1 AM, Sunday morning, no cars around. Atop the hill south of Camp Williams the urban world falls away. The cankerous subdivisions are ten years in the future, and the nearest building ahead of me is five miles away. Unreclaimed desert grasslands surround me.

The full moon lights the dead straight, empty road flowing down the long slope ahead.

I roll down the windows and turn off the radio to hear the wind and the crickets, then I ease into the center of the road, straddling the two lanes. The headlights go off, and I slide the gearshift into neutral. If someone coming my way is likeways running dark, we'll never see each other in time.

I dream of it sometimes, flying in the dark.

I'm such a little me-too lately...my mom bought me this book of vampire stories and today I've already tried my hand at it...people that know me would totally spot this as mine, though...

It's not finished, but should I bother?

For the sake of this story, you can call me Jane Wayne. It’s not my name, but it has been in the squad since I started working Vice; the guys think it’s funny to see a woman who hustles more than they do and they think I’m a cowboy, so...instant nickname. I should only have to live with it for twenty years or so and by then the sound of perps making sucking sounds and kissing noises at me will have faded. I hope so.

Till then, there are guys I fucking love to lock up...the ones that call me mami and make obscene suggestions that I can’t tell if they want me to understand. Not that this is a racial thing; the assholes looking for a souvenir other than a t-shirt from the fancy hotels can be way worse because no matter what sicko shit they like they still look at me like “Don’t you know who I am?” If it’s true that a stiff prick has no conscience, I don’t think it has a pedigree either. I think they’re all the same. I used to like men once, before this job.

Not that I found myself loving anyone on my special detail. Dressed like a hooker, on the first genuinely “chilly” Phoenix October night, my love for humanity on absolute negative digits...this wasn’t an ordinary sting taken on to placate the city fathers. We were looking for somebody special.
The kind of sick bastard who tore up women’s veins like cheap hamburger, and weirdly enough, drained them. Exsanguinated, according to the cutter’s report. The more I read I longed for the protection of my uniform and my Glock. Maybe I am a cowboy, trapped in Miss Kitty’s body.

“This is my corner.” The hooker standing next to me said. She was younger than she seemed, little more than a girl, and she’d be far more beautiful without the crap on her face.I had to laugh at myself for thinking of that, like I could solve anybody’s problems, even mine.

“I’m not moving in on you,” I explained, flashing my badge discreetly.

Ed Gein: If I read nothing but Pulitzer winners, could I write one of those too?

erika, only one line in there made me blink the wrong way - I can't get a mental image of tearing up cheap hamgburger. Stale string cheese, yes; soft beef jerky, definitely. But tearing up hamburger - I can't picture it.

I wondered about it, too, but not enough to have another thought on tap!

The road I wrote about in my drabble had a three-car accident with injuries this morning. Too many cars on a two-lane road.

connie, we've got some of those in NorCal, as well - those haunting and haunted bits that have got developed beyond capacity, and the roads crowd up. There's quite a few up toward Santa Rosa, and Napa.

Lord give me strength.

Received this morning: A phone call from Jenn, my agent. She got an email from Ruth's assistant, Toni:

"Hi Jenn, I'm preparing the deal memo for "Cruel Sister"; when may we expect the manuscript? If Deborah can deliver it this fall, we can publish in fall 2006."

What the HELL? They haven't made any offer. We have no clue what in hell they're talking about. They keep me dangling for seven months - they got the proposal in early January - and now they're imposing deadlines?

I mean, okay, a book deal is a book deal, even if it's going to be a wrench to drag my head and heart away from the Kinkaid Chronicles and back into the Haunted Ballads, but WTF?

Jenn has no clue either. She hasn't received any offer. She's got a phone call in to Toni, to find out what the hell they're talking about.

God, Deb. WTF is right. Seems like they skipped an important step there...

Amy, the part that just leaves me with my jaw dangling?

"Can we have it by...."

Um - hello? Next time, wanna kiss me first?

Oh, and remember the Words to Music anthology I wrote "Long Black Veil" for, last year? The Johnny Cash-themed ghost story? The editor's agent is sitting down to talk to BenBella. I understand they're really a good little speciality house.