Today, I'm hanging out over at my pal Christie Craig's blog. After eight years, I'm still trying to convince her zombies are cool.
I don't think she's buying it.
But we do talk about junk food and Chippendales dancers in addition to zombies.
Please don't leave me hanging like a vegan zombie! Comment if you want a chance at a free copy of Zombie Wedding. (Though if you win and you already have it, I'll slip you a copy of Blood Sacrifice when it's available. Shhhh...don't tell Christie!)
Showing posts with label Christie Craig. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christie Craig. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Monday, October 29, 2012
The Little Girl No One Cried For - C.C. Hunter
Last year's All Hallows Read guest posts were so popular, I decided to make it an annual event. So I asked some of my favorite people, who happen to write some of my favorite books, to tell their own personal scary stories.
As an added bonus, the always frightening Neil Gaiman is giving away a free story at Audible, but hurry! The offer only good until October 31st!
Back here at WW&W, first up is Creepy C.C. Hunter (aka my buddy Christie Craig)!
I was thirteen and I woke up that morning with sunshine spilling through my window. I stretched my hands over my head and it hit me—the memory of a dream I’d just had came rushing back. There had been no sunshine in the dream.
It was spooky, but more strange and sad. Like an old movie, I could still see it playing in my mind. But unlike a movie, my memory came with all five senses. The smell of wet earth and the scent of a storm brewing somewhere close by. I could feel the wind hit my face, blowing my blonde hair across my eyes. Tombstones, aged and cracked, littered the ground around me. All was silent—deadly silent.
A small group of people stood quietly by a gravesite. All wearing black. Even the sky held a dismal shade of sadness. There seemed to be no color in the image—no joy, all drab and gray. I stared at the faces of those grieving people. Did I know them? Yes, but . . . vaguely. And from where?
Immediately, my gaze shifted to the casket. The tiny polished box carried the only color in the scene. A bright pink ribbon rested on top. My gaze shot back to the people again. They weren’t crying. For some reason that seemed odd. They needed to cry. Cry for the child who obviously lay tucked inside that casket. The child who would never run and play and who would never know life.
I studied the faces of the people again, trying to remember where I’d seen them. How could I know them when they looked so out of place? Like people from old pictures. People from another time, another life.
And then came the realization. The woman dressed in a thick black wool coat, hugging herself against the cold and staring at the casket with empty emotion, was my grandmother, but younger. A lot younger. The woman today was old, in her late sixties. But yes, I remembered seeing her younger face in family photo albums.
Then, I recognized the other people. My mom and dad when they were young. My grandfather and one of my uncles. My gaze shifted from one person to the next.
Then it went to the casket.
Who had died? Part of the answer came with the next cold whisk of wind: A baby. A baby girl.
I wanted to tell someone how sorry I was. Emotion built in my chest. A crazy thought hit. Someone needed to cry for the child. I stood back from the crowd, not really present, but somehow still there. I felt the odd sadness. But why weren’t they crying?
Then my grandmother, my mom, dad and uncle were gone. As if they’d vanished into the air. I saw the casket being lowered into the gaping chasm. Abruptly the dream changed and I saw the gravestone. It simply read, Our baby girl: Christie.
Christie? CHRISTIE? That was my name. How could the baby have my name? That’s when I’d woken up. My heart still thumped against my breastbone at the memory, and I had tears in my eyes. Not wanting to be alone, I went and found my mom cooking breakfast.
I told her about the dream, about the casket with the pink ribbon and seeing my name on the gravestone.
I saw shock hit my mom’s face. “What is it?” I asked, but was almost scared for her to answer.
“This is weird.”
“What?”
“Your grandmother got pregnant a few months after your dad and I were married. It was a girl. She only lived a few weeks. You were named after her.”
The spookiness tiptoed up my spine as chills skittered up my neck. I looked at my mom and asked, “Why didn’t anyone cry?” Suddenly, I burst into tears.
My mom’s faced paled even more. “Your grandma told everyone no tears. She said she couldn’t handle the tears. We weren’t allowed to cry.”
I dropped down into a kitchen chair and asked the question burning inside me. “How could I have dreamed this?”
“I’m sure you heard the story,” Mom said.
“When? When could I have heard the story? I swear I never knew about her before now.”
“I don’t know, but you had to have heard it. How else would you have known this?”
How else?
To this day I think about that dream. I think about the little girl, my namesake. Did I really hear someone tell that story and my mind simply played it back as a dream? Or did the spirit of Christie somehow visit me? Did she need me to know about her? Did she need someone to cry for her?
I guess you see why my Shadow Falls series involves ghosts. There’s a part of me that believes in them. What about you? Do you believe in ghosts?
C.C.'s latest book, Whispers at Moonrise, is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other fine retailers.
As an added bonus, the always frightening Neil Gaiman is giving away a free story at Audible, but hurry! The offer only good until October 31st!
Back here at WW&W, first up is Creepy C.C. Hunter (aka my buddy Christie Craig)!
It was spooky, but more strange and sad. Like an old movie, I could still see it playing in my mind. But unlike a movie, my memory came with all five senses. The smell of wet earth and the scent of a storm brewing somewhere close by. I could feel the wind hit my face, blowing my blonde hair across my eyes. Tombstones, aged and cracked, littered the ground around me. All was silent—deadly silent.
A small group of people stood quietly by a gravesite. All wearing black. Even the sky held a dismal shade of sadness. There seemed to be no color in the image—no joy, all drab and gray. I stared at the faces of those grieving people. Did I know them? Yes, but . . . vaguely. And from where?
Immediately, my gaze shifted to the casket. The tiny polished box carried the only color in the scene. A bright pink ribbon rested on top. My gaze shot back to the people again. They weren’t crying. For some reason that seemed odd. They needed to cry. Cry for the child who obviously lay tucked inside that casket. The child who would never run and play and who would never know life.
I studied the faces of the people again, trying to remember where I’d seen them. How could I know them when they looked so out of place? Like people from old pictures. People from another time, another life.
And then came the realization. The woman dressed in a thick black wool coat, hugging herself against the cold and staring at the casket with empty emotion, was my grandmother, but younger. A lot younger. The woman today was old, in her late sixties. But yes, I remembered seeing her younger face in family photo albums.
Then, I recognized the other people. My mom and dad when they were young. My grandfather and one of my uncles. My gaze shifted from one person to the next.
Then it went to the casket.
Who had died? Part of the answer came with the next cold whisk of wind: A baby. A baby girl.
I wanted to tell someone how sorry I was. Emotion built in my chest. A crazy thought hit. Someone needed to cry for the child. I stood back from the crowd, not really present, but somehow still there. I felt the odd sadness. But why weren’t they crying?
Then my grandmother, my mom, dad and uncle were gone. As if they’d vanished into the air. I saw the casket being lowered into the gaping chasm. Abruptly the dream changed and I saw the gravestone. It simply read, Our baby girl: Christie.
Christie? CHRISTIE? That was my name. How could the baby have my name? That’s when I’d woken up. My heart still thumped against my breastbone at the memory, and I had tears in my eyes. Not wanting to be alone, I went and found my mom cooking breakfast.
I told her about the dream, about the casket with the pink ribbon and seeing my name on the gravestone.
I saw shock hit my mom’s face. “What is it?” I asked, but was almost scared for her to answer.
“This is weird.”
“What?”
“Your grandmother got pregnant a few months after your dad and I were married. It was a girl. She only lived a few weeks. You were named after her.”
The spookiness tiptoed up my spine as chills skittered up my neck. I looked at my mom and asked, “Why didn’t anyone cry?” Suddenly, I burst into tears.
My mom’s faced paled even more. “Your grandma told everyone no tears. She said she couldn’t handle the tears. We weren’t allowed to cry.”
I dropped down into a kitchen chair and asked the question burning inside me. “How could I have dreamed this?”
“I’m sure you heard the story,” Mom said.
“When? When could I have heard the story? I swear I never knew about her before now.”
“I don’t know, but you had to have heard it. How else would you have known this?”
How else?
To this day I think about that dream. I think about the little girl, my namesake. Did I really hear someone tell that story and my mind simply played it back as a dream? Or did the spirit of Christie somehow visit me? Did she need me to know about her? Did she need someone to cry for her?
I guess you see why my Shadow Falls series involves ghosts. There’s a part of me that believes in them. What about you? Do you believe in ghosts?
C.C.'s latest book, Whispers at Moonrise, is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other fine retailers.
Monday, October 3, 2011
TxDOT v. Christie Craig: The Write-In Campaign
So we're going over TxDOT's head, and we're asking all writers and readers to help.
Please contact Texas Governor Rick Perry and ask him to stop this travesty. The main points that refute this lawsuit are:
1) TxDOT's counsel admitted to Judge Sam Sparks in open court that NONE of TxDOT's trademark registrations apply to books.
2) TxDOT claims that Ms. Craig's book ruins their reputation because it contains scenes between a heterosexual couple in a committed relationship practicing safe sex. Yet, TxDOT believes selling men's thongs with the trademark clearly stamped on the front does not.
3) TxDOT has not sued other entities using the title 'Don't Mess With Texas.' Other works using the title include a rap song, a magazine article and several country songs. Please note that ALL of these other situations I mention involve an artist or a controlling party who is MALE.
4) TxDOT is wasting money pursuing this action that is all likelihood they will lose when Texas is in a fiscal crisis.
We ask that you contact Gov. Perry directly and protest this lawsuit.
Snail Mail: The Honorable Rick Perry, PO Box 12428, Austin, TX 78711-2428
Website: http://governor.state.tx.us/contact/
Phone No: (512) 463-2000
Twitter: @GovernorPerry (mention @TxDOT and @Christie_Craig)
We also ask that you tweet, FB and blog this information.
Even if you don't live in Texas, this matter concerns you since Gov. Perry is running for President of the United States.
Please spread the word. No government should bully a writer because they dislike that writer's content. And frankly, this lawsuit is not about a trademark. It's an attempt by a state to bypass the First Amendment and harass a author based on her subject matter and her gender.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
More on TxDot Versus Christie Craig
TxDOT is lke the dog with a chew toy that just won't let go. Discovery has started in Case No. 1:11-cv-726. Apparently, Judge Sparks pointing out in his ruling on the TRO and permanent injunction that a romance writer can't really harm the state fell on deaf ears.
Nor did reality sink in when the state's attorney ADMITTED IN OPEN COURT that NONE of the state's trademark registrations APPLIED TO BOOKS.
In the original complaint, TxDOT's biggest objection was that Christie's book "contain numerous graphic references to sexual acts, state of arousal, etc."
Okay, TxDOT, if you're that worried about sex, why do you sell these?
Yes, this thong is available for sale by the great state of Texas. And people wonder why I think the lawsuit against Christie is really an attack on women's rights.
Nor did reality sink in when the state's attorney ADMITTED IN OPEN COURT that NONE of the state's trademark registrations APPLIED TO BOOKS.
In the original complaint, TxDOT's biggest objection was that Christie's book "contain numerous graphic references to sexual acts, state of arousal, etc."
Okay, TxDOT, if you're that worried about sex, why do you sell these?
Yes, this thong is available for sale by the great state of Texas. And people wonder why I think the lawsuit against Christie is really an attack on women's rights.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Don't Mess With Christie Craig
Yeehaw! My friend Christie Craig has another thigh-slapping mystery out! Don't Mess with Texas has scary thrills, steamy passion, and a coffin-lovin' bulldog named Budweiser.
Blurb
Nikki Hunt thought her night couldn't get worse when her no-good, cheating ex ditched her at dinner, sticking her with the bill. Then she found his body stuffed in the trunk of her car and lost her two-hundred-dollar meal all over his three-thousand-dollar suit. Now not only is Nikki nearly broke, she's a murder suspect.
Former cop turned PI, Dallas O'Connor knows what it's like to be unjustly accused. But one look at the sexy-though skittish-suspect tells him she couldn't hurt anyone. The lead detective, Dallas's own brother, has the wrong woman and Dallas hopes a little late-night "undercover" work will help him prove it . . .
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