Last night was the semi-annual “A Taste Of Local Authors” event, thrown by the good folks at Owl’s Nest Books and the writerly juggernaut known as Randy McCharles–author of Capone’s Chicago, The Necromancer Candle, etc; as well as the man behind the When Words Collide conference, held every August here in Calgary.

Basically, twice a year, Randy invites local authors with new books to this event, to pitch, read and commiserate with readers and fellow authors. Last night was my third (Maybe? My memory ain’t so good since that incident with the incontinent mule and the pool cue) and it was one of the best events of the season. And I’ve been doing a lot of these things lately. A. Lot.

So, I thought I’d give a quick rundown of the writers who gave it their all, and their collective board of fare, and then toss a couple of pics of yours truly in the mix–because who doesn’t want to look at pictures of yours truly all day long?

 Adam Dreece read from his Yellow Hoods Series of YA fantasy books, which you can find HERE
Gary Renshaw read from his Chandler Affairs series
The always entertaining David Poulsen read the beginning of Serpents  Rising, a book which may–or may not–include snakes.
Aviva Bel’Harold read from her book Blood Matters
Glynn Stewart took the stage for his very first reading and presented his new book City In The Sky
Makenzi Fisk then read from her Intuition series
Master of paranormal children’s stories Simon Rose gave us a look at his ghostly tale, Flashback.
Excellent local SFF author Halli Lilburn treated us to a tale from the Edge anthology Tesseracts 18: Wrestling With Gods
Then some fool calling himself Axel Howerton got up and rambled on about how profane and offensive he was, and followed up with a short selection about a man, his horse and some whiskey, that proved to be only mildly tasteless.

We also had some excellent musical interludes from local player Jason Cote who did a goddamn bang-up acoustic cover of Blind Faith’s “Can’t  Find My Way Home” that had me stopped dead in my tracks.

Splendiferous food stuffs and a selection of wines were provided by the authors and Micheal and the crew at Owl’s Nest, and a wonderful night was had by all. And at one point, this happened:

TONIGHT!

TONIGHT!

TONIGHT!

Catch me, and a bevvy of local wordsmiths at Owl’s Nest Books for the TASTE OF LOCAL AUTHORS!

And a shoutout for Best of Luck at tonight’s Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Awards for my pals Kevin Thornton and Melodie Campbell (who are both up against the Margaret Atwood Award Juggernaut for this year’s Best Short Story Award). And my viddy good pal, Dwayne Clayden, author of CRISIS POINT, who is up for the Unhanged Arthur Award for Best Unpublished Novel! Give ’em Hell, Crime Writers!

Hey kids,

Just thought I’d drop in with a little pink bubbly and some strawberry lube…

8 pages in on a new story today, which I just wrapped up for the night with:

I was scrambling out the door, kicking my pants in front of me. Garry was oblivious, head thrown back as Olivia pumped her fist in his lap. She was smiling at me as she did, then waved me off with the middle finger of her free hand, before she winked and slipped off the bench onto her knees in front of him.
I backed away out the door and into the hallway, pulling my pants up in dejected fury before running through the other room, straight up the stairs and into the starry black of four AM. I could hear Garry shouting out his first female-assisted orgasm as the door slammed behind me.

As well as this little ditty ‘ve been woodshedding:

Rabbit crashed to the floor, Devil standing over him, sneering down in open disdain. Devil hefted one steel toe into the small of Rabbit’s back and flicked his wrist out from the cuff of his jacket, the expandable baton snapping to attention in his hand. Rabbit curled up into his natural state, squealing with his hands up, begging for mercy. Devil rained down blows, twisting into each crack of the stick like he was swinging for the fences. He kept the beating measured, like everything else he did, an equal number of strikes to the legs, the torso, the shoulders. He kept the head for last, saving one quick snap for that hideous metal guard-rail, feeling it give way to the rotten teeth beneath it, Rabbit sputtering blood and screaming. The last shot was meant for the back of Rabbit’s head, right in the soft spot at the base of his skull—put him down for good.

“Out of the cradle endlessly rocking. Out of the mocking-bird’s throat…”

Devil’s arm reached its apex and held there.

 Duncan was sitting against the doorjam, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth.

“Out of the ninth-month midnight. Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child… where the child… where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot…”

Devil stood straight, staring at the idiot weeping against the door, a cascade of words flowing from him like a prayer, but it wasn’t a prayer. It was Whitman.

Ain’t that just like Saturday night?