Spotlight: Author Calico Daniels

Please welcome Calico Daniels, 

author of Fried Pickles and the Fuzz.

Gone Muddin’

In many small towns muddin’ is a popular past time for the young’uns. I’ll admit that I have been several times and had a ball J The key to a good muddin’ trip is making sure there is a group with several trucks and at least one with a tow chain or wench. Someone is gonna get stuck J Never fails.

Why in the world would anyone want to you might ask. Well, there is just something very satisfying about slippin’ and slidin’. Jerkin’ the wheel to correct the slide and when you finish…seein’ those trucks COVERED in mud J Silly? Of course. But in small towns where entertainment is hard to find, muddin’ is one of those things that is just pure fun. 

Safe? Well……it carries hazards of its own. Never go muddin’ in a top heavy or jacked up ride. The chances of rollin’ your truck go way up. Muddin’ is really an art that should only be performed in a VERY large pasture where it has already been permitted, the area checked for dangers like fence posts and holes, and the spectators should remain a safe distance from the mud pit J

Aside from that it’s a barrel of monkeys. J

Calico Daniels

Fried Pickles and the Fuzz available now from AstraeaPress,

Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and wherever eBooks are sold.

Blurb:

Big Creek might be a stereotypical small town but even they have drama.

Heather loves her little café, and her best customer is the county Sherriff. She’s been waiting months for him to ask her out…maybe she won’t have to wait much longer.

Bronson feels at home in Big Creek even though he hasn’t been the Sherriff for long. Small towns have their perks and a pretty café owner who cooks like an angel certainly doesn’t hurt. Now, if he could only get over his nerves and drum up the gumption to ask her out.

Throw in a gossip mill, a redneck festival and an ill timed attempt to help and you end up with some laughs, some ruffled feathers and a town that is….Redneck Fabulous.

A to Z: Piece of Quiet

It was a Saturday evening. I had done the dumbest thing I have ever done in my teaching career and was paying the price for it. So I sat at my kitchen table, trying desperately to score a stack of about 150 position papers (almost all of which were plagiarized from the same three sources, I might add).

I say "trying desperately" because I had NO desire whatsoever to be doing what I was doing. I had been forced by the powers that be to inflict torture on myself via the aforementioned essay assignment. Foolishly, however, I made it into the semester final exam. Grades were due in just three days, and I had to grade them quickly.

First of all, grading essays is no picnic, regardless of the writing ability. But when you have to read essentially the same three essays 150 times -- and they weren't even that well written to begin with -- you get the strange, yet overwhelming desire to jab your red ink pen into your eye.

So there I sat at the kitchen table trying desperately to grade papers and to avoid my periodic involuntary attempts to put out my own eye. My two energetic and very boisterous children began to "play" in the living room about ten feet away from the table. This was more than I could handle. I stood up suddenly, slammed my hands down on the table and announced (or rather, bellowed), "I WANT PEACE - AND QUIET!!!"

My children were slightly taken aback at this outburst, but not really enough to move their game elsewhere. Instead, my son -- bless his heart -- sidled up to me slowly with his hand in his pocket. He pulled his hand out of his pocket wryly and handed me his fist. He said, "Mom, here is a piece of quiet. You can eat it... then, you can IGNORE us."

Sweet Saturday: Unwanted Attention

Senor Tenorio

Lord Marks made lively conversation during the short trip to Holly Hall. No doubt an effort to bolster Anastasia’s spirits. She tried to humor him, to laugh along with his jests, but inside she was in turmoil.

She would know her fate in a matter of minutes, but in the mean time there was nothing she could do but hope.

As the footman announced them, Anastasia scrutinized every face in the ballroom one by one.

Her heart sank when her search returned empty.

Her father offered his arm, whispering in her ear, “It’s early yet, my sweet. Chin up. He’ll come.”

Anastasia braved a weak smile. “Of course, Papa. He’ll come.” Her throat clenched around the words she desperately wished were true.

Safely deposited among the ladies on the side of the great hall, Anastasia continued her search for Baldwyn’s auburn hair and clear blue eyes.

When Lord and Lady Kringle were announced, the music began. There was still no sign of Baldwyn. Anastasia clung to her father’s words. It’s early yet. Her gaze made its fourth desperate sweep of the ballroom.

Behind her, a familiar masculine voice drifted to her ears, sending waves of chill dancing down her spine all the way to her toes.

“So lovely to see you again, señorita.”

Mr. Tenorio. Anastasia cringed as though with his words and his smooth exotic accent he had touched her. And then he stepped even with her, standing far too close. She retreated a step, but found herself against Tristan Markham on the other side, who had closed in without her notice.

“Mr. Markham. Mr. Tenorio.” Anastasia offered a shallow curtsy.

“Please.” Mr. Tenorio grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips, pulling her toward him in the same motion. “Allow me to be the first to offer my sympathy, my dear.”

“Sympathy, sir?” she asked, regarding him with contempt.

“On the dissolution of your engagement, of course. It must have been a frightful experience, your entanglement with the Scottish duke. I hear he has a terrifying temper,” Tenorio crooned.

Had it not been for his possessive grip on her hand and the unsettling words about her betrothal, Anastasia would have laughed out loud then, for the proof of Baldwyn’s terrifying temper was still fading from Tenorio’s cheekbone, though he had apparently tried to cover it with powder.

“Pardon me?” Anastasia stared at him. On her other side, Tristan bumped her elbow, pushing her into Tenorio’s chest.

“Yes, yes, señorita. There is no need to pretend all is well. We are friends, no?  ” His grasp slid to her elbow and he held her firmly to him, as his other hand reached to caress her cheek. He smoothed her lips with his thumb.

“No,” she countered and closed her lips into a stern line, glaring into his soul-less black eyes.

“Aww, you wound me, my lady… and after all we’ve shared together.” He clicked his tongue as if to shame her.

“Let go of me.”

~ from Two Turtledoves (coming in November)

Sweet Saturday: Strawberry, Milady?

Before she knew what was happening, Anthony had stood, pulled her to her feet along with him, whisked her into his arms, and planted a firm kiss right on her open mouth. Memories of their stolen kisses came flooding back of their own accord. His lips were smooth and tasted of cinnamon.

Shock hindered her from reacting. But Anthony seemed to know exactly what he was doing and took full advantage of her state of mind.

Her good sense came rushing back, filling her with fierce indignation. She pressed both palms firmly against his chest and shoved with all her might, thrusting him away from her.

The rakish grin he wore drove her mind into a fury, and she reared back to deliver a swing that would possess the very real possibility of knocking the rogue quite firmly into the middle of next Sunday.

With all her might she aimed her closed fist at his perfect aristocratic cheekbone, but when he grabbed her wrist, absorbing all her power, and rendering the assault useless, Bridget very nearly lost her mind with rage. With a roar, she wrenched her hand free of his grasp and stepped back, scouring the room for a weapon that would prove fatal to the arrogant sod.

She lunged madly for the teapot, thinking to send it crashing straight through his thick skull, but Francis was too quick and rescued the teapot from her reach.

The silver!

Her gaze raked the table for a sharp utensil. Only spoons!

Blast! Where were all the knives?

Francis must have seen her eyeing the teaspoons, because he deftly removed them from her vicinity without so much as twitch in his perfectly deadpan butler expression.

“Give me something, Francis!” she bellowed in exasperation.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the taciturn butler gracefully lifted the fruit bowl in one hand as if he were serving the royal table.

“Strawberry, milady?”

She could feel the wide evil grin spreading across her lips, as she leveled her gaze on Anthony, who seemed to shrink into himself in terror like a frightened turtle.

“Why thank you, Francis. I don’t mind if I do,” Bridget replied, as she wrapped her fingers around an enormous handful of brilliant red ammunition.

~ Beguiling Bridget: Waltzing with the Wallflower Book 2

Memory Monday: A Piece of Quiet

originally posted 9/11/2008 on In a Word:

It was a Saturday evening. I had done the dumbest thing I have ever done in my teaching career and was paying the price for it. So I sat at my kitchen table, trying desperately to score a stack of about 150 position papers (almost all of which were plagiarized from the same three sources, I might add). I say "trying desperately" because I had NO desire whatsoever to be doing what I was doing.

I had been forced by the powers that be to inflict torture on myself via the aforementioned essay assignment. Foolishly, however, I made it into the semester final exam. Grades were due in just three days, and I had to grade them quickly.

First of all, grading essays is no picnic, regardless of the writing ability. But when you have to read essentially the same three essays 150 times -- and they weren't even that well written to begin with -- you get the strange, yet overwhelming desire to jab your red ink pen into your eye.

So there I sat at the kitchen table trying desperately to grade papers and to avoid my periodic involuntary attempts to put out my own eye. My two energetic and very boisterous children began to "play" in the living room about ten feet away from the table. This was more than I could handle. I stood up suddenly, slammed my hands down on the table and announced (or rather, bellowed), "I WANT PEACE - AND QUIET!!!"

My children were slightly taken aback at this outburst, but not really enough to move their game elsewhere. Instead, my son -- bless his heart -- sidled up to me slowly with his hand in his pocket. He pulled his hand out of his pocket wryly and handed me his fist. He said, "Mom, here is a piece of quiet. You can eat it... then, you can IGNORE us."