MESMER'S ... I HAD LUNCH WITH DEATH TODAY

http://www.amazon.com/GHOST-OF-A-CHANCE-ebook/dp/B0097Z99YM

Mesmer's.

It's right down the block from Meilori's.

It's where Samuel McCord goes to have lunch and to chat with the famous, the infamous, and the stray hungry orphan.

The word on the French Quarter streets is that if you're so hungry you don't mind risking your life and sanity, go to Mesmer's.

According to my friends, I don't have that much sanity to lose, and anyway, I was invited by Sam himself. And he owned the place, though he joked that the cat, Mesmer, was the actual owner.

The place was just like I imagined Hicock's bar in Deadwood might have looked. The very modern and willowy Diana Krall was singing "Cry Me a River" to the jazz music of Al Dubbin and Harry Warren.

I sat across from Sam, all in black: from his wide Stetson, jacket, silk shirt, jeans, and boots. His large Spanish spurs were silver ... as was his Texas Ranger star. He smiled like a lazy wolf at me.

"So your friends who've read GHOST OF A CHANCE say they wanted you to ask me some questions about my past in that book?"

"Yes. You have to admit our time together was cut off kinda short."

A sleek tabby the size of a small dog jumped up in the empty seat next to him, causing the screech of wooden legs against wood floor. She leaned forward, looking nothing so much as if she were whispering to him. He smiled wider.

"Mesmer said it saved your sorry hide."

"She talks to you?"

"Yes. Won't talk to anyone else but me. And to her mother, Bast, of course."

"Bast is her m-mother?"

Mesmer whispered to Sam again. He chuckled. "She says you repeat the obvious a lot. But that her daughter, Gypsy, warned her about that."

"She's my cat's mother?"

Mesmer looked disgusted at me, then there was the sound of breaking dishes in the back. She stiffened. She leapt down with the grace of a stalking panther.

Sam shook his head sadly. "I warned the kitchen staff Mesmer hates butterfingers. They thought I was joking."

A few seconds later there were screams, sobs, and slamming back doors. He turned to me. "That sound like a joke to you, partner?"

"Sounds like I better have the price of this ice tea and not have to wash dishes back there."

"The tea's on me, Roland. The ice comes from the melted snow of Eden."

"The Eden?"

"You going to keep on repeating what I say, or ask me a straight-out interview question?"

"Ah, all right, how did you originally pick the spot for Meilori's, Sam?"

"It picked me, son. Back in 1848, Baroness Pontalba built me the place that came to be known as Meilori's. And before you ask -- she built it for me in gratitude for saving her life in Paris."

I opened my mouth, and he held up his right gloved hand. "Long story. Sad one. And she isn't here to give her side of it."

He rubbed his face wearily with that hand. "I didn't ask her. But ... but it meant a lot to me. First home I had since I was fifteen."

To change from what looked like a painful subject, I asked, "What do you think of modern New Orleans? It's grown so much since 1848."

"I don't see much of it, son. When I could still ride a horse down its streets, I ranged far and wide. Now ...."

His eyes looked past me down distant, painful horizons. "Now, I stay in the French Quarter. When I get to itching to see the high, lonely mountains ...."

"You risk your life foolishly by entering Elu's unstable mirrors."

I jerked at the touch of the words in the dark air. They were like icicles given life ... as if the cold moon had been given vocal chords. I looked up. Damn.

I had written of her part in GHOST OF A CHANCE. I had known sooner or later I would meet her again. I had just hoped for later ... much, much later.

Eyes of living winter looked down on me. "So do all mortals, Roland."

I started to rise. A slender hand that felt as if it had been kept in the deep-freeze touched my shoulder lightly. Long hair of winter frost trembled as her head was shaken in a gesture of "no."

"None rise for Death. All fall at her touch."

Sam, in a voice of distant thunder, said, "But not today, Rind. I invited him here."

Her smile flashed like a knife from out of the shadows. "Yes, you did. I am merely here to answer questions ... just like you, Samuel."

She sat. The corners of her full lips rose. Strange shadows masked the rest of her long face. Why haven't I described her clothes?

They kept changing. Like clouds moving over the face of a brooding moon, they continually shifted. Must have been something to do with how she was Allwheres, Everywhere at each moment. Something like that would have given me a headache.

Glittering eyes of ice stabbed into mine. "It does much worse to me than the bestowing of a headache, Little Lakota."

If Sam's customers noticed the constant change in dress, they didn’t show it. Over the years, his restaurant had become notorious for being the in-place for lovers of the occult and haters of humanity.

Made for an interesting mix. Sometimes it took all the skill he had gained from a long life as a Texas Ranger to keep things civil. Sometimes even he failed. A shudder took me, and I looked into the mirror on the wall to my left.

I didn't see my face. No, only the mahogany bear face of Sam's blood-brother, Elu, stared back at me. A chill settled deep within me.

He was wearing war paint. War paint. What was going on? Something was in the wind. And it wasn’t the coming of Summer. And with that thought, Elu disappeared. I frowned. Message delievered, Elu. Whatever the heck it was.

Rind was currently wearing a black leather Roman centurion sort of outfit. Its short kilt of leather slats showed off her long legs to advantage. The smile died from the icy face regarding me.

“End of the journey, dawn of the night,” murmured Rind.

Like most things Rind said, her words would only make sense when my world lay in ruins. Her voice was like icicles dancing across a frozen lake, and her eyes were the glowing fire of winter sunset clouds.

Blackness swirled around her like a living thing. She was of the night and of eternity. In all Sam's time with her he had never caught a complete glimpse of her long face, for to look full upon Rind was to die.

She was like The Thunderbird in that respect. But her power dwarfed even that being's frightening abilities. Good thing she was Sam's friend. Of course, she was a friend that one day would literally be the death of him. But still a friend.

Hopefully, she was my friend, too.

She was no longer dressed in a short-skirted centurion outfit of black leather. Now, she was wrapped in a form fitting toga whose dark fabric seemed to hold whole solar systems glittering within it. As Renfield always said, Rind had flair to spare.

In words of December frost, Rind murmured, "Of everything, a little stays. The line of your mother's chin stayed in your own. The dry silence of your father's desertion stayed in your heart."

Sam said low, "Rind, play nice."

She feather-stroked my cheeks so lightly the frostbite would heal in only weeks. "I will answer whatever question you ask -- except for the one all mortals fear to ask me."

Sam clucked his tongue at Rind, wet his fingers in my tea, and touched my cheek. It tingled odd. And I knew two things : my cheek was healed; and the ice in my tea was truly from the melted snow of Eden.

He turned to her. “Late at night when I drift away, I can hear you calling. And it is always the voice of a friend.”

She sharply turned her head away. “Even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart. And in our own despair, against our will, comes bitter wisdom.”

Dressed suddenly in a short-skirted version of a Nazi S.S. uniform, Rind sighed, “Our race is so used to disguising ourselves from others that we end up disguising ourselves from ourselves.”

Sam shook his head. “You think I call you friend ‘cause I don’t know you. Maybe I don’t. Then again, maybe I know you better than you think.”

The blackness wrapped tighter around her. But I still saw her outfit had changed to the blood-stained, skull-adorned armor of Kali. She turned to me sharply.

"I am called elsewhere. Ask your question of me. Now."

What would you ask Death? Think of all she has seen, of all with whom she spoke, of all the mysteries she's seen revealed. Two words blundered from my lips.

"Why Sam?"

She stiffened, her nails growing long and sharp. Her eyes deepened in her face. The shadows started to part from that face. Then, they slowly masked her features again.

"The heart knows no reasons. It only feels. And you asked, not for yourself, but out of your friendship for Samuel. That is why you live."

The living shadows wrapped around her like a cloak. "Today."

And she was gone. Sam sighed like an open wound. "Son, you're gonna give me gray hairs you keep on with these questions."

"Your hair's already moon-white."

"See what you've done?"

We both laughed. But it was strained laughter. The empty chair beside Sam didn't seem to be laughing either. And it didn't feel empty at all.
****************************************

HEATHER McCORKLE & ALL KINDS OF SECRETS AT MESMER'S

Mesmer’s was as it always was : utterly unique …

and dangerous.

Mesmer’s is the only French Quarter restaurant owned by a cat … Mesmer, daughter of Bast. If you are lucky, you will only see her in her cat form. Unlucky is the mortal that sees her as a tiger.

A tiger can eat 100 pounds of meat a night! Compare that to 400 hamburgers! They need a lot of food because they go days between meals. So it is no coincidence that Mesmer owns a restaurant!

Heather McCorkle was here to talk about a special edition of her The Secret Of Spruce Knoll being releasing from Compass Press this month.

She’s doing a special tour to go along with it.

The special part,

a percentage of the proceeds from every special edition sold (in every format) between its release date and 12-12-2012,

will go toward Heather’s favorite charity that protects endangered species.

Her goal is to make at least $10,000 for the charity.

Of course there are prizes during the tour which goes from December 1st through the 17th. Prizes include

a symbolic endangered species adoption of the winner’s choice

(a $50 donation by Heather to the charity for the endangered species of the winner’s choice, and cute stuffed animal for the winner!),

signed copies of her novels and great swag. For full details, and to enter, go here. http://heathermccorkle.blogspot.com

For the tour Heather has asked each blog host to pick their favorite endangered species and she will tell us a fun or interesting fact about that animal.

My favorite?

The tiger, hence my suggesting Mesmer’s at the site of the interview.

Heather looked around at the surroundings. Strange eddys and currents flowed through the darkness, changing the clothing and era of those around us.

Roaring Twenties mobsters and their gun-toting molls became toga-clad Roman Senators with their ladies.

Maid Marion looked askance at the link of Boudin on her plate, while Robin of Locksley lustily wolfed it down, smiling at her expression.

The willowy Amanda Carr was singing "Where Can I Go Without You?," backed up by the Kenny Hadley band. She was a survivor, starting her own record company to get her music out to the world.

Heather cleared her throat, "Much like you, Roland, I’ve felt a close connection with tigers since I was young, though I don’t have the fun story to tell that you do.’

Mesmer leapt into the empty chair between us at our table and yowled oddly. Heather looked a question at me. I translated :

“Mesmer wants to know what story.”

Mesmer turned her strangely intelligent eyes to me, and I explained, “Ever since Mother gave me a stuffed …”

Mesmer began to growl, and I hastily explained, “”A toy tiger! Anyway since then, I loved tigers.”

Mesmer yodled, “Naturally so.”

“So when my kindergarten class toured the Detroit Zoo with my mother as the other leader – and I turned up missing at the lunch break, she knew just where I was.”

Heather laughed, “The tiger enclosure, right?”

“Too right. When she arrived, all out of breath from running, sure enough, there I was, having edged past all the barriers, just slipping down the fake stone cliff to my beautiful tigers.”


Mesmer rumbled, “You would have made a beautiful ... snack.”

I nodded. “Again, too right. But Mother knew the awe I held of her, so she whispered, “Roland Durand Yeomans, you come right back up here. Don’t make me go down there and hurt those tigers!”

My eyes grew wet. “And such was my belief at the time that Mother could do anything, I scurried back up … to save the tigers from her!”

Mesmer chuckled, then a crash of falling dishes came from the back of the restaurant. She leapt down to the floor, her body suddenly shimmering. I shivered.

Five pounds of cat eerily, slowly transformed into five hundred pounds of tiger with each padding step. Muscles rippled like corded rope beneath a pelt of amber, streaked with black.

Long sharp fangs gleamed in the dark restaurant. The dinnerware was a gift from her mother, Bast. Mesmer only reluctantly tolerated two-leggeds at best. At worst? You don't want to know.


Heather looked another question at me, and I said, “Some feeble-fingered dish washer is about to become lunch.”

Heather paled, and I replied, “What can I say? Mesmer’s is that kind of place.”

There was a loud human yelp from the closed kitchen doors, followed by Mesmer’s roar, then silence.

Heather shivered, then husked, “It breaks my heart that tigers have moved up from endangered to critically endangered.”

I frowned, “Really?”

She nodded. “Yes, part of that reason is that an astounding 93% of their natural habitat has been destroyed or developed.”

To get Heather’s mind off the new sounds of Mesmer eating, I said, “Here’s a Fun Fact: Though it may be hard to tell them apart, each tiger’s stripes are a pattern unique to the individual.”

Heather rasped, “I didn’t catch a clear glimpse of Mesmer’s.”

I shivered. “Only the unlucky do that.”

That was when the ghost of Errol Flynn sat down beside Heather, flashing his wide sly grin. You want to know what happened next? Sure you do.

But what happens at Mesmer’s stays at Mesmer’s.


Here are the Buy links for the eBooks :


http://www.amazon.com/Secret-Spruce-Knoll-Channeler-ebook/dp/B006BL0WR8

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1036661905

***

MESMER HOSTS J.C. for STORIES FOR SENDAI

Mesmer, the only cat in the French Quarter to own a restaurant, was sitting next to me at my usual corner table.

I whispered, “Mesmer, you be on your best behavior with J.C. Martin.”

Mesmer slowly raised one eyebrow. She was the daughter of Bast, proud and mysterious. I whispered again, “This is about helping the hurting in Japan.”

Mesmer heaved her “Oh, all right” sigh. Just in time. The lovely J.C. sat down opposite us. She oohed, “What a lovely cat” and won Mesmer right over.

“Let’s answer a question I bet a lot of folks are asking. J.C. :

What is STORIES FOR SENDAI?”

“Stories for Sendai is a collection of nineteen short stories (including one by you, Roland)

{Mesmer covered her phony yawn with a paw – she likes to keep me humble}

and one poem. Some are inspired by the events of the earthquake in Sendai; others are simply stories of hope and inspiration.

All are themed around the strength of the human spirit. Proceeds from the sale of the book will go towards aid efforts to rebuild earthquake and tsunami hit regions in Japan.”

Mesmer whispered a question in my ear {Unlike all other cats who have two sets of vocal chords – one for purring and one for meowing, Mesmer has a third set – one for speaking},

and I repeated the whispered question.

“What was the birth of STORIES FOR SENDAI?”

"One of the largest earthquakes ever recorded hit the city of Sendai in the Tohoku region of Japan on Friday March 11. The magnitude 9.0 quake unleashed a deadly tsunami that slammed into Japan’s east coast,

leaving a swathe of devastation in its wake. Thousands of people lost their lives, and many are still missing or injured. Thousands more have been left homeless and destitute.

As a testament to the generosity of the world’s citizens, emergency appeals have been swiftly set up in the aftermath of the quake,

but I’m sure many of you, as we did, had the same thought: our donations seem so puny. There must be some other way we could make a difference!

With that in mind, Stories for Sendai was born!”

“What are your hopes for the project?,” I asked.

Aside from raising funds to support aid efforts, we also hope that our combined messages of strength in the face of adversity, of silver linings in storm clouds, will shine a light in these dark times, providing a brief respite in a time of crisis.”

Mesmer nodded her regal head in approval, and J.C. hurried to say,

“I didn’t do this monumental task alone. I would like to thank my co-editor Michelle Davidson Argyle for all her help and advice. Without her experience and know-how, I would probably still be bumbling through everything now!

Also big thanks to our talented book cover designer, the wonderful Fena Lee. She is open to commissions, and her prices are very reasonable, from free!

I am also super-grateful to all our contributing authors. Whether their work was included in the anthology or not, they all submitted wonderful pieces that they no doubt worked so hard on, all without expecting anything in return! Without their generosity, this anthology would not have been possible!

Thanks to all the bloggers, Tweeters, readers and fellow writers who have supported us so far. This project is only possible by word of mouth, and I thank you all for helping spread the word!

And finally, a big thank you in advance to anyone who purchases a copy of the book! You’ll not only have a lovely little gem of a book, you’ll also have contributed to a very worthy cause!”

“Where can I get my copy of Stories for Sendai?”

Stories for Sendai will be available in both print and digital format.”

J. C looked shocked, for Mesmer was pawing through her own copy of STORIES FOR SENDAI. She noticed J.C.’s surprise and purred smugly.

“Ah, Mesmer, has her own sources, J.C. Anything else your readers should know?”

“Yes! We are trying to get as many people as possible to purchase a copy of Stories for Sendai tomorrow, the 30th! The more people who buy a copy, the higher up the charts we’ll climb, the more exposure we’ll get!

Also, we’re running a prize drawing until July 15th. All you have to do is to buy a copy of Stories for Sendai, and to email a copy of your receipt to storiesforsendai (at) ymail (dot) com. You’ll be in the running for all sorts of cool prizes, including Amazon gift vouchers, books, and critiques! You get one entry per purchase, so why not buy a few extra copies for friends and family?”

J.C. noticed Mesmer was gone, and that a black rose was in a vase by her iced tea.

I smiled, “Mesmer likes you.”

“Where did she go?”

“If I know Mesmer – off to persuade some Shadowlanders to buy STORIES FOR SENDAI.”

“Uh, thank her for me. And thank you for this ... experience.”
***

MESMER'S ... I HAD LUNCH WITH DEATH TODAY ... CHARACTER INTERVIEW PART II

Mesmer's.

It's right down the block from Meilori's. It's where Samuel McCord goes to have lunch and to chat with the famous, the infamous, and the stray hungry orphan.

The word on the French Quarter streets is that if you're so hungry you don't mind risking your life and sanity, go to Mesmer's.

According to my friends, I don't have that much sanity to lose, and anyway, I was invited by Sam himself. And he owned the place, though he joked that the cat, Mesmer, was the actual owner.

The place was just like I imagined Hicock's bar in Deadwood might have looked. The very modern and willowy Amanda Carr was singing "Easy Street" to the jazz music of Kenny Hadley's band.

I sat across from Sam, all in black : from his wide Stetson, jacket, silk shirt, jeans, and boots. His large Spanish spurs were silver ... as was his Texas Ranger star. He smiled like a lazy wolf at me.

"So this Genie gal said you didn't ask any questions in your interview with me, did she?"

"Yes. You have to admit it was cut off kinda short."

A sleek tabby the size of a small dog jumped up in the empty seat next to him, causing the screech of wooden legs against wood floor. She leaned forward, looking nothing so much as if she were whispering to him. He smiled wider.

"Mesmer said it saved your sorry hide."

"She talks to you?"

"Yes. Won't talk to anyone else but me. And to her mother, Bast, of course."

"Bast is her m-mother?"

Mesmer whispered to Sam again. He chuckled. "She says you repeat the obvious a lot. But that her daughter, Gypsy, warned her about that."

"She's my cat's mother?"

Mesmer looked disgusted at me, then there was the sound of breaking dishes in the back. She stiffened. She leapt down with the grace of a stalking panther.

Sam shook his head sadly. "I warned the kitchen staff Mesmer hates butterfingers. They thought I was joking."

A few seconds later there were screams, sobs, and slamming back doors. He turned to me. "That sound like a joke to you, partner?"

"Sounds like I better have the price of this ice tea and not have to wash dishes back there."

"The tea's on me, Roland. The ice comes from the melted snow of Eden."

"The Eden?"

"You going to keep on repeating what I say, or ask me a straight-out interview question?"

"Ah, all right, why did you pick New Orleans as your adopted home, Sam?"

"It picked me, son. Back in 1848, Baroness Pontalba built me the place that came to be known as Meilori's. And before you ask -- she built it for me in gratitude for saving her life in Paris."

I opened my mouth, and he held up his right gloved hand. "Long story. Sad one. And she isn't here to give her side of it."

He rubbed his face wearily with that hand. "I didn't ask her. But ... but it meant a lot to me. First home I had since I was fifteen."

To change from what looked like a painful subject, I asked, "What do you think of modern New Orleans? It's grown so much since 1848."

"I don't see much of it, son. When I could still ride a horse down its streets, I ranged far and wide. Now ...."

His eyes looked past me down distant, painful horizons. "Now, I stay in the French Quarter. When I get to itching to see the high, lonely mountains ...."

"You risk your life foolishly by entering Elu's unstable mirrors."

I jerked at the touch of the words in the dark air. They were like icicles given life ... as if the cold moon had been given vocal chords. I looked up. Damn.

I had written of her. I had known sooner or later I would meet her. I had just hoped for later ... much, much later.

Eyes of living winter looked down on me. "So do all mortals, Roland."

I started to rise. A slender hand that felt as if it had been kept in the deep-freeze touched my shoulder lightly. Long hair of winter frost trembled as her head was shaken in a gesture of "no."

"None rise for Death. All fall at her touch."

Sam, in a voice of distant thunder, said, "But not today, Rind. I invited him here."

Her smile flashed like a knife from out of the shadows. "Yes, you did. I am merely here to answer questions ... just like you, Samuel."

She sat. The corners of her full lips rose. Strange shadows masked the rest of her long face. Why haven't I described her clothes?

They kept changing. Like clouds moving over the face of a brooding moon, they continually shifted. Must have been something to do with how she was Allwheres, Everywhere at each moment. Something like that would have given me a headache.

Glittering eyes of ice stabbed into mine. "It does much worse to me than the bestowing of a headache, Little Lakota."

If Sam's customers noticed the constant change in dress, they didn’t show it. Over the years, his restaurant had become notorious for being the in-place for lovers of the occult and haters of humanity.

Made for an interesting mix. Sometimes it took all the skill he had gained from a long life as a Texas Ranger to keep things civil. Sometimes even he failed. A shudder took me, and I looked into the mirror on the wall to my left.

I didn't see my face. No, only the mahogany bear face of Sam's blood-brother, Elu, stared back at me. A chill settled deep within me.

He was wearing war paint. War paint. What was going on? Something was in the wind. And it wasn’t the coming of Summer. And with that thought, Elu disappeared. I frowned. Message delievered, Elu. Whatever the heck it was.


Rind was currently wearing a black leather Roman centurion sort of outfit. Its short kilt of leather slats showed off her long legs to advantage. The smile died from the icy face regarding me.


“End of the journey, dawn of the night,” murmured Rind.


Like most things Rind said, her words would only make sense when my world lay in ruins. Her voice was like icicles dancing across a frozen lake, and her eyes were the glowing fire of winter sunset clouds.



Blackness swirled around her like a living thing. She was of the night and of eternity. In all Sam's time with her he had never caught a complete glimpse of her long face, for to look full upon Rind was to die.



She was like The Thunderbird in that respect. But her power dwarfed even that being's frightening abilities. Good thing she was Sam's friend. Of course, she was a friend that one day would literally be the death of him. But still a friend.


Hopefully, she was my friend, too.


She was no longer dressed in a short-skirted centurion outfit of black leather. Now, she was wrapped in a form fitting toga whose dark fabric seemed to hold whole solar systems glittering within it. As Renfield always said, Rind had flair to spare.


In words of December frost, Rind murmured, "Of everything, a little stays. The line of your mother's chin stayed in your own. The dry silence of your father's desertion stayed in your heart."


Sam said low, "Rind, play nice."


She feather-stroked my cheeks so lightly the frostbite would heal in only weeks. "I will answer whatever question you ask -- except for the one all mortals fear to ask me."


Sam clucked his tongue at Rind, wet his fingers in my tea, and touched my cheek. It tingled odd. And I knew two things : my cheek was healed; and the ice in my tea was truly from the melted snow of Eden.


He turned to her. “Late at night when I drift away, I can hear you calling. And it is always the voice of a friend.”

She sharply turned her head away. “Even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart. And in our own despair, against our will, comes bitter wisdom.”

Dressed suddenly in a short-skirted version of a Nazi S.S. uniform, Rind sighed, “Our race is so used to disguising ourselves from others that we end up disguising ourselves from ourselves.”

Sam shook his head. “You think I call you friend ‘cause I don’t know you. Maybe I don’t. Then again, maybe I know you better than you think.”

The blackness wrapped tighter around her. But I still saw her outfit had changed to the blood-stained, skull-adorned armor of Kali. She turned to me sharply.


"I am called elsewhere. Ask your question of me. Now."


What would you ask Death? Think of all she has seen, of all with whom she spoke, of all the mysteries she's seen revealed. Two words blundered from my lips.


"Why Sam?"


She stiffened, her nails growing long and sharp. Her eyes deepened in her face. The shadows started to part from that face. Then, they slowly masked her features again.


"The heart knows no reasons. It only feels. And you asked, not for yourself, but out of your friendship for Samuel. That is why you live."


The living shadows wrapped around her like a cloak. "Today."


And she was gone. Sam sighed like an open wound. "Son, you're gonna give me gray hairs you keep on with these questions."


"Your hair's already moon-white."


"See what you've done?"


We both laughed. But it was strained laughter. The empty chair beside Sam didn't seem to be laughing either. And it didn't feel empty at all.

****************************************