Aphrodisia Authors :: Blog

In this holiday season some of us rely on letters to Santa to get shopping ideas for children and charitable organizations, sometimes even friends. But a letter to Santa sometimes offers more than just present suggestions. Sometimes the gift wishes and nature of the letter itself gives insight into the very psyche of the person who wrote it.

Of course, if  we could read a person’s mind as easily as we read a book then letter writing might not be necessary. When it comes to literary characters we usually learn enough about their needs and wants in the course of the story that shopping for them would be a breeze. With this truism in mind I began wondering what some of our most cherished literary characters would have to say to Santa if they were to correspond with him?  In several incidences the hypothetical Santa letters were pretty easy to make conclusions about.  Or at least I think so..but I’ll let you be the final judge here as I present some of my “If famous literary characters wrote to Santa”.

Dear Sir Claus,

I hope this letter finds all well and prosperous in your kingdom and that you and your good wife are well and healthy. The following is my Christmas wish list for this year:

12 LARGE cans CAFFEINATED coffee

200 six-packs of energy drinks

2 dozen tins of Earl Grey tea.

Sugar –sacks and sacks of it!

5 case lots of No-DOZ pills

I have been a good girl this year and pray, with all my heart, you can bring these items. Please excuse my sense of urgency but my 15^th birthday is next month.

Warmest regards,

Sleeping Beauty

Santa of Claus,

I have been nice boy. Please bring following: New sheath for my sword. Syrian steel battleaxe with blood-grove handle. Mace cudgel with poison-tipped studs. My Little Pony Tea Party Play Set.

You will find cookies and mead under the tree of execution.

Conan of Cimmeria

Dear Mr. Santa Claus,

This is my first time writing to you with a request, but Dad tells me boys round my age traditionally write you at this time of the year if they have a special gift request for Christmas. I’m not real choosy but have came up with a few ideas that may help in your holiday shopping. These are listed below.

Sincerely,

Benjamin Button

A subscription to Mechanics Illustrated

A Mila Kunis bikini poster

Tony Hawk autographed skateboard

A Playstation 3

A football

A bicycle

Legos castle

Box of crayons

Teddy bear

Trike

My First Elmo

Bloks

blanky

P.S. –  Mr. Claus, this is Benjamin’s father. A box of diapers for my son will be fine, if you make your sleigh ride really, really early this year. Otherwise, I wouldn’t sweat it.

Salutations Mr. Claus,

As previously requested and satisfactorily delivered, I am requesting the following items for my Yuletide seasonal wish list:

Morphine drip

Small metal spoons

A selection of Asian Blue Lotus plants

Syringes

Wide rubber bands

Charcoal

Saline nasal mist

Jamaican hemp

New hooka

A subscription to the Hallucinogenic Mushroom of the Month

3 bottles of Mezcal tequila

I would also very much enjoy  a copy of this year’s 1001 Best Dumb Doctor Jokes.

Thank you and warm regards for the Season,

Sherlock Holmes

Hello Santa,

I am currently enjoying practically everything a boy could ask for, including candy, cake and pet donkeys, but there are a couple of things I would appreciate for Christmas:

A can of Black Flag Full-Strength Cricket Killer Spray

A latex stretchable nose guard

Yeah, this should cover it.

Ciao,

Pinocchio

Dearest St. Nick,

I hope you are as every bit as happy and lively as you were last year. Let me again tell you how grateful I was to have been picked last year for a special visit to Santa’s wondrous home in the North Pole! The bright memory of that enchanting visit is one I will never forget.  I so adored everything I experienced – the Toy shop, the reindeer stable, the hot cocoa tavern and the candy factory. But I suppose, no -I know!- my favorite part was sitting with you before the cozy hearth and reveling in the warmth of your Yule log.

This year I have but a single request to make of you, my benevolent good friend. It is a wish I have thought out long and hard since I heard how your back went out after bouncing me on your knee all that last long, wintry Christmas eve. If not for the injury I would ask for you to spend the holidays with me in the countryside. But since you’re still in a brace what say we wait on that until next year? Thus my wish is this, dearest St. Nick, for the secret to making a wooden boy lie. And I don’t mean a little white fib, I mean big, grandiose WHOPPER fabrications! Oh, if you can confide this secret to me I will be the most ecstatic girl in the world!

Warmly, truly, damply yours,

Fanny Hill

Dear Father Christmas,

I have been an exceptionally well-behaved young woman this year and pray you can deliver me the following:

2000-count case of lip balm

Cliff notes for The Neverending Story, War and Peace and a plot guide for every episode of Law & Order ever aired.

If you are unable to bring these to me may my father and I just hitch a ride on your sled?

Thank you and well wishes,

Scheherazade

Greetings Father Christmas,

The list of my required necessities is relatively short this year:

20 new blades

10 new strops

Mens aftershave (fragrance optional)

Towels – as many as you can bring

A butcher’s hook

2 shovels

A new professional vivisection kit

As we both know you can see into the hearts of all men so I will not tire you with an attempt to convince you whether I’ve been naughty or nice this year. Have a pleasant journey and Merry Christmas!

Sweeney Todd

P.S. If you bring all the items on my Christmas list I will treat you to a shave and haircut – on the house!

From the desk of  Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress, Gryffindor House, Hogwarts

To Kris Kringle, Owner and Proprietor, Santa’s Toys and Candy Distributorship, Corp., North Pole

Dear Kris,

I was tickled to receive the announcement you are to be a father! Congratulations my old friend! I must confess you proved me wrong. I predicted nothing but heartbreak when you first said you had married an exotic dancer after knowing her only one night. I see now, however, that you and Fourchestia are well-suited. I realize also that you’ve indeed found the true love you’ve always sough. It is likewise evident your bride takes joy in making those long nights in the artic much warmer. And in time, surely, her cousin Rubeus will come round to accepting the marriage.

As to your question, yes I have been an extremely “good girl this year” LOL!! And if there is anything I’ve had my eye on it is an outfit I noticed in the latest Victoria’s Secret catalog. It is located on page 14, and is quite reminiscent of that cute number I had a long time ago. You remember that outfit don’t you, Kris? I was wearing it when you, Albus and Cyril the Cyclops popped in for a visit to my dorm room back in the autumn of ’61. Oh, now isn’t that an adorable memory? I’ll never forget how the three of you got me drunk on hard cider and we enjoyed the entire long and sweaty night together. Of course, while your attentions and those of Cyril were quite flattering I do believe I could have been out of the room and Albus would have been just as contented. Nevertheless he surprised us all with his aptness for mare breaking. I dare say if you hadn’t brought along that Vaseline we’d have never got his saddle off and I may well have spent the next decades confined to a wheel chair-

~continued page 2~

Dear Mr. Claus,

If history tells us anything it is that myths are birthed from the human need to put a face upon that which is unexplainable by ordinary human understanding. The educated comprehend this and in this enlightened state naturally become dubious of the exaggerated and sometimes ridiculously farfetched feats attributed to the subjects of myth. You, sir, are one of these subjects.

On the other hand, as an intelligent but needy man without resources or the influence to obtain what I need, I say what the heck, it can’t hurt to ask Santa! For some time now I have been trying to obtain permission from the Bishop of the Church of Ethiopia to enter the St. Mary of Zion at Axum Church. It is here that the Ark of the Covenant is reported to be held. My research into this artifact requires me to see and inspect it firsthand, but as you may have already guessed, the Bishop has turned down my requests. So if you would be so kind as to procure for me this official permission to see the relic I would be eternally grateful.

Yours truly,

Robert Langdon

P.S. If you are unable to procure the authorization there is woman, a model, whose telephone number I would like to have. I don’t know her name, but her photo can be seen in the latest issue of Victiora’s Secret. This is found on page 14, and she’s wearing a hot little leather corset with a feathered bodice and she’s kneeled and mounted with a saddle. Thanks so much –and yes, sad to say, I’ve been an extremely good boy this year!

~R.L.

Dear Kris Kringle,

Thank you for taking the time to converse with me via the neutral territory of the U.S. Postal Service. I have always respected your position among those who work to protect the working citizens of the North Pole and have the highest regard for your charitable organization.

However, it has come to my attention that you have turned down my wife’s nephew, Mario, citing him as unsuitable for employment at your toy manufacturing plant. While I concede Mario is young and inexperienced in making anything besides cement shoes, allow me to remind you of the favor I extended some years back when you needed help convincing a particular mountain climber that his oogling your wife was not appreciated. In consideration of the time my “staff” took in dealing with that problem it will behoove you to not only hire Mario but to compensate his patience with an advanced salary equaling two years cost of living increases and full medical coverage. I expect this request to be fulfilled as I’m sure you are a man who honors his obligations. And for the sake of future smooth business transactions between our families this matter should be settled within the week, as I hate to think of the disfiguring look of disappointment on the faces of your trusted servants.

Yours truly,

Vito Corleone

Dear customer,

As per your request: the notification of Resident Unknown status has been forwarded to your last mailer, along with the letter they sent you.

Thank you,

U.S. Postal Service

Greetings, brother.

Business associates of yours paid an unexpected visit to my abode last night. At least this is my assumption since you are the only person I know with friends who leave gifts of the like these people did. I will further assume it was left here because these people are under the impression that this is your current address of physical residence. Suffice to say, waking up to find a reindeer head in my bed isn’t my idea of a good morning.

Now I consider myself a patient man and have dealt with your history of pranks and irresponsible behavior for years, and to the best of my abilities have been a loyal and supportive brother. Remember it was my sharing of arcane knowledge that gave your reindeers the power of flight. It was my influence over the weather that allowed you to build that huge, expensive (and gaudy) toy factory way up in the middle of the freak’n North Pole. And let us not forget that it was me who used to sober up your friend Albus back in your college days AND provided him an alibi when the zoo cops were looking for that kangaroo they suspected he “borrowed”.

Despite all this you pay me back by deliberately involving me in your underworld activities. Worse, that reindeer head ruined the only satin sheets I had – sheets given to me by the only girlfriend I’ve had in three centuries. So guess what? You owe me a set of satin sheets, you owe me an apology and you damned well better get this situation straightened out and before Minerva arrives next weekend!  She’s bringing a saddle and Vaseline, and if your criminal activities mess up our plans then your poor reindeer isn’t going to be the only thing missing a head!!!

Sincerely,

Gandalf

————————————————————————————————–

I wish everyone a warm, safe and joyous Yule this year!

~Anya

http://anyahoward.com

This post isn’t about a new Aphrodisia book, but this last month my novella Taming the Rose was released from Beyond the Page Publishing.  As it is an Erotic Romance fantasy, I thought readers of my Aphrodisia titles may just find this of interest, too. Here is a little info:

Daughter of a forest woodsman, Roselyn’s life has always been simple and routine. But everything changes after Roselyn’s stunning sister accepts the marriage proposal of kind

Prince Michael. Enduring the dour courtiers at the prince’s castle is definitely not Roselyn’s idea of fun, but soon she becomes friends with a pair of attractive and lively young men who are as bored with Michael’s court as Roselyn is. When the three venture secretly to a fair outside of Michael’s dominion, Roselyn witnesses sensuous sights that remind her of the frustrated desires she has always ignored. That night Roselyn is introduced to the Mummer King, a forbidden masked figure whose duty is to carry petitioners’ requests to the old pagan gods. In the presence of the Mummer King Roselyn dares confess her secret and passionate needs.

But upon returning to Prince Michael’s castle Roselyn is confronted with an ancient evil that has been unleashed on the court. Hope of defeating this monstrous force arrives in the most unexpected source; one that will challenge Michael’s reign, and more so, Roselyn’s reluctance to trust her desire for love.

Erotic Romance, Ménage à trois, discipline

99 cents in NOOK, Kindle and other ebook formats

Find out more!

~Anya

The summer of 2011 has brought extreme heat in several parts of the United States. In my own part of the country we’ve been hit not only by record high temperatures but also oppressing humidity. It’s definitely been the kind of summer when you want to stay indoors with your fans or A/C turned up. In fact, it has been so miserable here I’ve got out very little.

This is ok in a way, as being inside more has compelled me to write more. I’m working on two novels right now in fact, and very happy with the progression.

But still, something seems missing..as if something’s telling me there’s something fun and exciting just waiting for me..something I’ve waited for a long, long, long time. Something I shouldn’t resist or I’ll end up kicking myself the rest of my life. While I can’t really point my finger on what this something is, it has been calling me for days; beckoning urgently for me to take a break from the keyboard. And I’ve wracked my brain trying to think of what this thing could be.

Whatever it is it certainly won’t affect my writing. I have readers waiting anxiously for some serious adult fiction.

I can’t let them down, so not rain, nor snow, nor the heat of Hades can interfere with my creative juices.

Nope, not the car show that came to town, not even the carnival. I am dedicated.

Nothing interrupts my writing when the ole Muse is at work. I don’t let any mediocre, unimportant interest have a sway.

I am the pure professional when it comes to finishing a project. I don’t let another single need weave itself into my subconscious. I don’t let my imagination be corrupted by anything.

Yep, I’m this dedicated. Heat or no heat. My stories will never, ever be tainted by personal side issues or mundane interests.

My husband has suggested we have a date night. And it would be heaven to have a night with my man, to take him up on on the offer of  romantic dinner and a movie. Sigh. The problem is I can’t think of a single film I really want to see.

I blame it on this dastardly heat.

~Anya

anyahoward.com

There was a time when I equated being a professionally published author with making a great deal of money. That was before I became a professionally published author and learned that only a handful of authors are able to make a comfortable living from their work. All the same, I love writing and don’t intend to stop doing it. Nor do I intend to be someone who envies the big bucks the lucky few manage to achieve with their own work. Jealousy never accomplishes anything positive; unless one actually seeks a life filled with restless nights, ulcers and nagging resentment as a constant companion. So I continue to write what I enjoy and to pray and to work to obtain the fruits of labor I have dreamed of. Its really not a difficult thing to do,  for I’ve discovered along the way that rejoicing for peers who have obtained these things makes for my own sense of prospect, hope and incentive.

I will confess, that in part from someone who has worked years in achieving the small and not very financially boastful slice of the pie, I do resent the “success” of a two types of author. These two types are authors who have simply lucked up on a writing career due to 1. being a whim-of-the-moment celebrity or (and more so) 2. from cashing in on the misfortune of others. In the first category I refer to people like say Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi and her book, Shore Thing. Its not that I think Snooki doesn’t have a lot to say, its just that I can’t think of anything worth saying she’d have to offer. And I admit further that when it comes to the whim-of-the-moment celebrity author I’m probably a bit snobbish.

But then there’s the #2 type. In this category are people like OJ Simpson. I don’t mean OJ the athlete or OJ the actor, but OJ the convicted kidnapper and armed robber. Yeah, the same guy that was found not guilty in the death of two people but who went on to cash in on the story of the murders and trial with a book titled, If I Did It. Now I can appreciate anyone who has been involved in a tragic event wanting to share their story as a kind of psychological or spiritual carthartic. But I don’t like exploitation of the event, which Simpson’s book -in my strict reader’s opinion- is nothing but. And the fact that the family of one of the victims had to take Mr. Simpson to court in order to get what he promised as their fair share of royalties exemplifies my problem with these kind of “authors”. Acquitted, found not guilty, whatever; if this kind of person gets off a conviction with a prevailing cloud of suspicion over their head and then turns around and tries to screw victims’ families, I’m immediately soured on them.

Unfortunately, a similar event has made me fear this scenario just might repeat itself. It comes on the heels of the verdict for accused child killer, Casey Anthony. Anthony was found not guilty on charges of murder, manslaughter and aggravated child abuse in the death of her daughter, but found guilty of lying to police officials during the investigation. While the jurors could not be convinced this woman was guilty of a premeditated killing, at the same time the prosecution failed to give jurors the option of finding her guilty of reckless or negligent homicide. She was also the last individual who knew -or  who should have known- where her young daughter was. Despite these facts, even as Anthony prepares to walk out of jail a free woman next week the media is speculating wildly of her forthcoming “book”, her forthcoming “film”,  her forthcoming “reality show”, her already-made career as a “star”.

Casey Anthony was convicted of lying to police

One can wonder who the heck would ever hire this woman, let alone help her build fame and fortune in the shadow of her daughter’s senseless and horrible death.

So, if Anthony is indeed offered a juicy book deal I will resent her. Its the kind of resentment you don’t see plastered over Amazon discussion boards or scrutinized and snarked about at reader blogs. It will be the resentment of one hardworking mother toward another mother who was too self-absorbed to care about the whereabouts of the child she was blessed to have. I resent murder. I resent innocent people being snatched away before their time. I resent lives ruined by violence and stupidity and lies. And I pray with all my heart that the industry that I worked hard to become a part of will keep the door of opportunity closed on any individual who  -intentionally or by narcissistic preoccupation- has helped tragedy happen.

~Anya

http://anyahoward.com

Ok, you may ask what’s up with the photo of Steve McQueen. Well, it is Mother’s Day, and on this special occasion my thoughts, of course, turn to my Mother. Not the one who gave birth to me so much (although I loved her very much) as the one who raised me (who I love even more). She took me in, loved me and gave me all the things my birth mother wished she could but simply didn’t have the means to give.

Now as fortunate as I feel to have been adopted, it always felt like Mama and I are totally different in about every conceivable way two women can be. Or at least we were. But with the passing of time and with the raising of my own kids, and now blessed, too, with grandbabies, I can’t help but ponder on that age-old burning question:  Have I turned into my mother yet?

While contemplating this I thought one good way of determining the answer is to evaluate and compare our individual habits, likes and values as grown women.  The results were sobering and yes, perhaps, surprising.

Comparison analysis

My Mama is the cleanest woman I’ve ever met. Back in my teens this is what our sofa looked like:

My kids are teens now. And unlike my Mama’s pristine sofa that made my every boyfriend wince to sit on, the sofa in my house is used to the hilt of practical application. Besides being a nifty place to sit, sleep and bounce to the heart’s content, the underside of our sofa’s cushions make great storage compartments for items such as socks, homework, keychains, toys, pizza crust, candy -especially the UNwrapped kind- and of course, Dad’s remote control.

Mama was never big on wearing make-up and she never wore fragrances. Lipstick was the only cosmetic I ever remember her wearing.

I don’t actually like putting on make-up, but I do wear foundation and mascara. And I LOVE perfumes and body sprays.

When it comes to art my Mama has staid, classic tastes. When I was a kid she had several of those famous Fox Hunt prints hanging on the walls

As an adult I’ve developed an appreciation for the art of the hunt, too, although its hunting of another variety

I have, ever since childhood, a painfully acute phobia of spiders. Throughout my life Mama has made it well known, to any and everyone, how very embarrassingly silly she thinks this phobia is.

On the other hand, Mama has a painfully acute phobia of running out of toilet paper. No one in the family dares utter a complaint about her extraordinarily large treasure trove of Angel Soft; not because we find it embarrassing, but if the planet does happen to suffer a sudden toilet paper shortage we know who to go to!

Mama is a teetotaler, but the lady does like her chocolate. Especially chocolate stars. As a kid I could give her a bag of chocolate stars and you’d have thought she was in heaven. And I still can’t look at a chocolate star today and not smile over that

I like my Godiva Chocolate, but especially the liqueur variety.

Crying..my Mama always said crying is for sissies. She also has a hard time laughing at things a lot of other folks take as granted for humor. I remember her walking out during the farting scene in Blazing Saddles.

I cry easily, really easily. But I love to laugh, too, and apologies to my Mama, but I still crack up watching that farting scene.

Books..Mama loved Reader’s Digest and had a big collection of the RD Condensed Books.

I love the Reader’s Digest Mysteries of the Explained. As for the condensed books, I have found that stacked, they make great table leg balancers.

My Mama could be really cool. When I was a teen she helped me shop for KISS posters, much to my Dad’s annoyance.

Today I’ve passed my KISS memorabilia to my youngest son, much to his Dad’s annoyance.

Mama liked a good meal on Mother’s Day, preferably cooked by her own talented hands.

I like a good meal on Mother’s Day. But exposing my family to my cooking on Mother’s Day might mean a trip to the E.R. and that would kind of put a damper on the occasion.

Mama’s views on marriage were practical, if not traditionally romantic. This plaque could have found a place on her kitchen wall:

This other plaque would find welcome at my house:

After all is compared and tallied up, I suppose the fact is Mama and I remain to very, very dissimilar people. But we do have two things in common: Firstly, she once confided that she thought  Steve McQueen was a NICE looking man, and hey I happen to think the same thing (-in fact my own daughter does, too!) Secondly, Mama loves me and I love her. And two hits out of everything else really isn’t bad in a world where it often seems there just isn’t enough love to go around. I’m lucky to have my Mama and grateful she’s still here to say Happy Mother’s Day to.. no matter how much I might cry like a “sissy” just thinking about it

To end this post I’d like to add that I have some books for those who are interested in obtaining autographed copies. I can only send these to persons living in the Continental USA, but if you are a resident and would like to receive a copy I ask only for $5.00 to cover Shipping and Handling fees, payable via Paypal. If you are one of the interested, please contact me via email for full Paypal contact info at an_howard@charter(DOT)net  Copies are limited, and first come, first get.

~Anya

I have to apologize to our blog readers for this short post on my scheduled day. But ’tis the season when spring returns, and with it pollen, allergies and physical runs, aches and the embarrassing need for tissues. As my eyes are full of gunk I won’t be writing much here today. But I do plan on returning next month with details about some autographed books I want to offer. Until then, I’m wishing you all a beautiful and hopefully non-allergenic spring!

Anya

http://anyahoward.com

For the last week or so I’ve been working on a new novel, and immersed as my head’s been in the story, I completely forgot it was my blog day until this morning. Being completely and utterly unprepared I frantically began thinking, oh shux, what the heck am I going to post for the nice visitors who come here? My brain scrambled for ideas, and for about 20 minutes I had nothing.

Then a little voice in the back of all that sizzling egg that is oftimes my brain spoke up in its coffee-thirsty voice, “Book, you moron. Aphrodisia is a book line, and so these folks obviously read books. So it’s a good bet these folks even like books, don’t you think? Talk about books. Now find the damned Hazelnut flavoring for the java and we’re set.”

Ok, I found the Hazelnut. Now what? What books was I to talk about? The ones I  have in the works? Nah. That’s a limited and boring subject -at least from my cluttered desk. So I thought well maybe I’ll just post about book subjects with a popular appeal. And what’s popular right now, I asked myself? Uh, hmm, of course! EROTIC ROMANCE!

I just couldn’t get into the subject so early in the day. So next I contemplated that as a lot of Aphrodisia readers are women maybe some of them are Moms too and would enjoy a talk about Children’s classics.

But that didn’t seem to fit. Next I wondered, hmm just maybe these visiting Moms would prefer a discussion about popular YA books? My own 14 year old daughter loves the Charlie Bone series, maybe they’re keen on this too?

But there’s always a chance not everyone likes kids books. And as How-to books are very popular I considered that for a little while..

Then it occurred to me that hey, maybe that husky voice in the back of my head was just playing me for a fool. Just perhaps people are tired of discussing books? So next I considered upcoming sure-to-be-a-hit movies

But alas, I remembered that these days I don’t see enough new movies for that idea to even be plausible.

So here I am, still void of ideas. And now its time to get to writing and I leave you with no post. Sigh, ah well, love you all anyway

Anya

http://anyahoward.com

The other day I was doing an online search for new-fangled gummies on the market (my kids are huge gummy fans) when I stumbled onto an interesting website. I say interesting as the theme of this site was one I found quite uncomfortable, and yet I was fascinated to contemplate the motivations behind the person who put it up. Without revealing the name of this place, the best way I can describe what I found is to say whoever maintains it obviously exerts a lot of time and energy hunting down subliminal images. It is apparently not a lost hobby for this person as they have found a boat load of subliminal images -or at least what they believe is subliminal images collected from far and wide throughout the media. Their website is loaded with stuff this person contends demonstrates the saturated sexual perversity that abides in the dark recesses of modern culture, and especially Disney.

Here is the image that first unwittingly drew me there. A picture of gummy candy, specifically Hanna Montana “Concert Candy”. Now if we are to believe the interpretation skills of the website owner, this photo shows a phallic gummy peering lecherously through the cellophane.

Another image on the website shows a child’s ride (I didn’t take the Censored Child’s Face one they have, but found the original). Now, to the casual observer this ride may look like nothing more than a child enjoying a ride on a mechanical Donald Duck who just happens to be positioned in the tummy-ride stance. But to the trained eye of  the Subliminal Conspiracist, educated to uncover sex where ever it lurks, this ride is an instrument of Satan constructed with the sole purpose of luring innocent children into a lifelong deviant obsession for trouser-less Navy servicemen.

The reality is many, many websites are dedicated to exposing the subliminal messages and images supposedly inherent in not only Disney movies and commercial products, but countless other pop cultural icons. In some incidences I can actually see where just maybe the scrutinizing Conspiracist may be on to something, e.g. the word sex appearing in a skyline frame within the movie The Lion King. And yes, I concede that some artists in the last 100 years probably have knowingly put in something that, if one looks at hard enough, can be interpreted as something dirty. The thing that I take from this is that these things aren’t like unapologetic ads that put the sex right in your face for the subconscious entertainment of their adult consumer audience. These, if they exist, are mere jokes on the part of the artist. Other than the artists themselves, enjoying their secreted diddle, the only other persons who are going to see them are those wanting and willing to spend hours, days, maybe even weeks away from the bosom of family, friends and church in hunting down filth.

Whether it’s a phallic wing in the  architecture of Triton’s underwater castle in The Little Mermaid or an out-of-focus image of a naked woman in one grainy background frame of The Rescuers, the Subliminal Conspiracist will not fail to spot the perverse in places the rest of us would never think of looking. And, if for a few minutes, you allow yourself to think like someone who can see something sexual about a child’s mechanical ride, you might just be surprised at all the other stuff out there trying to lure us to board Satan’s night train to Sodom & Gomorrah. If you have the persistence to look, these lurid objects and messages are everywhere:

Suggestive household items

Suggestive foods

Suggestive foods for wild animals

Suggestive signs

The presence of Satan in suggestive song lyrics

Suggestive tie-in products for those deviant “Kids shows”

TV shows with raunchy titles

TV shows with raunchy tie-in books

Those titillating Romance books with the raunchy titles

And lastly, if Satan is as devious in his work as some suggest, I dare say his influence can even be found in the most seemingly wholesome places on earth:

So, I guess question of the night is this: who has the filthier mind- an author who writes erotica for adults or someone seeing something dirty and perverted about a bag of kids gummy guitars?

I leave off tonight with a link to my newest book trailer. Now while I know die-hard Subliminal Conspiracists could spend a good week trying to dig up the hidden perversity and still come away disappointed, I do hope everyone else will enjoy it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b5gtFrrHIyY

~Anya

www.anyahoward.com

Every year around this time some publishers release holiday-related titles. And by holiday I mean specifically Christmas (helpful hint, dear publishers: you may be missing out on the Hanukkah and Winter Solstice audiences).  These days I’m a little too busy to read newer Christmas stories but I do occasionally get to catch a Christmas movie on TV.  Also throughout the Yuletide my kids inevitably ask me to read them some of the old Christmas classics to them. But always on their must-have seasonal list is Trosclair’s A Cajun Night Before Christmas. This  whimsical poem is a twist of Clement Clarke Moore’s original A Visit From St. Nickolas, aka The Night Before Christmas and one of their favorite stories.

Now one night after having read this story to the kids and tucking them into bed I sat down and turned the TV on. To my delight I came across Scrooged, that hilarious spoof of Dicken’s A Christmas Carol.  I love this movie starring Bill Murray. But when it was over and I had crawled into bed myself I began to think about all the writers who over time have knowingly, shamelessly and skillfully re-worked original Christmas tales. Inevitably these artists grace the end product with their own special flair, and in some cases, what they come up with is more entertaining than the original work. I also began to wonder, hey what if some of our modern authors were to experiment with the old classics? What would they end up reading like?

I eventually came up with a few ideas on what I think these re-worked masterpieces would look like and want to share them with you today. Remember these stories are pure speculation on my part, so please don’t credit the authors noted as being the culprits/responsible parties behind them. For your amusement and consideration, my

WHAT IF THESE MODERN AUTHORS PUT THEIR  SPIN ON HOLIDAY CLASSICS:

What if #1

One of the best-loved Kensington authors around is the talented Kate Douglas. Now what if my friend Kate was to put her passionate pen to work re-writing Earl Hamner Jr.’s heart-warming TV-story, ” The Homecoming”? Just maybe it’d turn out something like this:

John-Boy’s mouth watered as Grandpa took the first portion of thin fried meat and slapped it onto his plate. He’d never seen the old man look so emaciated.

This is the last meal we’ll probably ever have, John-Boy thought dismally.

He watched as the platter made it around the table; from Grandpa to Grandma, to his mother and to his younger siblings. And then Ben passed it to him. John-Boy looked to where the youngest of the brood sat. Poor Elizabeth, she had grown so frail that her black nails were flaking and her snout had developed an unhealthy drip. Ignoring the hungry knot in his stomach John-Boy stood up with the platter and dumped his portion onto Elizabeth’s plate.

The others were too busy gnawing their meat to notice. But sweet little Elizabeth swung her thin arms around John-Boy’s waist and gave him a hug.

“Thank you, John-Boy,” she said and managed a frail howl.

Grandma glanced up, and baring her teeth scolded, “We don’t howl at the table, young lady.”

“Leave the child alone,” Grandpa said. But with a fond smile he reached over and licked her meat-smeared jowl. Grandma smacked his arm, hard enough to make Grandpa yelp and turn back to his meal.

John-Boy tousled Elizabeth’s head of red fur and walked away from the table.

Grabbing his old tattered jacket from the coat rack John-Boy walked to the front door. He glanced at his family, the angry tears burning in his eyes as he quietly left the house and trekked over the snow. In the blizzard coming down the outhouse was barely more than a smudgy coal outline on the horizon. But he knew the way by heart, and with the last of his strength he struggled to make the journey in the frigid cold. Once he got there he had to shove almost a foot of new powder away before he could open the front door. And as he managed this and entered he was encompassed in blackness.  In this merciless oblivion he unbelted his trousers and pulled them down, and feeling his way in the familiar shack found the hole on the wood boards. He sat his narrow backside over it, grunting as one icy splinter cut into a butt cheek.

It wasn’t the first time John-Boy had ventured out in the night to take a dump in the outhouse. But he couldn’t remember a more miserable night to do it in. To tell the truth, he really had no urge to relieve himself; but had wanted an excuse to get away from the heart-breaking sight of his starving family. This and exposing his bare ass to the frigid cold until his testicles froze also made it easier to face another lonely night tossing and turning between two homely-as-hell younger brothers while trying to forget that his better looking sisters slept in the next room.

A scraping noise against the door made him jump.

“Wait your turn!” John-Boy said instinctively. Then he realized that nobody in his family scraped to knock except for his father. And Daddy was miles away.. still fighting in the Shifters War, right? Or was it running ‘shine over in Bristol? Maybe he was visiting the preacher’s pretty widow like he did whenever Mama was whelping another young’un? John-Boy wasn’t sure which, but he was pretty sure it was one of these things.

Unless, he thought suddenly, his Daddy was dead.

Before the impact of the dreadful thought had time to settle the scrape sounded again, and John-Boy’s eyes were pained by a flash of light between the outhouse panels.

“It’s me, silly,” said a feminine voice.

John-Boy, numb and befuddled from cold and hunger, didn’t recognize the voice.

“I’m sorry, but there’s no Silly here. Now if you’ll just wait-“

“You igit. It’s me, Dorothy.”

John-Boy’s head cleared. Oh yes, he remembered Miss Dorothy. The big-bosomed Sunday School teacher with the good teeth. Quickly he stood and reached for his trousers and pulled them back up. He swung the door open. And there, alit in the soft glow of the lantern she held stood Miss Dorothy. And she looked prettier than ever, except her skin was mighty pale and her lips had turned a vivid crimson. Something about her clothes was different. Ah yes, gone was the big ole cross she usually wore on a rawhide cord from her neck. Gone, too, was the calico jumper of homespun flour bag cloth she usually wore. She was dressed instead in a very sheer gown that accentuated every angle and curve of her slender figure. Two heaps of creamy flesh pushed against the extremely low-cut bodice. And when she smiled John-Boy was mesmerized by the perfection of her ivory teeth, noting for the first time how very sharp and cruel-looking her canines were.

Miss Dorothy moved close to him so that the heaps of flesh pushed against his chest. She made an alluring pout in the hazy light and cooed, “Hi there, John-Boy. What’s up?”

John-Boy felt a tight sensation in his trousers. And as he looked down he knew exactly what was up..

What if #2

Moving away from authors of the sensual, let’s now imagine TV pundit and author Bill O’Reilly having a turn at Jean Shepard’s humorous and greatly loved, “A Christmas Story”:

A Bold Fresh Chickpeas Christmas

My mother stood there rubbing her rosary beads, bless her heart, as my father handed me the impressive long package. I opened the decorative wrapping – neatly, of course, as I remembered crumpled Christmas wrap wastes usable space in garbage cans. When I had removed the paper and unstuck the tape I handed this to Mom to put in her used-tape collection. (Tape was an outrageous 9 cents a roll back in those days). My eyes opened wide in excited glee. For there in my grasp was the wondrous present I had spent weeks attempting to connive, spur and otherwise annoy my parents into getting for me.

Ok. It wasn’t precisely the present I wanted, but a nice and very inexpensive knock-off. It was basically just like the Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot range model air rifle I wanted – just sans a safety trigger, sight, compass and pellets. And I knew at once my Dad must have spent at least a hard-earned seventy-five cents on it.

I held it up to the morning light and basked in the luminous glow of the rusty barrel.

My mother asked what Dad intended me to use for ammunition. His suggestion was as practical as always.

“Your mother has a bag of chickpeas she’s been lax about cooking,” he said. “Why don’t you use those for now and then come tomorrow use that nickel you found in the street and buy pellets.”

I had been saving that nickel to give to the Withered Old Spinsters Fund, and so chimed right up and told my father. I also told him pellets probably cost more than a nickel.

“In that case,” he said. “Save up your allowance to buy some of that pricey ammo.”

He was right as always. With the money earned from chores I’d have enough to buy some pellets in about a year. And my Dad suggested that in the meantime I put the BB gun and chickpeas to good use by practicing on the Bumpass hounds. My mother scoffed at this suggestion, saying the neighbors wouldn’t be too happy if I accidently killed one of the hounds.

However she did have an idea. “You can practice on the front lawn. Shoot directly across the street and aim at the posts over there.”

Now I could have reminded her that the Parkers lived across the street and the posts she referred to were firmly connected to their front porch. Not only did their front window face potential damage if I missed my target, I really didn’t like the possibility of having to hold off saving up for pellets because of a needed window replacement. And what, I wondered, if I accidently hit one of the Parker kids? Ralphie and Randy acted like panty waists for sure, but since Ralphie’s recent emotional outburst had resulted in the hospitalization of my good friend Skut Farkus I wasn’t sure I wanted to chance it.

But then I recalled that atrocious leg lamp Mr. Parker had recently won in a raffle and consequently displayed in their front window. On passing by the Parker house and noticing the lamp Sister Frigidnatius from my school had suffered a nervous breakdown.  On seeing it the poor Sister had spent two hours washing her eyeballs out with soap and another several hours at the emergency room for treatment of soap poisoning. And balancing the pros and cons of the circumstances, I knew I was morally obligated to take that sicko lamp out. Such a bold fresh action would not only serve the common good of the neighborhood but also surely score me brownie points with Sister Frigidnatus (if and when she was released from the sanitarium).

So I told my mother what a marvelous idea it was; just as long as she had no plans for the chickpeas. She gave a reassuring smile and said that while she’d thought about cooking them for the Christmas dinner, Mrs. Bumpass had just that morning generously brought over some extra turkey their hound dogs had taken during a hunt. Amazingly, the turkey was already cooked, too.

At hearing this my father patted his stomach and told my mother to set the table…

What if # 3

Moving back to authors of the sensual (isn’t it cool how you can so easily do that in a blog?), here’s an excerpt from a take on Dr. Seuss’s How The Grinch Stole Christmas as “re-mastered” by good friend and erotic poet extraordinaire Jade Blackmore:

…So the Grinch grabbed the tree and started to shove

when he heard a small sigh like the coo of a dove.

He turned around quick and saw a shapely Who;

lovely Minxy-woo Who, who was a ripe 22.

There she stood naked from flaxen head to painted toe,

making the Grinch’s ‘lil Grinch harden and grow;

she stared at the Grinch, smiling, and said,

“Why Santy, are you fondling that tree when you could fondle me instead?”

That old Grinch was so flattered, this new interest outweighed

The very reason he’d descended Mount Crumpit with the sleigh.

“Why my sweet young woman,” the fake Santy said,

“I’d be happier to oblige you than this evergreen so dead,

for while this tree’s bulb needs fixing, ‘tis true

I have a much bigger bulb in dire need of a screw..”

What if #4

Moving on to the horror genre, have you ever imagined what we’d have if Stephen King took on a classic Christmas carol? You never have? Then shame on you..but I did! And here’s a snippet of what I think the King might come up with if he went prose on that popular Christmas tune by Elmo Shropshire, Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer:

The old man’s rosy hollowed cheeks dimpled. He fished into the green cloth sack beside his chair and pulled out a large candy cane. Holding it by the curved top he jabbed the end at Jack’s chest. It was only a light tap actually, but the impact sent an icy chill that worked all the way to Jack’s heart.

“So, my boy, since you’re not on my Nice list, what would you be willing to do for that Playstation 3?”

Any other time such a dubious question might have made Jack reluctant to answer. But Christmas was only two days away. His father had abandoned the family right after Thanksgiving and the landlord had left an eviction notice earlier this week. His Grandma’s incessant drinking hadn’t helped matters. His mother was stressed out all the time, having taken a third job now to pay for his brother Jim’s gastric bypass. That emergency hospital visit had come only a day after big brother had cleaned out the last of the food in the pantry. Jack knew the only present hidden under his mother’s bed was a box of diet bon-bons she intended to give poor Jim on his release. And Jack resented his older brother; he was twenty-three, jobless, hospitalized and had been the one who had sat down on his Playstation 2 and destroyed it. Even as Jack’s conscience urged him to just get up and flee from the old man, the sense of deprivation and injustice spoke louder.

He ignored the thin inner voice. “Hell, Santa, I’d do anything!”

Despite the throng of shoppers that had descended on the mall Jack felt the world suddenly slip away. He and the old man were transported to the mere shadows of reality. In this private place it was just the two of them, unmolested by the noise of teens blathering on cell phones and the torturous strains of Justin Bieber tunes blaring from the CD Bar. A timeless world where the aroma of coffee didn’t waft over from the Java Express and nobody heard the low moans of grown men who carried purses for their sale-happy wives.

Jack was also aware of how bony and hard the old man’s lap suddenly felt under his rump.

Uncomfortable by this closeness Jack jumped off. But even as his feet hit the floor he felt captured in place by the store Santa’s glare. There was something about his eyes, all blue without clarity, the smoke that encircled his head like a wreath in various shapes: one moment a crocodile, the next a wolf and now the spiraling into the grey billowing form of a corpse. The edge of his white beard was stained a faint gray, and Jack smelled something putrid emanating from the long curly strands. The shape of his gloved hands that wasn’t right; they were massive, with thumbs far too long and far too narrow for any normal human being. Then there was that smile, the yellowed teeth that hovered dryly behind the cracked lips; the crinkled corners of the mouth that turned up in serpentine curls. He was repulsive in every sense of the word, and yet Jack was spellbound.

But the store Santa’s voice was as smooth as the unturned pages of a new Bible. He leaned forward, curling the tip of his white beard.

“Anything, Jack?” he hissed.

The image of the PS3 danced in Jack’s head. “Y-yes. Anything.”

The man’s eyes sparkled with an intensity that drew Jack into their hellish azure gleam. “Well, Jack it so happens my reindeer are practically starved for excitement. But I sense you have something you wouldn’t overly mind sacrificing for their amusement..”

What if #5

Everyone has heard of the famous  “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus” commentary as written by Sun editor Francis P. Church in his 1897 response to a letter sent by a little girl asking his opinion to the existence of Santa Claus. The world today often seems lacking of the common sense and optimistic sentiments of  Mr. Church. I dare imagine that if a modern child had a burning question they couldn’t get answered from a parent, they just might turn to famed atheist and author of The God Delusion, Richard Dawkins. And I further dare imagine the exchange might go a little like this:

Dear Mr. Dawkins,

Some of my friends say there is a Santa Claus. Dad says if the great Mr. Dawkins says it is so, it must be. So I’m asking you for the truth, is there a Santa?

Yours truly,

Virginia O’Hanlon

Virginia,

Your friends are so wrong it broaches on the criminal. They have been affected by years of exposure to commercialized holidays, and hence, brainwashed by the very falsehood which underlies religion. They try to comprehend lies fed to them by their parents; their reason compromised by loyalty to the people who gave them life and offer them upbringing. They are suckled on myths instead of logic. You may ask, and rightfully so, why in this great, beautiful godless universe are these harmful myths allowed to breed and spread?  The answer is simple: because most people are too stupid to appreciate the rational beauty of science.  It was not so long ago, unfortunately, that these kinds of people once persecuted sober-minded, tolerant individuals such as yours truly.

So yes, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus. With science we understand that there could never be a Santa Claus because firstly, reindeer simply do not possess the natural mechanism of flight. Secondly, even if reindeer did possess wings it would still be impossible for any bird of this planet to make a global-wide trip in a single night, a feat which Santa’s reindeer are alleged to accomplish. Thirdly, if Santa forced a group of elves to work year long with no salary the union people would be on his ass in a heartbeat.

And lastly, dear Virginia, think upon this: if indeed this Santa Claus truly existed and was willing and capable of granting the heart’s fondest wish, do you really think I’d be up all night long answering a child’s stupid letter? Let me assure you the answer is a resounding NO. If he existed I’d be attending a lot more parties and spending my time with people a lot more interesting than the loser geeks I hang around with. And, another thing Virginia, if Mr. Claus was real do you think children would run in screaming terror every time I step onto a podium? Again, NO. And if there was a North Pole genie with some magical bag of tricks, one who actually took the time to read the carefully worded letters I sent EVERY SINGLE WRETCHED YEAR do you think I would have simply watched on as the stupid jocks in college took all the good snatch while I had to go to bed every night crying into my pillow like a little girl? HELL BLOODY HELL NO. Believe me you, Miss Virginia, if ole St. Nick had been there it would have been ME trawling the taverns and lecture halls every single night! It would have been ME who sewed my seed into the fertile nether fields of every hot and horny woman that crossed my path! It would have been me-

What if #6

I leave off by returning again to authors of the sensual, and to be utterly fair I have put myself in the bull’s eye this time. I asked myself, if I was to re-write, re-work, re-imagine or just downright spoof a famous Christmas story what story would it be? There was only one answer: my favorite holiday story of all time, O’Henry’s Gift of the Magi. So, with my apologies to the memory of Mr. O’Henry and all his descendants here’s a snippet from that imagined work:

Jim smiled at the necktie in the box. It was a becoming shade of emerald, his favorite color, and made of exquisite silk. Yet he felt a touch of sadness as he raised his eyes and looked at Delia’s shorn locks. The wig maker had given her a cute bob, yes, but how he had adored those long lovely tresses. And now he was hesitant to give Delia her present. With the sacrifice she’d made to buy the tie, he could just imagine her dismay.

Delia’s smile was hopeful. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, Delia,” he answered, “I love it. It’s beautiful.”

“I’m so glad,” she said, her eyes glistening with tears. “You deserve a nice tie for work. And that one will look so fine with that Onyx tie clip your Dad left you.”

Jim sighed and closed the box lid. Setting the gift on the bed he got up and walked to the dresser. Pulling open the first drawer he removed the silver-foil wrapped box he’d brought home the night before. He sat down beside Delia, and feeling a dreadful pang in his gut, handed it to her.

“Well sweetheart, uh, here’s your gift. Please forgive me.”

“Forgive you?” she frowned. But she opened the foil carefully, and holding the box flashed him a curious look. With a lift of the lid she found the hair brush he had bought. It was made of rare tortoiseshell, with real horse hair bristles. Delia bit her bottom lip, and holding the brush up admired it in the early light that strained through the bedroom’s one small window.

“Oh, it is gorgeous!” she exclaimed. “Now when my hair grows back in I’ll have something to brush it with! How, darling, did you ever manage to buy such a costly brush?”

Jim told her how he had sold the Onyx tie pin to a man at the flea market. He expected Delia to cry, to be devastated, to be rightfully angrier than when the cat had eaten the last slice of bread on the pantry shelf. But instead she threw her arms around his neck and kissed his face.

“No pin for your tie,” she giggled. “No hair for my brush. Aren’t we a pair?”

Jim had never felt such relief. He pulled her close and kissed her deeply. “Oh, but I have the greatest gift of all! I love you so, Delia.”

“And I love you, Jim!”

Jim took the brush from her hand. It wasn’t just a pretty brush, it was a good sturdy one, too. He reached behind her and smoothed the flat side over the crest of her ass. He gave her a little smack and said thoughtfully, “You know, we do have a nice long tie now and we have this firm brush. I think we can use them together in a very inventive way.”

“Whatever do you mean, Jim?”

“My dearest, we also have a bed with nice solid posts.”

“Why yes, we do!”

“Merry Christmas, Delia.”

“Merry Christmas, Santa Jim. Now..I’d like to see that hog-tie position you use on rambunctious reindeers at your work shop at the North Pole!”

“It would be my pleasure, sweetheart. And then I’ll show you my southern pole…”

Wishing everyone the happiest of Holidays!

~Anya Howard

It’s November, which means Thanksgiving is just around the corner. While deleting my inbox of last month’s old messages I noticed some new Release announcements from various authors, and that several of these were for Halloween-oriented titles. Over the years I have noticed publishers, and especially epubs, offer a lot of seasonal titles come holiday times. Not just for Halloween but other holidays, too, though most especially for Easter, July 4th, Valentines Day and Christmas. Strangely, however, there’s not a whole lot of pickings come Thanksgiving. I’m not really sure why this is, but in a way it is kind of sad that this very important American holiday seems so overlooked by the publishing world.

And as I pondered on this, I concluded readers are being sadly neglected. Heck, there’s plenty to Romanticize about when it comes to Thanksgiving. And the creative author, put to the test, could come up with something very delectable to offer the holiday theme tastes of the hungry reader. Here’s are just few book ideas that came to mind (click on image for larger view):

This Romance comes with a sequel-

Whipping Her ‘Tater

For the man who appreciates the experienced Cougar:

And for the non-fiction lovers:

Even for readers of other types of fiction, the possibilities are there.

Horror is always popular, and what better plot idea than some frightful situation we all encountered at some time in our life?

Who doesn’t enjoy a cozy mystery on a chilly November night?

Murder thrillers can be especially appealing for some women:

Cookbooks are especially popular during the holidays. And this one is sure to find a welcoming audience among those looking for novel alternatives to the same-old-same-old boring turkey and dressing fare

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

~Anya

www.anyahoward.com

And added just for Anitra!