Tag Archives: Spoof Story

SAPAHM Guest: Courtney Milan Shares a “Teaser Tuesday Exclusive” Vignette of Adam Fucking Reynolds

Hi friends!!! As you see we’ve got Courtney Milan here today! Well … kinda. Instead of writing a post post … I mentioned to her today also happens to be a “Teaser Tuesday” spot … and what with the popularity of Trade Me … and Adam especially, she decided to send me this scene. Adam is the father of the hero in Trade Me – Blake Reynolds. It’s not exactly like father like son. However, for some, the father stole the show. Trade Me is the second NA book I’ve read – and 82% of it was because of the teaser Courtney posted that included Adam Reynolds. If you haven’t read Trade Me yet, you can find out more about the Cyclone series here, and Adam’s upcoming book here.

Fair warning, if the subject wasn’t enough of a clue, Adam does not care about clean language. He does not believe in the “you’re better than that” when it comes to not swearing. (And really – why would anyone? >.>) So without further ado … a little peek into a day with and working for A.F.R. Continue reading

Spoof Story: Mugged After Midnight by Olive Endwell

My darlings we’re back! After a number of wonderful, thoughtful, and often heavy posts, you probably thought I changed and had depth, didn’t you. 😉 Well, we’re on to silliness again. Remember the series of spoof stories? Yeah. More of that. 😀

As of yet we don’t have a “story blurb/hook” – so if that comes in I’ll add it ASAP. [It was my lack of foresight.] Anyway, I hope you enjoy! If you’re new to this … the wonderful Jen W. of Cover Remix makes … well, spoof covers. Previously I’d already asked people to contribute spoof items for ALBTALBS, and I said this is perfect. So we got together and found delightful victimseager participants who wrote a story based on the cover. 🙂 As you see, this time the brave soul is *ETA ??? (the writer has asked we turn it into a game). 

Mugged After MidnightMugged After Midnight by Olive Endwell

They called her the Queen, and not just because she was named for one of the most famous of the British Royal family. Certainly her bloodlines were pure, but that was not it either. It was because people followed her. A natural leader from the time she was very small, Victoria fit her nickname well. Tonight however, she was alone – taking her turn on perimeter security rotation was good leadership as far as she was concerned. Plus, she liked it.

From atop the seven storey office building, she surveyed her sector of the city, poised to move in case of trouble. At this late hour, there wasn’t much foot traffic. But there was an all-night bodega on the next corner north and someone was always out of milk or cigarettes. A trio of youths walked down the street laughing and joking together. No mental warning bells there. An older couple got out of their car, parked in front of the convenience store – on their way home from somewhere? Threat level: low. From the corner of her eye, she perceived movement. Turning her head, she saw a male – about five eleven, well-built but not bulky, dark hair, woollen overcoat, jeans, sneakers -walking briskly away from her intersection to the west. He sped up until he was nearly running. And then she heard it. The ring of chain, the slap of leather, the slide of a knife coming swiftly out of its sheath. The Devils – a cowardly street gang with a particularly unimaginative name – were back. She’d chased them off months ago but obviously she’d been too lenient. Lesson learned.

Before she could take any action, she became aware of something strange. From deep inside she heard it: Tick. Tick. Tick.

She sucked in a breath. Oh. My. God. Her bonding clock. She stared at the stranger, excitement in her gaze. There was only one thing to do now. She would have helped the man anyway – human males were weak and needed care. But now it was an imperative. He was her mate – her derpling and she must save him!!

Almost before she could rise however and choose her landing site, they were on him. He cried out as a sap hit him across the shoulders, her vision able to pierce the dark of the alley they’d chased him into. Then he was on the ground and the five gangbangers were laying into him with fists and feet and weapons. She leaped from the rooftop, coming to land in a crouch behind the thugs, blocking off their escape. This time she’d teach them a lesson they would not easily forget. Those that survived anyway.

She drew throwing stars from her belt pouch, swiftly dispatching three of the attackers, including the gang leader. She was so fast, the fourth and fifth had barely realised they were under threat, let alone that their quintet was now a duo. She threw out her leg, fast and high, clocking Four in the temple. He fell to the asphalt, stunned. Five turned, holding his knife with threatening intent. With swift kicks and punches, she disarmed him, forcing him face first against the alley wall, arms twisted painfully behind his back.

“Didn’t I tell you to get out and stay out? What part of that did you not understand?”

The smell of urine filled her nostrils. She rolled her eyes in contempt.

“Not so tough now are you?”

With a jerk upward, she heard the satisfying snap of bone and Five screamed, sharp and high.

“If I see you or your boys around here again none of you will survive. Be grateful I’m feeling generous tonight or there wouldn’t be another chance for you.”

Turning to Four who was groggily rising to his feet, she instructed: “Take him out of here, before I change my mind.”

After the thugs had left the alley, Victoria turned to the man on the ground. He was unconscious, blood oozing from a cut to his temple, the right side of his face already swollen and showing early bruising. Even so, he was pretty. She smiled, pleased. He would be a fitting mate to her. Gathering the man in a fireman’s carry, she took off at a lope to the compound.


Sean awoke, confused and dizzy. Sitting up carefully, he realised he was in some kind of infirmary. Not a hospital. The door opened and a beautiful woman entered. She was wearing a tight lycra tank top which outlined small high breasts (no bra, he noted), tight shiny pants, and ankle boots with a short spiked heel and, were they… spurs? Long dark hair in a tight braid, cheekbones which could cut glass and striking green eyes. She was the most lovely creature he’d ever seen.

“Good, you’re awake. I am Victoria, leader of the Derp Sidhe,” the woman stated. “How are you feeling?”

“Um, okay, bit of a headache. Where am I?”

“In the BlackDerp Brotherhood Compound. I brought you here after you were attacked in an alley by some gangbangers. Do you remember what happened? Can you tell me your name?”

“Sean. Sean West.” He replied. “I remember bits and pieces. I was heading to the shop and then people were following me… It’s fuzzy after then.”

There was a brief pause and then he asked “What is a Derp Sidhe?”

“We are a supernatural race of women, somewhat similar to your mythical Amazons. We protect and care for the humans in our territory. Tonight you were attacked in my territory. I have seen to it that this will not be repeated. I cannot bring myself to regret it however – it has brought us together.”

Leaving aside the last bit of her answer, he asked instead: “Supernatural? Does that mean you have super powers?”

“We are very strong and agile and long lived. Some of our kind have specific talents but we cannot fly if that is what you mean.”

“Oh, good to know.” He wasn’t tracking very well. He was overwhelmed and confused. “Hey, what’s that noise?”

“What noise?”

“The ticking noise.”

“You hear it too?” she asked, satisfied. Not that she needed the confirmation.

“Well?” he queried.

“It’s my bonding clock. As soon as I saw you, it started. You and I, we are meant to be together. Being with me could mean danger for you though, as my kind has enemies. All Winders live in the compound. We will need to move your things.”


“Winders are those who set off the bonding clock. It’s another name for a member of the BlackDerp Brotherhood – our mates. In what location are your belongings? I shall send someone for them.”

“Wait a minute! Don’t you think we should at least have dinner first?” he joked. But she could tell from his face that he wasn’t averse to what she was offering. It was a gift of the Derp Sidhe, courtesy of the bonding clock. She would always know what he wanted. What he needed.

Victoria crossed to the bed and leaned down, her face close to Sean’s, gazing into his startling violet eyes. She turned her face and whispered near his ear “Dinner is for after.” Then she moved to his mouth and laid her lips over his. He opened his mouth to her questing tongue and was immediately lost. Passion surged inside him, the likes of which he had never known. His tongue duelled with hers in a sensual battle he had no hope of winning. Her hands roamed his body, sliding over his chest and abdomen, down to the waistband of his jeans. So caught up in the kiss was he that he barely noticed she’d undone the buttonfly until a hand reached into his boxer briefs and grasped his rock hard cock. He groaned as her clever hands stroked him and she broke the kiss and began to slide her open mouth down his neck, stopping just below his jaw to give him a quick bite with small sharp teeth.

“It will ever be thus between us” she whispered, “it is the blessing of the Derp.”

Then she released him and stood. “Unfortunately, this delight must be continued later. Before the mating, you must meet my sisters.”

Sean was in agony. “Please!” he begged. “You can’t leave me like this.”

Victoria laughed softly, “I will make it up to you dear derpling, I promise.”


Victoria led Sean into a wide assembly hall with a dais at the far end. About thirty women were milling around, conversation a low buzz in the room. As the first of the sisters spied the couple however, the noise ceased altogether. Victoria strode confidently to the dais, beckoning Sean with her.

She stood before her sisters and raised her hands.

“Behold, my sisters. My Winding Time has come. This man is Sean West and he has set off my Bonding Clock. Let the ritual commence.”

Sean was dumbstruck. Ritual? Wait, he didn’t even know this woman? Sure, she was hot but he had the feeling something important was happening. Something he wasn’t ready for.

“Um, Victoria,” he whispered. She looked his way, curious.

“What is happening?”

“The mating ritual will take place and you will be initiated into the Black Derp Brotherhood. Once you have been marked, you will be able to meet the other derplings.”

“Mating ritual?” he said, his voice rising. “Marked?”

“Fear not, my love, this is what is best for you. And the marking will not hurt. Very much.” She smiled revealing her sharp teeth.

One by one the other sisters came to the dais and laid their hands on Sean. Some touched his chest or his face, others, his hips or his butt. He felt very uncomfortable but when he looked over at Victoria, she seemed relaxed and pleased with the attention he was receiving. Each sister each laid at his feet, of all things, a banana leaf and intoned words in a foreign language. He hadn’t heard it before. For some reason, it sounded ancient to his ears. Then each sister bowed before Victoria and moved on for the next.

Sean whispered to Victoria: “What’s the deal with the banana leaves?”

Victoria replied equally quietly: “It is a symbol of fertility in our culture. The other derplings will teach you to make a hammock out of the leaves after the ceremony. It is good fortune to have a well-made banana hammock. Now hush.”

After each sister had got a good look at him, deposited their banana leaf and said the ritual words, Victoria turned to him and said: “Take off your clothes.”

He gulped. “Here?”

“Yes, here,” she said. “There is no shame in a well formed derpling. It is necessary for the marking.”

He looked into Victoria’s eyes. Even though this was outside his comfort zone, he drew confidence from her. She would always know what is right, what is best, he found himself thinking. Something felt so right about what was happening. Yes, he was her mate. Her Winder. He stripped.

The sisters made noises of appreciation as he stood naked in the big hall. Victoria inspected him and gestured for him to turn around so he faced away from the other women. He felt a warm rush of air and Victoria whispered “be still my derpling” and then sharp teeth bit into his butt – a fiery pain. Why then was he suddenly hard as a railway spike?

Victoria smiled against the warm flesh of her mate. She could smell his arousal. “Yes,” she thought, “He is a fitting mate for me.”

A sister brought the ritual balm which both soothed the mark and ensured its permanence and Victoria smoothed it on carefully, murmuring soothing words to Sean. Her other hand slipped around to his front, delighted with his arousal and gave him a couple of approving tugs. She wondered idly how Sean did this for himself. His hands were remarkably tiny.

Victoria dressed Sean in the black robe of the Black Derp Brotherhood and together, they faced the Sisters, triumphant.

Sean’s butt was a little sore, but it wasn’t too bad. They had moved into some kind of refectory and an impromptu party had commenced. There was even cake. The Sisters were joined by men in black robes just like his – there were perhaps twenty or so, not enough for every one of the women to have a mate.

“Sean,” Victoria said. “This is my good friend Kara.”

He turned to see a tall woman with red-gold hair smiling at him. “Welcome Sean,” Kara said. “I am so happy Victoria has finally met her mate. When she started wearing the pleather jeggings, we knew her time was running out.”

“I’m sorry?” Sean said.

Kara explained. “In our species, a Sister begins to lose her sense of taste at around age 100. By the time she has no taste at all, which can be a period of anything from 5 to 10 years, it is too late for her to ever find her Winder.”

“Taste?” Sean queried. “As in the taste of spicy food or something?”

“No,” Kara laughed. “Taste. Before Victoria’s mother met her Winder she started wearing big shoulder pads and leg warmers. Victoria’s sister, Marta, only wears stonewash denim.” Kara shuddered. “It’s a genetic defect in our species. Unfortunately, the effects are permanent, but now that the ritual mating has taken place, it won’t get any worse at least.”

Sean wondered what pleather jeggings were. Were they those tight shiny pants Victoria wore? He found them strangely attractive. It was just another way he knew he and his new mate were perfect for each other.

He smiled beatifically at Kara. He had a feeling being mugged after midnight was going to work out to be the best thing that could ever have happened to him.


Spoof Story: Desolately Part III by Theresa Bland aka Tez Miller

I’m very bad at this, and very sorry. But, at least this time it isn’t a week later? :X We should be excited about that right? Anyway, spoof story! Tez Miller. We’re back at it and trucking along! I hope you enjoy it! Requisite necessary note that the covers were created by Jen W. at Cover Remix. She’s brillz.

DesolatelyDesolately by Theresa Bland (a.k.a. Tez Miller)

Elle American is a New Orleans princess with ambitions of becoming queen. But to achieve that, she’d have to kill her parents and older sisters, or wait for them all to die, and she really couldn’t be bothered.

Meanwhile, a land far, far away needs a queen. But when Elle arrives, Batmania is nothing like the brochure. Instead of a tropical paradise with buff, bronzed bodies, it’s a burnt-out wasteland with only bogans for company, and no palace.

Elle could return to New Orleans with no queen title to her name – or she could convert Batmania’s dystopia into a utopia. She has no particular skills of note, but perhaps her mere presence is the perfect thing to turn around the kingdom’s fortunes…

Tez Miller is a reader, reviewer, and blogger based in Batmania (a.k.a. Melbourne), Australia. She’s the queen of her own blog, Tez Says.


In which our heroine learns that a hot guy is always hot, even when – or because – he seems to hate you

This area of Batmania was a former campground, and the Batcave was a brick shithouse. No kidding – there were rows of shower- and toilet-cubicles. There was a joke to be made involving “clearing the cobwebs out of my plumbing,” but I couldn’t figure out how to translate my abstract, incomplete observation into a proper sentence. So I stumbled out, “This is the Batcave?”

“Ha!” Sheila followed that up with, “I wish I were a glow-worm, for a glow-worm’s never glum…”

I could not keep up with her train of thought.

She clapped a hand on my bare shoulder, spooking the hell out of me. Damn haunted campground bathroom. “Want me to find someone who speaks your language?” she offered.

“Someone who can get me on a helicopter back to the airport,” I said. “Please.” Saying he magic word would help, right?

Sheila laughed, and clapped my shoulder again. “I’ll take you to the president’s office.”

My eyebrows shot up. I was actually hoping for a king to make me queen, but a president would do.

She took my hand, and led the way towards a janitorial closet. She knocked on the door.

“Hark, who goes there?” an extremely deep voice asked. I thought I detected an accent similar to mine, but that could’ve been Batmanian madness affecting me.

“Ever heard of a New Orleans princess?” Sheila turned the doorknob.

“The technical term is bitch.”

Sheila opened the door to reveal a hot black guy in the walk-in closet. Yes, I noticed his hotness, colour, and gender, because this stuff is important to a royal. Hotness, because no one wants to fuck a fugly. Colour, because there’s less chance of you being related if your skin colours differ greatly from each other. (There used to be a lot of inbred royals, so it’s vital to breed with outsiders.) And gender, because I was pretty sure I was straight, minus the occasional girl-on-girl make-out session to attract guys.

The hot black guy raised a thick, but neat, eyebrow. He stared right at me, and it’s a good thing I wore panties, otherwise my moisture would’ve flooded the closet.

Oh, so that’s why it’s called a water closet…

“This is the princess?” He even did air-quotes, which ordinarily I would find as pretentious as hell, but his fingers were long but rough…

I smoothed my gown’s front, bringing attention to my chest. “Queen of Batmania now.” I held out my hand. “I’m Elle American, former princess of New Orleans.”

He shook his head, but not my hand. “NOLA doesn’t have royalty.”

Elbows out, I stuck my hands on my hips, emphasising my slender waist. “When were you there last?”

I realised my error when his eyebrow lowered, and he brooded. Okay, he scowled, but hot mysterious guys don’t scowl; they brood. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked that.

Sheila choked out a phlegm-y cough. Okay, it was probably just a normal, dry, “ahem” throat-clearing, but anything sounded awful compared to the hot black guy’s voice, even when it questioned my royal status. Hot fuckwit.

Sheila asked, “Do you want to tell her about this place, or shall I?”

He swept us out of the closet. I so wanted to ride that broomstick.

Maybe there was something true about the saying that love turns people into idiots.

Spoof Story: Desolately Part II by Theresa Bland aka Tez Miller

We’re baaaaaack! December! Spoof story! Tez Miller. Short sentences! 😉 (Well, short everything I suppose today.) 😀 I hope you enjoy it! And remember, the covers were created by Jen W. at Cover Remix. She’s brillz.

DesolatelyDesolately by Theresa Bland (a.k.a. Tez Miller)

Elle American is a New Orleans princess with ambitions of becoming queen. But to achieve that, she’d have to kill her parents and older sisters, or wait for them all to die, and she really couldn’t be bothered.

Meanwhile, a land far, far away needs a queen. But when Elle arrives, Batmania is nothing like the brochure. Instead of a tropical paradise with buff, bronzed bodies, it’s a burnt-out wasteland with only bogans for company, and no palace.

Elle could return to New Orleans with no queen title to her name – or she could convert Batmania’s dystopia into a utopia. She has no particular skills of note, but perhaps her mere presence is the perfect thing to turn around the kingdom’s fortunes…

Tez Miller is a reader, reviewer, and blogger based in Batmania (a.k.a. Melbourne), Australia. She’s the queen of her own blog, Tez Says.

In which our heroine learns that her fairy godmother is a fugly chick

“You have no farking clue.”

I lifted my gaze from the dusty ground to the burnt-out tree trunks and dead branches. And, apparently, a fugly chick. Dressed in stretched-to-the-limit jeans, a white T-shirt and red flannelette button-down barely containing a muffin top, she also wore boots. Not sexy stiletto-heeled boots or country bumpkin cowboy boots, but…work boots.

God spare me from manual labour…

“That’s it?” she remarked, quirking an unplucked eyebrow. “No snazzy comeback, or even a, ‘who the bloody hell are ya?'”

Ugh, were all the locals’ accents and voices going to be like that, all nasal and whiny? I retorted, “So who the bloody hell are you?”

Her hands slapped her knees. “Well, stone the flaming crows; the princess can mock.” She stood, holding out a hand. “If you’re Cinderella, I’m your fairy godmother. I’m Sheila. How the farking hell are ya.”

Was that a question? Even royals had to deign politeness with the unwashed masses, so I shook the chick’s – Sheila’s – proffered fingers. “My name’s not Cinderella.” I quickly removed my hand before she could grasp it too long – a second would be too long – and stuck it behind me to wipe semi-discreetly on the folds of my ball-gown’s skirt.

“I know that, dumb-arse.” She jammed her hands into her jeans’ front pockets. “You’re Elle American, princess of New Orleans.”

Technically, yes, but I didn’t skip an opportunity to prove someone wrong. “Actually, now that I’m here, I’m the queen of Batmania.”

Sheila guffawed. She snorted. Whatever those sounds were, they were awful. Her hands broke her fall on the tree stump as she laughed and laughed. She actually had the gall to say, “Did you honestly believe that tripe?”

My eyebrows furrowed.

She choked out a cough and, to her credit, didn’t laugh again. “Very well, then.” She stood. “To the Batcave!”

Spoof Story: Desolately Part I by Theresa Bland aka Tez Miller

Hi friends! The first Thursday in December brings us another fun month of spoof stories! Well, one written in parts, by Tez Miller. 😀 I hope you enjoy it! And remember, the covers were created and from the brilliant mind of Jen W. at Cover Remix.

DesolatelyDesolately by Theresa Bland (a.k.a. Tez Miller)

Elle American is a New Orleans princess with ambitions of becoming queen. But to achieve that, she’d have to kill her parents and older sisters, or wait for them all to die, and she really couldn’t be bothered.

Meanwhile, a land far, far away needs a queen. But when Elle arrives, Batmania is nothing like the brochure. Instead of a tropical paradise with buff, bronzed bodies, it’s a burnt-out wasteland with only bogans for company, and no palace.

Elle could return to New Orleans with no queen title to her name – or she could convert Batmania’s dystopia into a utopia. She has no particular skills of note, but perhaps her mere presence is the perfect thing to turn around the kingdom’s fortunes…

Tez Miller is a reader, reviewer, and blogger based in Batmania (a.k.a. Melbourne), Australia. She’s the queen of her own blog, Tez Says.


In which our heroine indulges in stream of consciousness, so the plot doesn’t require her to actually do anything

I’d taken all kinds of substances on the seemingly endless plane trip. It may have been first class, but a plane was still a plane, and that meant leaving the cushioned comfort of my kingdom.

No one would dare give up being a princess, unless there was a suitable incentive: an upgrade. I could hardly refuse an offer to make me a queen, even if it meant moving to some godforsaken place. On the plus side, its name was a hell of a lot more awesome than that of my homeland.

I would’ve eventually become the queen of New Orleans. My parents would’ve had to die; and my older sisters, before they could produce heirs. But my family was far too healthy, damn them all, and mass homicides required too much organisation and effort. That would mean work, and I don’t do that.

First was my pharmaceutically-slumberous plane ride. Then like a zombie, I was summoned to a helicopter, and I’d just opened my eyes to discover that we’d landed in a shit-hole. And by that, I mean there was no palace. Where was my freaking palace? I hadn’t travelled all this way to live in a… All I could see beyond the clearing were trees. What the hell? I turned to ask the helicopter pilot, but she’d already flown off, the bitch. I suppose I should’ve been grateful that she’d at least dumped my luggage beside me, but gratitude is not in my nature.

Okay, so it wasn’t a total shit-hole. It wasn’t mucky enough for my stiletto-heels to sink into where I stood. Fortunately, if you could consider anything about this place fortunate, the ground was rock-hard, like the abs of the future king to my queen. Or so I imagined them to be. There hadn’t actually been mention of a king; just that the people of Batmania wanted a queen, and they wanted me. I didn’t blame them. Everyone wanted me, whether they were straight, gay, bisexual, or asexual. And if they didn’t want to fuck me, they wanted to fight me, because I’m so desirable, and they’re all haters, blah-blah-blah. They really needed to just shut up and put up with the status quo.

The helicopter must’ve landed on Batmania’s lame excuse for a helipad: a cleared circle on the ground. Elsewhere were tall grasses, crops, or whatever. They looked dead. If that was how the local people treated their own stuff, how the fuck would they treat me? I’d be their queen, which better meant I’d be more of a priority than a bunch of weeds. And if they didn’t treat me better, I’d burn them all…

Oops. I wasn’t supposed to think that kind of thing. That’s why I’d always “needed” a minder back in New Orleans, because I couldn’t be trusted alone, due to my being “psychotic”, or whatever. They’re just labels; everyone tries to put others into boxes. Including my family, who’d clearly kept themselves alive this long just so I couldn’t be the queen. Jealous haters.

Through the thin – like me – satin of my navy ball-gown, the grasses stabbed at my legs, like stiff, dead boners. Hopefully the locals weren’t the type of people who put their thing in everything. I love a hard wang as much as anyone else does; if not more, depending on whose wang, but even I drew a line at leg humping. I wasn’t a dog. Well, I was a bitch, but that goes without saying.

A cold breeze breathed on the flesh bared by my flimsy dress, which was admittedly quite a lot of bared flesh; because there’s no point being this good-looking if I’m covered. I welcomed the chilly winter wind, all the better for my nipples to point like a compass toward where I should find signs of life – even if the only signs of life were in my underpants, if I happened to be wearing any, which I wasn’t. A new location meant a load of new people to fuck, and I was damned if I would waste time not fucking people. Men got blue balls, and I got blue labia.

My high-beam antennae nipples pointed reception from directly in front. I strode toward the trees…


So what did you all think? Does it fit the cover? 😉

Almost There Part IV by Mari Carr & Jess Dee

This post is special because it is the finale of the story authors Mari Carr and Jess Dee wrote based on a cover created by Jen W. at Cover Remix. If you’ve missed the other parts … don’t worry. Or if you’ve been waiting to read them all at once – you can do that now! (And maybe I’ll one day figure out how to arrange it so the links appear in order of how it’s written instead of chronologically?) I really hope you’ll read it and let us all know what you think. 🙂


Almost ThereAlmost There (Part IV)

Mari Carr
Jess Dee

Atlanta, Georgia is miles away from Jake’s Robert’s life in Sydney, Australia.
But since his mother uprooted them both to live in America with her new husband, Jake has no choice but to find his feet in his new home.

Problem is that new home, so totally foreign to him, is also strangely familiar. As is the hauntingly beautiful Southern Belle who appears to him out of thin air…determined to address him as John Masters, someone Jake doesn’t know at all.
Or does he?


Jake opened his eyes, blinking against the bright light of the sun. For several moments, he lay still, trying to get his bearings. The only things he knew for certain was he was outside and he was completely alone.

Which was impossible.

He’d just taken a shower and he was getting dressed in his bedroom. Then she’d come in…his lovely Lizzie. Only it hadn’t really been her. She was a ghost. Or at least, he thought she was.

Everything was hazy, his memories confusing. The lines between what was real and imagined became more and more blurred.

Where was he?

Who was he?

A sharp pain pulsed from his chest. Jake glanced at the branches above his head. He’d been here before. Oh God. This was where he’d died. He remembered lying beneath this tree as the blood flowed and his breath stilled. He’d given up, closed his eyes and let death take him.

Not this time. Jake forced himself to look around, then pulled on every bit of strength he could muster as he pushed to his feet. Glancing down, he saw the blood. It was true. He’d gone back in time, back to the moment of his death. Some force of nature or fate was giving him a second chance, another opportunity to rewrite the ending.

Lizzie. He kept her face in his mind as he placed one foot in front of the other. For hours, he marched forward with a single purpose, only one goal. He would get to her. He would go down on one knee and he’d propose. Jake—no, he was John again—had been granted the greatest of gifts and this time he wouldn’t fail. His love for her had survived decades spent in other bodies, other places, other times.

The sun rose and set twice, but John gave himself only brief moments of respite, refusing to fall asleep for fear he wouldn’t wake up again. He’d been down that road before, thinking he’d rest beneath the tree only to find himself a hundred and fifty years in the future and finding the love of his life was a ghost.

Finally, the sound of a horse and cart caught his ear and he stumbled toward it.

The driver saw him and pulled the horses to a halt. “Where you headed, soldier?”

The accent was distinctly southern. John was grateful for the familiar lilt. Then he realized he had no idea how far he was from home. “I’m John Masters from Atlanta. I was wounded and separated from my company. I’m trying to get home.”

The elderly man studied his injuries. “How long have you been walking, son?”

John shrugged. “A few days.”

“Hop in the back and rest your head a while. I’ll get you home.”

John lifted himself into the cart, lightheaded from pain and the loss of blood. He quickly disregarded both. He was almost there. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to close his eyes, giving into sheer exhaustion.

When he awoke, he felt a soft pillow beneath his head and heard the sound of quiet whispers.

“The doctor says it’s a miracle he survived,” he heard someone say. “Not sure how he made it three steps, let alone miles.”

Then he heard the voice he’d been waiting several lifetimes to hear. “It’s John. He’s the strongest, bravest man I’ve ever known. Of course, he made it.”

“Lizzie.” John was surprised to hear the rasp of his voice. Days spent in the heat with precious little water had taken their toll, leaving his throat dry, sore.

A small hand clasped his. “I’m here, my love. I’m right here.”

“Had to get back to you. Couldn’t die again.” The pain he’d kept at bay for days finally surfaced, leaving him foggy, confused.

“Again?” she asked. “But you didn’t die. You’re here.”

He worked hard to focus on her face, trying to determine if she knew, if she recalled him meeting him as Jake.

Lizzie looked over her shoulder. “Mama, would you mind telling John’s family he’s awake? And maybe you could bring him a glass of water as well.”

He glanced around the room. Why had the old man brought him here to Lizzie? How had he known?

Lizzie’s mother excused herself.

“The man who found you passed by our place first. He stopped to see if we knew you. Of course, I insisted that they bring you inside. The doctor and your parents were called and they’ve been here for two days. They’re all outside right now. You are John now, yes? Jake is gone.”

“You remember.”

Lizzie nodded. “At first, I thought perhaps it was a dream I’d had, but when I saw you in the back of that cart, a lifetime of memories crashed down on me—of your death, my sadness. I never married, never left this house, never stopped believing that you’d come back to me. I died two years after you. The doctor blamed consumption, but I know it was a broken heart.”

“You waited all those years?”

She smiled. “You came back.”

He tightened his grip on her hand. “For you? Always. I love you, Lizzie. I want to marry you, want to spend my life making you happy.”
“Someone somewhere out there must like us.”

John agreed. They’d been given an amazing gift. One that he wouldn’t take for granted. “I suspect the room is about to be swarmed by my well-meaning family. Kiss me, my love, before they arrive.”

She laughed, the sound washing over him like the sweetest salve, soothing all his hurts. Then she bent forward and pressed her lips to his.
John reached up to cup her face, deepening the embrace as he stroked his tongue against hers. He’d waited far too long to hold her like this again. Now that he had her close, he never intended to let her out of his sight again.

Lizzie’s delicate hands gently caressed his bare chest. If anyone walked in now, they’d be scandalized, then chastised, then marched before a minister. John grinned. He’d suffer the first two, simply because the end result was the one he wanted any way.

“I love you, John,” Lizzie whispered against his lips. “I can’t believe you’re really here. That we have a chance to do everything right this time.” Then, she said, more to herself than him. “I’m going to be your wife and the mother of your children.”

John nodded. “And I’ll be your husband. Give me a few more days to recover and then we’ll make this all official. Not long now.”

Lizzie smiled. “We’re almost there.”


I hope you guys enjoyed this story that Mari and Jess wrote specifically for ALBTALBS. 🙂 I think they’re both awesome – and if you missed the previous parts, everything is all tagged for you. Thank you, Mari and Jess!!!

Almost There (Part III) by Mari Carr & Jess Dee

This post is wily! It had apparently be set to Private or floating around and… please just let’s say it went up as planned. I know you remember the series of spoof stories at ALBTALBS because Part II was only a week ago… again I want to thank the wonderful Jen W. at Cover Remix. And of course our fearless (intrepid? ;-)) authors Mari Carr and Jess Dee. Seriously – they’re good sports. We should all show them some love.


Almost ThereAlmost There (Part III)

Mari Carr
Jess Dee

Atlanta, Georgia is miles away from Jake’s Robert’s life in Sydney, Australia.
But since his mother uprooted them both to live in America with her new husband, Jake has no choice but to find his feet in his new home.

Problem is that new home, so totally foreign to him, is also strangely familiar. As is the hauntingly beautiful Southern Belle who appears to him out of thin air…determined to address him as John Masters, someone Jake doesn’t know at all.
Or does he?


Lizzie’s mouth opened to his immediately, their tongues meeting in a dance so familiar and so exciting, goose flesh sprung to life all the way down his back. She moaned softly, a sound that echoed through his ears, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close, deepening the kiss.

Good Christ, she smelled amazing. And tasted even better, like the spring berries he loved so much.

Lizzie pressed herself against the length of his body, her firm, round breasts pushing against his chest. Jake experienced a moment of profound frustration as he tried to curve her lower body to his, but her massive skirt prevented him from getting closer. Then Lizzie laughed breathlessly and whispered, “soon” and Jake lost himself to the taste of her tongue and the feel of her lips.

He kissed her until a billion memories rained down on him, until John Masters no longer seemed like a foreigner from a distant land. He kissed her until he was John Masters, the young lieutenant about to head off to war.

How on earth had he forgotten this part of his life? How could he have lived so free of memories of the person he was and had always been. John Masters, son of Lillian and Charles Masters, born March, 1845 in Atlanta, Georgia. Recent member of the Confederate army and soon to be husband of Elizabeth O’Hara. He would propose to her. Just as soon as he returned home from the war.

Jake gasped and broke the kiss, pulling his lips from Lizzie’s.

What the fuckola?

Had he just convinced himself he was a young Confederate soldier, going off to fight in a battle that had taken place one hundred and fifty years ago?

As he stared at the woman he loved and intended to marry—yet didn’t know at all—she gave a soft sigh and shimmered away to…nothing, leaving Jake holding air.

Only the tingle on his lips and the painful tightening in his groin remained as proof that he had in fact kissed her.


Dan and his mom had put his silence at dinner down to general teenage angst. They’d been wrong. In fact, Jake’s silence had been the result of his astounding encounter in the passageway.

He’d met a ghost, kissed her, and remembered a million memories he’d never experienced. A billion thoughts and emotions had battled for dominance in his head. Astonishment at interacting with a ghost. Confusion that he’d recognized said ghost. Utter enchantment for her. And bewilderment that he’d recognized himself as John Masters, a person he’d never heard of before today.

But perhaps most of all, he was consumed by memories of the kiss they’d shared. The very real kiss that had seared its way down his spine and left the flavor of Lizzie forever imprinted on his tongue.

Leaving the dinner table and taking a shower hadn’t made much of a difference. Jake was still obsessed with their improbable meeting.

He wiped down the mirror, clearing it of fog and stared at his reflection, then frowned. Somehow he hadn’t expected to see himself in there. Something life-changing had happened this afternoon. Surely that change should be visible in his face? In his features or body? But no, he just looked like the same old Jake Roberts he’d always been.

The same Jake Roberts who’d kissed his Lizzie—or was that John’s Lizzie?—in the passageway.

“I kissed a ghost and I liked it,” he hummed softly, shaking his head at his reflection. “The taste of her…”

“Oh, John,” a soft gasp behind him had Jake spinning around. “My, oh my, don’t you look handsome all dressed up in your uniform like that.”

Lizzie stood before him, her hands clasped together beneath her chin and her pink ball gown showing off her feminine curves. Her blue eyes glowed with pride and love.

Jake couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. Seeing Lizzie was the highlight of every day. Lord knew, he’d miss her something fierce when he left tomorrow. He hoped she’d remember to write him every day, just like she’d promised.



He didn’t see her everyday. He’d seen her for the first time this afternoon.

“Oh, dear, you have that look on your face again.” Lizzie’s face dropped. “The one that says you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“A very beautiful ghost.” Without thinking twice, he took her hand and tugged until Lizzie stood in his arms once more. Then he kissed her. Again.

And again the memories rained down on him, and Jake became John. And John let himself drown in the taste of the woman he loved, in the feel of her tucked in his arms, her lips pressed to his, her tongue so seductive in his mouth.

Lord knew, he wanted her naked, beneath him. Counted the days until he could untie the ribbons of her corset, get rid of the countless layers of her petticoat, and finally make her his in every sense of the word.

Lizzie pulled away with a breathless laugh. “You need to be careful,” she chastised. “You’ll crease the uniform before you’re ever seen in public wearing it.”

Jake stared down at his towel. The one that did a useless job of hiding his reaction to Lizzie’s kiss. “Uniform?”

She reached up and fussed with his…collar? “Yes, silly. Uniform.” She nudged his shoulder, urging him to turn around, and this time when Jake faced his reflection, everything he’d expected to see in the mirror earlier but hadn’t, looked back at him.

His face was the same, but his hair was shorter. Much shorter. And rather than his bare chest and towel, he saw a grey, buttoned jacket that instantly made his skin itch beneath the rough wool. He was dressed for…war.

Not just dressed for war. He’d been to war. Left this house, left his parents’ house, left…Lizzie.

He’d left the woman he’d loved to go and fight for a cause he hadn’t been a hundred percent sure he’d agreed with. God knew, he loved the South, and loved the life he’d led there, but slavery…

No, slavery had never been something he’d die for. Yet, he’d gone to war. And he’d fought. Faced battles bloodier than any man—any child—should ever have to face. Hand-to-hand combat. Sword-to-sword combat. He’d fought, and he’d killed, and he’d been killed.

Jake gasped, struggled to find air.

“L-Lizzie,” he stuttered.

Her eyes were enormous, staring back at him in the mirror.

“Lizzie, my love. I…I died.”

Her jaw dropped. “You what?”

“I died. Lizzie. I’m dead.”

And God, he remembered it, remembered every second. The look of pathological rage on his opponent’s face, the hatred blazing from his eyes. Then the burning pain as the Union soldier’s sword pierced his flesh, slid between his ribs and found his heart.

Jake clutched his chest, as though trying to staunch the invisible flow of blood as it coursed from the mortal wound.

“He killed me,” Jake whispered hoarsely. And as his eyes closed and the last breath stuttered from his lungs, Jake gave voice to one thing he mourned in that last second of life.


“Jake!” Her voice, filled with panic and concern washed over him like cool rain in the summer.

“Lizzie,” he whispered. She seemed so far away. He reached out for her. “Lizzie. I’m almost there.”