of jade that complemented the red flames that cradled her face and fell to her shoulders in a cascade of curls. She was curvaceous and full as a woman should be. Soft and vulnerable; yet, filled with passion and fire. With the lights dimmed low, and a soft light behind her, her silhouette was outlined in a halo. She was indeed an angel.

He signaled for Rachel to bring another drink. Though he wanted one more after, this would be the last. Routine and order were important. It made life predictable, and he liked that. Morgan’s on Thursdays to hear her sing. Fridays he visited mother at the home. On Tuesdays he ate pork chops. And should he ever sway from this order, and try something new, he corrected himself by making it a part of his routine. Like the first night he had followed her home. It was so unlike him. So spontaneous, yet she had asked him to. Not directly, but the night she changed her final song to “At Last,” by Etta James he knew.

“At last, my love will come along…,” she sang, and he knew.

She may have piercing green eyes, and a confident demeanor, but he knew underneath she was like him. Shy and polite. She would never be so undignified as to ask him to her home. Instead, she sang to him in code. She sang to him in secret. And though to the others it may seem as if she were singing to them, he knew otherwise.

“My lonely days are over and life is like a song….”

The first time he followed her he watched the windows of the first floor garden apartment from his car. He watched until the last light went out. The next time, he stayed a little longer, and the time after that a little longer still. Before long, he was watching till the sun rose and she left to run her errands. He would visit mother soon after with eyes red from lack of sleep and smelling of cigarette smoke and regret.

This night, as her set came to a close, and Kris Kringle clapped loudly before stumbling to the bar, he decided that tonight he would approach her window. Just to get a better look. He would not intrude. He would not be so undignified. Not this night. Tonight he would silently watch, and next Thursday, well maybe next Thursday he’d enter.

Where I’ve Been

1. Doing a solid for a friend… for which I’m being paid.

2. Entering flash fiction contests. My story, “At Last,” is on page 2. Join the forum and rank the stories you like. There’s some good stuff like….

“The Vigil of Clouds” on page 8.

“Frangible Choices” on page 7.

“Have Your Cake” on page 1.

You have to register before you can rank the stories, but it’s fast and easy. The forum is Flash Fiction 40 Contest.

3. Working on two other short stories. They’re creepy and twisted. I’ve discovered that I like writing about the creepy and twisted. What does that make me?

4. Getting caught up on Southland, Supernatural, Weeds, and Criminal Minds.

Blogging will commence tomorrow with a Top Ten. My Top Ten Memorable Encounters.

What about you? What have you been up to?