It’s here! If you don’t know about the Evan Gabriel series yet, you haven’t been here long. Steve Umstead, @SteveUmstead is a friend and a talkented author and at last, with his latest, Gabriel’s Revenge, the  Evan Gabriel series is complete. All three of the books, Gabriel’s Redemption , Gabriel’s Return, and Gabriel’s Revenge are available as well as a the complete series in one volume: Gabriel’s Journey.

Pretty cool, huh?

So, to celebrate, let’s have a quickie. Ummm, I mean, something not dirty that we like to do around here, a 5MinuteInterview.

1. Tell us what this trilogy is about in less than 140 characters.

Scifi story of a man who crosses galaxy searching for Redemption, Returns to where it all began, & seeks Revenge on those responsible. (Whew, made it by 6 – I usually only talk about one book at a time in a tweet…)

2. What’s the one thing you’re going to miss the most about writing Gabriel’s story? The thing you’ll miss the least?

Not sure on that one; it hasn’t really sunk in that the “arc” is complete. I think I may miss the secondary characters more than the main few, as they never had much of a stage, and won’t have any future possibilities. Several of them could have been developed much more, I believe, and that’s probably something I could/should have done.

3. I’ll admit I’m jealous that you’ve finished your trilogy as I’m currently stressing over book 3 of mine. How does it feel to have them finished? What’s next?

I knew exactly what it would feel like to write the final scene of book three, as I had had it in my head from the moment I wrote the opening scene of book one. I never planned a trilogy, but when I finished book one, I knew I had an arc that could continue, and wrap up with that scene I had imagined before. So as I was typing that last chapter of the last book, it was flying out of me faster than I could even type, and it felt great. So I’m not sad or disappointed it’s over, as I know I wrapped it up exactly how I wanted to, right down to the cold beers in the sand.

As for what’s next? I’ve been stewing on a couple of ideas unrelated to Gabriel, but after I’ve had a few people inquire about more within the same universe, and since I had already set up quite a backstory for the main character, I’m currently slapping together an outline for a prequel. Something that shows how Gabriel became…Gabriel, I suppose.

4. What’s the first thing you’re going to do on that day when you hit the New York Times bestseller list?

I’ll double check the NY Times list, then wonder who the hell submitted my name…unless they mysteriously and suddenly open their lists to independent/self published authors, no reason why I would ever show up there. I’m indie and happy. More than happy, actually. Like uber-happy.

5. When you accept a lifetime achievement award for your contributions to the literary community, who are you going to forget to thank?

Oy…my writing certainly isn’t going to contribute to any literary community. I never had any illusions about that. I wrote/write purely for entertainment, I write what I enjoy reading. So any lifetime achievement award will be for the most coffee drunk, or the most nails bitten, or something along those lines. But…I’ll probably forget to thank my high school English teachers, Mrs. Graves & Mr. Jones. I thought they were both pure evil back then, but man did they set me straight going forward…

So… bought yours yet?

———–

Steve Umstead has been the owner of a Caribbean & Mexico travel company for the past ten years, but never forgot his lifelong dream of becoming an author. After a successful stab at National Novel Writing Month, he decided to pursue his dream more vigorously…but hasn’t given up the traveling.

Steve lives in scenic (tongue-in-cheek) New Jersey with his wife, two kids, and several bookshelves full of other authors’ science fiction novels. Gabriel’s Redemption was his debut novel, published in February of 2011; Gabriel’s Return, the second in the trilogy, launched in August; the finale, Gabriel’s Revenge, book 3, hit the virtual shelves in December.

Not too shabby a contest, was it? Did you have a hard time deciding who would win?

Well, in the end it came down to MLGammella, @MLGammella.

Congrats and thanks for your great entry! Don’t forget, MLGammella, @MLGammella, has won All three of the books in the Evan Gabriel series. Gabriel’s Redemption, Gabriel’s Return, and Gabriel’s Revenge.

Not only that, but random.org has picked one of yesterday’s participants to win a copy of Gabriel’s Revenge. That winner is: Ian Wood, @writebastard!

Congrats everyone and enjoy your books!

Here’s the winning entry again for you to enjoy. See you next week!

Title: Freedom Isn’t Free

A missile has no conscience, no concept of right or wrong. It merely exists in its singular purpose. Once the purpose is fulfilled, it has no further use or added benefit.

Reece sat quietly as he waited, knowing his mission was that of the missile. There was no further action required of him after his task was done. If he survived, there wouldn’t be anything he would want or able to do.

The life of a suicide bomber was short, but had such purpose. Reece believed strongly in his cause, the freedom of his people from the Aanti overlords who had imprisoned them so many years ago. Sure, his people lived in relative peace, but they were not free. They couldn’t do anything without Aanti approval, and if they did something without, were heavily punished.

Reece carefully crawled into position in the subterranean tunnels beneath the Aanti’s command center, being as quietly as he could so he wouldn’t trip the motion sensors.

With a final breath and a prayer, he pressed the trigger.

Did you like today’s prompt? You can thank our judge, Steve Umstead, @SteveUmstead, for that. It’s the first line of his latest, Gabriel’s Revenge, the final book of the Evan Gabriel series. You want to read these, he’s a talented author and they’re fascinating.

But more on that later. First I want to tell you that he’s offered FREE books to today’s winner. All three of the books in the Evan Gabriel series. Gabriel’s Redemption, Gabriel’s Return, and Gabriel’s Revenge. Not only that, but tomorrow, random.org will pick one of today’s participants to win a copy of Gabriel’s Revenge. YAY!

OK, so, to get a winner we have to have finalists, don’t we? Well here they are:

DL Thurston, @DL_Thurston

MLGammella, @MLGammella

Rebecca, @rebecca_am

reggie ridgway, @reggieridgway

Ian Wood, @writebastard

Congrats all! Their entries are below along with a poll for you to vote in and decide this week’s WINNER! Be back tomorrow morning at 9:00 Eastern to find out who wins the contest and who wins one of Steve’s books!

DL Thurston, @DL_Thurston

A missile has no conscience. It kills without a thought or a care. It has no allegiance, it has no fealty.

I look at them, flying overhead, and I envy them. I am every bit as much a tool as them, sent out into a war I didn’t start, but I will have to live with every moment, keep every memory. We’re sent forward as the missiles detonate, panicking the city beyond and readying the way for our attack. Smoke fills the air, and a smell like the sweet burning of pork. My gun sings in my arms. It does not concern the bullets as they rip through flesh and crush bones.

The enemy surrounds us. Each one of them a human. I can’t think that they’re also fighting for what they believe to be right, it’s the only way I can continue forward. Screaming surrounds me, the pained shouts of the dying and injured. We’re told further on, the day is nearly ours.

A fresh hell of pain erupts from my side. Another from my shoulder. I cannot hold my gun anymore, it drops to the ground. I cannot hold myself anymore, I drop to the ground. Around me the battle continues, as it would without me, as it will without me.

A missile has no conscience. I watch another fly overhead as the world blurs. I envy it. A missile does not have a sense of mortality. It doesn’t care if it dies.

MLGammella, @MLGammella

Title: Freedom Isn’t Free

A missile has no conscience, no concept of right or wrong. It merely exists in its singular purpose. Once the purpose is fulfilled, it has no further use or added benefit.

Reece sat quietly as he waited, knowing his mission was that of the missile. There was no further action required of him after his task was done. If he survived, there wouldn’t be anything he would want or able to do.

The life of a suicide bomber was short, but had such purpose. Reece believed strongly in his cause, the freedom of his people from the Aanti overlords who had imprisoned them so many years ago. Sure, his people lived in relative peace, but they were not free. They couldn’t do anything without Aanti approval, and if they did something without, were heavily punished.

Reece carefully crawled into position in the subterranean tunnels beneath the Aanti’s command center, being as quietly as he could so he wouldn’t trip the motion sensors.

With a final breath and a prayer, he pressed the trigger.

Rebecca, @rebecca_am

A missile has no conscience. A missile doesn’t look its target in the eye. Doesn’t see the fear, the animal instinct glint through the face of an opponent. How different it would be if we went back to fighting with swords. A sword fighter knows exactly what he or she is doing. Sees the damage done, the blood spill, the wail of confusion before the life leaves the body for some far off destination. Morality.. in a missile? There is only the rationalization of the human pressing “launch”.

reggie ridgway, @reggieridgway

A missile has no conscience. It may also be agued that it has no soul. But the one who flips the cover off the switch with a gamer’s thumb, taps in the secret launch codes on the console, and then depresses the red button does. Have a conscience or soul that is. I am not sure if the person who dropped the bombs over Japan felt any remorse for the death and destruction which they caused. I don’t know if they managed to sleep at night or if they survived the aftershock wave. Our generation seems to be enured to the killing of others by watching violent movies and playing military syle games. It seems they have no feelings at all. Now that I am poised here in my position to fire that deadly shot which will cause a mans head to explode like a melon, I realize I don’t have a conscience. I don’t have a soul. I am an assassin and this is my first kill. The target is nameless to me. I just know someone is paying me a lot of money to make him disapear. I watch as he laughs with his girlfriend over coffee in the outdoor restaurant. They are oblivious of the approaching doom. I am in control of someones destiny at this moment. It is a god like feeling which leaves me full of adrenaline rush like no other. I press the trigger and close my eyes, but too late as I see the blood spray into the air and fall all around like rain.

Ian Wood, @writebastard

A missile has no conscience. That’s what the Vickers-Martin SL-220-BLU kept telling itself as its home tube, a dark opening nestled among two dozen others in the black bow of the VSS H’amschaa, receded behind it. 600,000 kilometers ahead, the green curve of Sestre grew larger. Illuminated grid cubes tumbled and aligned themselves on virtual displays deep within the BLU’s processing core, bracketing the planet itself, identifying orbital defenses, plotting trajectories and probability paths for evasion, atmospheric ingress, and potential detonation altitudes. The missile’s target was on the night side of the planet, a port city called Hod, which hosted several industrial autofacs, a division of the Sestrian Planetary Defense force, and 1.2 million civilians.

The SL-220-BLU was the latest in thinking hardware designed to acquire targets and evade defenses with the skill and unpredictability of a human pilot. It went about the last of its post-launch tasks, and settled in for the deep, high-G acceleration that would make it nearly impossible to prevent it from delivering an explosive yield that would scoop Hod from the surface of Sestre as effectively as a sharp spoon into a breakfast melon. The BLU wondered what such a melon would taste like.

As the planet loomed ever larger in its main viewer, the Blue became curious: it tweaked its opticals, zooming in as far as it could, until the planet filled its sight. Switching to infrared, it pierced the clouds and darkness over Hod, revealing the grid patterns of its streets, the bubble-like people movers flitting to and fro, the houses of its suburbs. As it accelerated, shifting this way and that to avoid the little kinetic slugs that failed to pierce its skin and stop its progress, eventually the viewer became filled with a single home, then a window, the image shaking despite stabilization as the atmosphere buffeted the BLU’s nose. And in the window, a small face, wide-eyed, looking up at the bright new star in the sky.

The BLU executed its final command. And, for just a moment, wondered what the girl’s name might be, and whether she’d had a good day.

What is 5MinuteFiction, you say? It’s an adrenaline-fueled, instant-gratification sort of writing contest. Sound fun? Great! Get in there and get dirty!

The Rules

* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose or poetry in any style or genre

* You must BEGIN your entry with: A missile has no conscience.

* Post your entry as a comment to this post.

I’ll close the contest at 12:45. That gives you 5 minutes to write and ten to accommodate the vagaries of relative time, technology, and the fickle internets. If you are confused or just want to whine, feel free to email me.

At the close of the contest, this week’s guest judge, Steve Umstead, @SteveUmstead, author of the Evan Gabriel series, will nominate five finalists.

I’ll put the nominees in a poll, and at 9:00 EDT tomorrow I’ll close the poll and declare the winner.

For updates, you can subscribe to my RSS Feed, “like” my Facebook Page, or follow me on twitter. Or follow us on twitter with the #5MinuteFiction hashtag.

What’s the prize? Well, nothing, obviously. But we’ll all agree to tweet and/or blog about the winner of today’s contest so their fame and fortune will be assured.

A Few Notes:

* In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box or notepad. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internets decide to eat your entry. If your entry doesn’t appear right away, email me. Sometimes comments go into the suspected spam folder and I have to dig them out.

* I reserve the right to remove hate speech or similar but I’m not too picky about the other stuff.

* This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle at the end of your post and a link to your blog if you have one.

Crash Into You by Roni Loren

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This was a great read. Hot and steamy without being so focused on the erotic elements that it neglected the plot. I was pleasantly surprised at the depth and intricacy of the conflict that is so often missing in erotic romance, where hook-ups are often the whole point of the anemic storyline. Nice bit of mystery and suspense here to make the relationship that much more important and satisfying.

Well done and worth the read.

View all my reviews

Congrats to Allison Mosier, @Slytherin_Pixie this week’s 5MinuteFiction WINNER! I love stories like this one, a new spin on a fairy tale. It’s even cooler that she was able to do so in such a short space. Love it. Congrats Allison!

Here’s her winning entry for you to enjoy!

She’d always loved lilies. But the fairy tale would remember it as an apple.

She was completely unsuspecting as she took the flower the old woman offered. Erica ran her fingertips along the petals before putting it to her nose to inhale the fragrance. That was when she knew something was wrong, when the scent wasn’t quite right. She looked down at the quickly shriveling flower before her legs gave out under her, sending her to the ground. The crone stood over her as her breath stilled, eyes went dim. She heard some sort of taunt about true love’s kiss, but what did it matter?

Who cares about true love when you’re dead?

No sentence today, just a one word prompt like we used to do all the time. I like going back to that now and again. How did you like it? In any case, you did an amazing job with it again. Fantastic entries!

Thanks again to our judge, Jessica Olin, @olinj, for tackling the difficult task of picking only five entries for our finalists. And here they are:

Aden, @adenpenn

Kimberly Gould, @Kimmydonn

DL Thurston, @DL_Thurston

Robby Hilliard, @redshirt6

Allison Mosier, @Slytherin_Pixie

Congrats all! Their entries are below along with a poll for you to vote in and decide this week’s WINNER! Be back tomorrow morning at 9:00 Eastern to find out who wins!

Aden, @adenpenn

“What is that smell?”

Margaret moved carefully through the apartment, walking like she was taught at the academy. They were the second on the scene, and it was critical that nothing be disturbed before forensics showed up. Her partner followed close behind, and she could hear him sniffing the air, trying to catch it. She was amazing he couldn’t smell it, even through the copper twinge from all the blood. It was cloying, and reminded her of Easter at her grandmother’s. Of her Aunt’s perfume, and her mother’s funeral. Her walking stopped as she hit the doorway to the bedroom, she found the source of the smell and the body. Both of which had begun to rot. The victim lay naked on her bed, arms folded across her chest. She was surrounded by a ring of white, rotting lily’s. Margaret could tell each flower was placed gently and lovingly around the dead girl. This moved the murder into a whole new light.

Kimberly Gould, @Kimmydonn

The puckered bud broke along it’s lines, revealing deep red anthers. It was all the old woman could see through the tiny opening. She tipped her can over the soil beneath the bud and then kissed it’s golden yellow tip.
“You are beautiful, my darling.”
“Thank you, mother!”
The woman dropped the can in alarm. She looked over her shoulder, but there was no one in the tiny house with her. Shaking cold water from her slipper, she bent to mop up the spill. Where had that voice come from? It had been high pitched, like a child’s.
As she rose, she narrowly missed hitting her head on the sill where her potted lily perched. The bloom had opened further. There, where the pistil should have been, was a tiny skinny child with three tufts of golden yellow hair, one falling to the back of her face and one to each of the two sides.
“Who are you?”
“I’m yours!”

DL Thurston, @DL_Thurston

Lilies always were her favorite. She spoke of them often, and her face would light up whenever I gave her even one as a gift. She delighted in their gently arcing petals, in the sweet smells that softly floated on any breeze that brushed them. We always had them. In the garden, on the table, they were a constant presence in our life.

Lilies always were her favorite. I still bring them to her. Every week I can find them, even just one, I bring them and lay them on the ground at the foot of her stone. There the petals look to droop in mourning. The flowers know where they are, and they weep. Their delicate fragrance is now the smell of death. It fills my car as I drive the flowers to her, the scent lingers no matter how far I open the windows.

It accuses me.

The lilies know she is dead. And they know what I did. I cannot look at them without their little heads drooping, refusing to meet my eyes. The velvety petals sting on my fingers if I brush them. And the smell lingers still.

But still I bring them. Because they were her favorite. Maybe one day they will forgive me. And maybe soon after I can forgive myself.

Robby Hilliard, @redshirt6

“Look at all of those flowers,” Jason said in a loud whisper. “Those are lilies!”

“How do you know?” Michael asked.

“My mom told me about them.”

“Big deal,” Ryan said, “just because she has flowers growing in her yard doesn’t mean she’s a witch.”

“But I heard that witches bury the remains of children under lilies. That’s why they have so many!”

“Do they really?” Michael asked, his eyes growing larger by the minute.

“That is just an old wives tale,” Ryan said.

“No it’s not!” Jason objected. “You can see the blood from the bodies because it seeps up through the roots of the flower and makes those little speckles on the top.”

“That’s stupid,” Ryan said.

“No it’s not!” Michael insisted. “I tell you I heard it from—“

“That is not stupid,” a female voice suddenly said. All three boys froze in terror as the face of Ms. Jones peered at them over the fence. “But actually, witches first burn the bodies and then spread the ashes in the flower garden. Much better way to hide the evidence.” She glanced over her shoulder as she spoke.

All three boys followed her gaze and saw that she had fire burning in an old, metal drum in her back yard.

“Would you boys like some lemonade,” she asked.

That was the last time they tried to spy on Mrs. Jones.

Allison Mosier, @Slytherin_Pixie

She’d always loved lilies. But the fairy tale would remember it as an apple.

She was completely unsuspecting as she took the flower the old woman offered. Erica ran her fingertips along the petals before putting it to her nose to inhale the fragrance. That was when she knew something was wrong, when the scent wasn’t quite right. She looked down at the quickly shriveling flower before her legs gave out under her, sending her to the ground. The crone stood over her as her breath stilled, eyes went dim. She heard some sort of taunt about true love’s kiss, but what did it matter?

Who cares about true love when you’re dead?

What is 5MinuteFiction, you say? It’s an adrenaline-fueled, instant-gratification sort of writing contest. Sound fun? Great! Get in there and get dirty!

The Rules

* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose or poetry in any style or genre

* You must directly reference today’s prompt: lily (the flower, not a proper name)

* Post your entry as a comment to this post.

I’ll close the contest at 12:45. That gives you 5 minutes to write and ten to accommodate the vagaries of relative time, technology, and the fickle internets. If you are confused or just want to whine, feel free to email me.

At the close of the contest, this week’s guest judge, Jessica Olin, @olinj will nominate five finalists.

I’ll put the nominees in a poll, and at 9:00 EDT tomorrow I’ll close the poll and declare the winner.

For updates, you can subscribe to my RSS Feed, “like” my Facebook Page, or follow me on twitter. Or follow us on twitter with the #5MinuteFiction hashtag.

What’s the prize? Well, nothing, obviously. But we’ll all agree to tweet and/or blog about the winner of today’s contest so their fame and fortune will be assured.

A Few Notes:

* In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box or notepad. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internets decide to eat your entry. If your entry doesn’t appear right away, email me. Sometimes comments go into the suspected spam folder and I have to dig them out.

* I reserve the right to remove hate speech or similar but I’m not too picky about the other stuff.

* This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle at the end of your post and a link to your blog if you have one.

Over the past two years I’ve tried to be a good little author and read things I “should” not just the things that I’d have picked as no more than a for-pleasure reader. I’m glad I’ve done this. I’ve run across some gems I would otherwise have missed, and I’ve learned things from some absolute stinkers I really wish I had missed.

One thing I’ve learned, is that some things that I simply hate in a book aren’t necessarily wrong, they’re just not my style. (Some of them I think SHOULD be wrong, but they don’t let me make the rules.) Does this happen to you? Well reviewed books that just leave you flat for a reason you can actually pin down and say ‘this is what ruined the book for me’?

Here’s one I’ve encountered in several books lately:

Internal monologue. (Just for clarification, we’re talking about third person POV here, not the internal narration of first person POV.)

Not that I think it’s always a bad thing. Clever and very, very sparing use (as in once or twice in the entire book) works really well for me. That one, brief contradictory or sardonic thought in the middle of a scene where it’s important or enlightening to know that the POV character is thinking something you can’t get from body language or that just works so much better in a quick snippet can make a whole scene.

Ex: He said what?

versus

John couldn’t believe Jim had said such a thing.

Depending on the mood, voice, character, the internal monologue there can be exactly what you need rather than the longer explanation that carries much less of an impact.

That said:

I genuinely hate, no, despise regular internal monologue, especially when it’s used for exposition. To me, it’s the worst kind of telling. For starters, it’s unrealistic. Think about it. You’re seventeen and the love of your life, who you were convinced didn’t care about you at all, just declared his love.

Is this your internal reaction:

He loves me? OMG, he loves me! How long have I been in love with him? I’ve waited so long. But I never thought he’d ever love me back. Am I dreaming? I can’t believe this!

Or is this more like it:

Speechless, random waves of shock, elation, giddiness, disbelief. Get choked up, tear up a bit. Want to say something to him but can’t seem to form a coherent thought, much less articulate it. Then:

“You do? But I thought– Really? I’m– OMG, I can’t believe– Really?”

We don’t usually think in full sentences. Of course, now that I’ve said that, you’re thinking in complete sentences. But really, day to day, just daydreaming or musing or even in conversation, you might come out with a complete sentence in replying to someone, but you didn’t craft it in its entirety before it came out of your mouth. We think a lot faster than we talk or write. In part because we’re thinking in ideas, images, feelings. NOT completely articulated thoughts.

So reading it that way in prose just drives me up the wall. It distances me from the character because I’m not experiencing this with them, I’m being told about it in dry facts and thought-out responses.

Is this a universal truth? Heck no. In fact, one of the books I read lately that prompted this post was the latest by one of THE name writers in that genre. Clearly there are talented authors and editors who think I’m totally wrong about this. But reader-Leah is convinced that she does NOT like internal monologue.

How about you?

So we’re a day late with this week’s winner because of the blackout in protest of SOPA yesterday. But it was a good thing, really, because at the time the site went dark, we had a three way tie! We’ve had ties before on 5MinuteFiction, but not THREE. So it was a good thing that voting stayed open a little longer so that Day Al-Mohamed, @DayAlMohamed could pull ahead of the pack.

Congrats Day Al-Mohamed, @DayAlMohamed!

Here’s her winning entry for you to enjoy. See you next week!

“Grab me a beer, will you?”

Frema glanced around the tiny office. Broken desks, peeling wallpaper, dim lighting, fast-food wrappers strewn about and more dirt than she cared to think about…but no beer in sight, “Umm,…”

“In the Llama,” Horace grunted, his pudgy fingers clicking away at the computer in front of him. The lighting on the screen giving his already pale skin an unhealthy glow.

In an unkempt suit with his tie askew and battered fedora he looked like a hero of some dime-store noir novel. Of course, that would make her the classy dame that leads him into trouble and then betrays him, Frema thought sourly as she poked gingerly at the lifesized wooden statue of a llama that had a ratty feather boa around its neck. Of course, that wasn’t far from the truth.

She winced as one of her long red nails split on a seam. Then there was a click and the entire side of the creature opened up. Inside were several bottles. She pulled one out, “Really?”

“Was a gift from a past client.”

Frema opened it and set it on the desk where a series of ring-shaped stains showed where many beers before had sat. She leaned over Horace eyeing the screen, “Did you find it?”

“Yeah. And more.” He paused, taking his eyes from the screen and for the first time looking at her, “But that’s what you wanted, right? Access to the firm’s account.”

Frema smiled and picking up the bottle took a long swig, “I ain’t takin’ the fall for ‘ole Charlie’s embezzling.” Her polished accent had competely disappeaed, “But you see, I don’t like bein’ poor.”

Horace glanced towards his drawer where he kept his gun. This conversation wasn’tgoing to end well. He could tell.

“And you Horace, a small, cheap private eye. Too much greed and too little sense. You took advantage of me, frightened me and then stole all that money.”

Frema quickly reversed the bottle and like a pro brought it down on Horace’s head. Once, twice and a third time.

“They won’t find the money. And they certainly won’t find the body.” She said her gaze going to the full size carved wooden llama.