DA Kentner writes the column THE READERS' WRITERS for the (Freeport) Journal-Standard and GateHouse News Service. My alter ego KevaD lives under a stairway of dreams where he writes stories and grumbles about everything. Click the pic to visit KevaD's blog.
Drop me a line at dakentner@yahoo.com

I invite you to read my award-winning short story posted on Calliope Magazine's web site.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Sam Reaves - Mystery/Suspense/Crime Author


I first became acquainted with Mr. Reaves' work when I was looking to read a 'local' author. Checked out his web site, http://www.samreaves.com/ , posted a response on one of his blogs, and he emailed me. Yeah. Imagine that. He's not only human, but a good guy not afraid to reach out to fans.

Since then we've exchange an email now and then and met up at Murder and Mayhem in Muskego (Wisconsin).

And, yes, I am a fan. I read Mean Town Blues as it was his latest and followed up that read with Dooley's Back. Both books are outstandingly well-written and books I will read again - I enjoyed them that much.

So check him out! Sam will appreciate it, and if you let him know you bought one of his books, he'll actually thank you. And you'll get to read a great book!

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Barbara Sheridan - Award Winning Author


If you're not familiar with Barbara Sheridan's work, you need to be.

No one has ever written down the true recipe it takes to become a "good" author, and what "is good" is constantly debated and argued about over lattes at center tables in neighborhood bistros so people at the surrounding tables will know those so engaged in conversation are learned and worldly.

The one constant they will always have to shrug their shoulders in agreement on is that Barbara is a part of anyone's list of what comprises "good."
Add to this mix that "good" is the literary critics' term for "Where the hell did she get all that talent?"

Find that answer out for yourself.
http://www.barbarasheridan.com/

The Winter 2010 Issue of "Calliope" is Now Available


In this latest edition of "Calliope" the reader will find my short fiction piece, "Love and Crescendium," listed as an award winner.

http://www.calliopewriters.org/

The story itself will be published in the Spring 2010 issue.

Yes, I'm stoked. "Love and Crescendium" is my first story to win an award sponsored by a nationally published magazine, let alone the magazine of American Mensa, Ltd.

If anyone submits a story to them, tell Sandy, the fiction editor, I said "Hi."

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

The Best Worst Opening Chapter I Will Ever Write

Present Day
Odessa, Ukraine

I don’t like hairy armpits. I really don’t. I don’t know why. It wasn’t something I asked to find objectionable. When I was sliding down the birth canal and handed my sack of genes, no one asked my armpit preference. Had they proffered such a request I think I should have placed an order for a spoonful of ‘moderate toleration.’ Moderate over minimal is always more preferable as one never knows in what country one might be spewed out of the vagina into.

In my case, having been denied the grace of compassion for those with pits adorned with grape vines, I was fortunate enough to be born in the States where most of the female members of acceptable society - certainly not all anymore unfortunately, and certainly not the majority of the men as the advent of the tank top t-shirt so unfortunately reveals - routinely and thankfully shave. God bless them.

That is the United States of America that I am referring to. I clarify that now for those who are cognizant that other nations are also comprised of states, which may or may not be so united, but still must depend upon a central government nonetheless for their fortitude.

One would think it odd, and I admit, I am of that persuasion, that given such a predetermined repulsion to unshaven pits, that I would be drawn to those of Vlad - ‘Vlad Pit’ as I have anointed him. Though, admittedly, never when I thought he could hear. Vlad is not one given to humor and I have doubt as to his capability to understand sarcasm, even at the most shallow of levels.

It is not that I am attracted to the armpits or any other slope, curve, or protuberance of the male genus. To fully explain the curiosity and revelry that those pits inspire, I suspect one would actually have to be within viewing range of the young man when he lifts his arms, as he is so prone to do, and shares with the voyeur within us all his flaxen shafts of hair. The animal magnetism of those magnificent fields of golden fluff is that they are not his by birth. Vlad, for some reason that I certainly could never fathom, created or, I believe, had created for him, as I do not suspect him to posses the skills of the craftsman required to manufacture such an exquisite example, wears armpit wigs. True as a cat in heat in an alley. The mounds of silken sunshine are not the fruit of his body.

I requested my landlady, Nadia, a sordid tart of questionable past, with her own prime example of unshavenry – I am prone, at times, to utilize the vocabulary that Webster has yet to discover, and, as I am not an educated man, yet with a semblance, or at a minimum, a shadow of intelligence, shall, almost as often, willfully fail to interject the proper word or terminology, choosing instead a declaration that I enjoy the sound of; the way it rolls from the tongue and embraces my palate - instruct me how to ask for the name of the gifted individual who had mastered this heretofore unknown art so that I might… I’m still not sure what I ‘might’ with such information, but it felt like it was some bit of obscurity – a future trivia question perhaps? - I needed to know, thusly, to impress those not so informed, and thereby gain an advantage during an eve of embarrassingly trivial trivia in the hopeful expectation one of the maids might be so inspired as to be inclined to drop to her knees and polish my scepter with Revlon lips while her less than shining knight was otherwise occupied.

Still, in my mind, given the feeling of nausea when such exhibitions occur within my line of sight, it may have been solely for the purpose of removing such an adeptly skilled individual from this world of the living, though as I bespoke, I remain quite undecided. I have no doubt that eye color would have played an integral role in the final decision. Or shoe size.

Examine the ape that Darwin contends we as human beings are descended from. Had the oaf truly and accurately studied the creatures, he most assuredly would have declared his premise to be flawed. The ape has hairless pits, thereby outranking us on the primal ladder. It may be the ape has descended from man as it obviously is far more advanced, physiologically speaking. I have yet to meet a man who could champion an arm wrestling contest against a chimpanzee a third of his stature.

And with my aforementioned disdain for the woolen crop some fail to sheer, one might find it even more obscure that I have resided for the last several weeks in Ukraine, well known as a vestige for many of the most beautiful women in the world who are not aware that the glistening, sweaty strands peeking out from under their sleek and, I mention here, hairless arms, does not an erection stimulate for one such as I.

But therein lies my ego – that I should even embrace the errant perception that any of these ladies would be attracted to a forty-six year old American with pouched belly, declining health which I do not admit to anyone, thinning hair, though I take undeserved pride that most of it anyway is still atop my head, and a moderately acceptable income as an author of literary tales of tolerably lazy suspense and liquefied mayhem. Still, they, one in reality, are, is, the reason I sojourned here, though definitely not the reason I remain.

The reason I remain here, a mono-languaged weed amongst perfumed flowers capable of speech in not only Russian and Ukrainian, but also passable communicative segments of English and or German as well, is complicated. The government customs officials put it in much more succinct, simplistic terms when I attempted to depart of my own accord and escape home to my nation of birth: “You have no passport. No passport. No exit.”

And so here I am in Odessa, which also requires explanation, as my attempted port of departure, and the abode of Svetlana, the angelic persona for whom I Marco Poloed to the other side of the world to bask in her splendor, is Kiev. Be rest assured that that is the abrupt, cliff notes version. The long version consists of trying to explain to disdainful authority figures the location my passport was discovered to be in repose. The longer version still is what I have to do to get it back. Or preferably, one that belonged to someone else now incapable of such possession and my photo shall replace theirs so I might embark upon a plane and leave this land of braided pits, as it has become somewhat evidentiary – I prefer that melodious term to the cardboard sound of “evident” - that my own government has formulated the opinion that it might be more conducive to their own devices that I no longer walk the paths of my New England ancestors.

And so I came here on this less than glorious morning - the air is as heavy as an anvil and the stench of dead fish floating atop the pollution of the Black Sea has elected to entertain my olfactory sense, though the leaking diesel fuel from a freighter in port may be considered a viable contender for the odiferously-pungent award of the day - to the Richelieu steps, known to vintage movie aficionados and Ukrainians still adrift in the vestiges of the Soviet era as the misnomered Potemkin Stairs to meet with Vlad Pit as instructed. It is not the first time, as otherwise I might not have known of the tremendous bounty to be found under his arms.

Unfortunately for us both, today he is not displaying those mounds of spun straw. A major disappointment for me, but I dare say, a disastrous dilemma for him, as Vlad cannot raise his arms to display that which he has invested in as miserly as Americans invest in IRAs, for Vlad I do believe is amongst the unexpectedly departed. The trickle of blood from his left ear, dribbling below his mirrored sunglasses, down his pimpled throat, and staining the lime green tank top he is attired in to signal that it is safe for me to approach – alas, poor Vlad, might he have been color blind? – has provided me with a most obvious clue, while his termination appears oblivious to those traversing the one-hundred ninety-two steps past the deceased young man - I employ the funicular when it is operable, which of course today it has chosen not to be - that all is not well, and that I shall never again enjoy the vision of his armpit coiffeur.

I should have asked for the manufacturer’s name sooner, as now, I must confess, regrettably, the artisan shall no doubt continue in his or her repugnant enterprise until I, unsuspectingly to us both, stumble upon his… or her… habitat and release his… or her… soul from this earth.

I mean, what the hell? It wouldn’t be the first gullet I’ve gashed since I’ve been marooned here. But I digress…

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

"When Pretzels Bite Back" - My current work in progress

He thought it odd she didn’t want him to undress while he banged her, but it was free, so what the hell. Who knew what went through the minds of whores? Especially the black ones.

She’d insisted on him climbing on top of her fully clothed. The horny bitch had hiked up her blue sequined dress revealing the unclad young snatch underneath. He’d arched his back so she could unbuckle his belt, unzip his pants, and push them down just far enough so he could shove his plumper into her. She was dry, but he’d put some ointment on any raw skin when he was done with her.

“Baby. Oh, baby. That’s the spot,” she finally purred, pushing her heels into the leather of the divan’s cushions, lifting her pelvis upwards.

Smiling, he closed his eyes and slammed it into her as hard as he thought he needed to. He could feel the stirring in his groin. It wouldn’t be long now. All he’d required to push him over the edge was to hear her moan, to know that he was leaving an impression with her of his sexual prowess.

Sweat beaded above his salt and pepper singular eyebrow and ran down his pocked nose, dripping like a leaky faucet down onto her. He could feel his juices moving now, preparing to explode into her.

“Give it to me,” a growl crawled from her throat. “Give it to me as hard as you can. Rip me up, baby. Tear me apart. Do it! Harder!”

He rammed it into her with everything he had. Thrusting his hips back and forth, his heart was pounding against his chest like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil as he felt his eyes rolling back under his closed lids.

The thought flashed across his mind that maybe the exertion on his aging body wasn’t worth the effort. But he pushed it aside. The young ones weren’t availing themselves to him nearly as often as they used to. In business, food, and sex… never squander an opportunity to feast. Never leave the table unsatisfied.

“Open your eyes, baby. I want to see your eyes when you come in me.”

Obediently he willed the heavy lids open, vacuuming air into his overworked lungs as he readied himself for the pleasure of another orgasm, another meaningless conquest, another dark chocolate cunt screwed. Glancing down to have the satisfaction of watching her as he came, it wasn’t the pursed mouth begging for his cum that he expected. It was a can of pepper spray.

"The Last Knight of Camelot" Opening Chapter

January 2010
From the comfort of the La-Z-Boy recliner in his suburban Nashville living room Gerhardt Heinreich could enjoy the bounties of his collecting safaris through malls, side street dens of antiquities, and Internet interludes. Across the room on the ash mantle above the Mexican stone fireplace were his most cherished pieces; the Freidag steamship with 85% original paint; a Hubley clockwork “Say It With Flowers” delivery motorcycle – a similar one had recently sold at auction for $75,000; a 1920’s Arcade Andy Gump Roadster; and his favorite, though by far one of the least costly and least intricate members of the vast collection – an Arcade free-swinging pendulum clock bank. But all of the locally crafted oak china cabinets harboring his other toys were now obscured by stacks of blue plastic tubs filled with reports and memos he had been intently reading and rereading for the last several months.

Tomorrow an auctioneer would arrive to pack and haul away his cast iron and tin family. The auction’s proceeds were to be evenly divided amongst the orphanages in Nashville. Heinreich had personally contacted each one to ensure a representative would be in attendance to accept their fair share of the cash contribution at the conclusion of the sale. There was only one man in the world Heinreich trusted, and it wasn’t the lemon-voiced auctioneer.

Balancing the bolt action Carcano rifle with Simmons scope across one massive open palm the size of a small banana leaf, he silently apologized to the gleaming weapon with flawless blued steel and beeswax polished stock for keeping her hidden beneath the floorboards for so many years. This would be their final adventure together. Time and arthritis had caught up to him. Placing the last three brown pills onto his tongue from an amber bottle on the lamp table beside him, he threw his head back, swallowing them dry. In twenty minutes he would be able to move his curling disfigured fingers again without resistance. Six months ago the freedom of movement had only required one such medical miracle.

After the toys were gone he would torch his home in order to vaporize the papers James Livingston had been sending him for decades. For the scientist was now dead – murdered. And in a few months the visage of Gerhardt Heinreich would disappear forever. The only question yet to be answered was how many lives would be lost before that event occurred.

Rotating the rifle so the hand-checkered butt was on his right thigh, the octogenarian massaged the erect weapon with his gaze. “One last time, Cherie, make love to me,” he throatily purred, gently stroking the steel uvula of his loyal mistress.

Did You Vote?

I did.
If you didn't, why not?
If you did, thank you.
If you didn't, shame on you.

Many believe our democracy is broken.
If we do not continue to vote all we do is provide the means for our government to continue doing that which you or I may be opposed to.

Voting truly is our 'report card' of how we believe our elected officials are doing.

I'm one of those who will listen to anyone who votes. No matter how far apart our ideas may be, I will listen to you.
If you do not vote, if you do not take responsibilty, I don't have time for you. You're just a whiner and complainer who wants to blame everyone else when the truth is... you are the problem. By not voting, you sanction the actions of those elected.

Step away from the computer, get off your butt, and vote!