My special guest this week is author, A. R. Moler.

Q: So, A. R. … What genre do you write in, and why?
A: Mostly urban fantasy, I write what I like to read

Q: How long did you write before you received your first contract for publication?
A: Ummmm, decades

Q: So, if you don’t mind sharing, would you tell us about your latest work in progress?
A: I’m almost finished a sequel to Hell Dogs Squadron

Q: Out of all the stories you’ve written, which is your favorite?
A: Toss up between “And Hell Itself Breathes Out” and “Hell Dogs Squadron”

Q: Do you need to be in a specific place or atmosphere before the words flow?
A: Lack of children helps

Q: What’s the strangest source of inspiration you’ve found for a story?
A: Prosthetic makeup

Q: If you could offer one tidbit of information for new writers, what would it be?
A: Get lots of honest friends to read your stuff

Q: Do you have an evil day job or do you write full time?
A: Night job, teaching grownups about the joys of stoichiometry

Q: What do you like to do in your spare time?
A: What spare time

Q: Name one thing readers would be surprised to learn about you.
A: I can crochet

Q: What’s your favorite dirty word?
A: Fuck

Q: What’s your favorite holiday, and why?
A: Yule, nice traditions

Q: Do you have any tattoos or piercings?
A: Only the usual hole in each ear

Q: If you could be intimate with three people (not necessarily all at one time *g*) without getting in trouble with your significant other, who would they be?
A: This week? Simon Baker, Christian Cooke and Eddie Cahill

Q: If you were stranded on a desert island, what three things would you want with you?
A: Toothbrush, sanitary pads, and a deliciously hot guy

Q: If you won the lottery tomorrow, what would you spend the money on?
A: House in Wales

Q: Which household chore do you abhor and why?
A: Scrubbing the bathtub.

Q: What’s your favorite comfort food?
A: Brownies

Q: Do you have any guilty pleasures you feel comfortable sharing?
A: caffeine, lots of caffeine

Q: Do you have a favorite book or movie?
A: Altered States

Q: In closing, tell us a bit about your latest release (& share a yummy excerpt for those who aren’t yet familiar with your work)

Snippet from Hell Dogs Squadron: Touch and Go

One hip replacement, check. One ACL repair, check. Rounds, check. Office hours, check. Orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Mason Flynn, was on his way home from work. It had been a long day, especially since it had started 5 am and was now 5 pm. Chalk up yet another 12 hour work day. Nothing had gone particularly bad, it was just the grind. He had tomorrow off. Amazing. Maybe he’d go running on the beach, weather permitting and all that. Traffic was mercifully light on Shore Drive. He lived on the north end of the beach.
The tourist season was still a few weeks away. By the time Memorial Day passed, traffic would be much worse. There was a red light ahead. He pulled up behind a motorcycle, waiting on the light. When the light changed to green, the motorcycle began to pull away. And his world suddenly went into slow motion.
He saw the glint of reflected sunlight off the windshield of a pickup truck, speeding toward the intersection. His brain insisted that it was going to brake to a halt any second. It didn’t. It blew straight through the intersection and plowed into the motorcycle, sending both bike and rider cartwheeling across the intersection. And then the truck pulled out of the half spin it was in and kept right on going. Flynn was bolting out of the car before he even realized it, sprinting toward the rider.
The motorcyclist was sprawled limply on the pavement, on his side. Even from yards away, he could tell the man’s leg was broken. Legs weren’t supposed to bend a hand span below the knee. Mason fell to his knees beside him and carefully slid his fingers under the lower edge of his helmet, seeking a pulse. He found it. Weak and fast. He dug his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 911.
“I need an ambulance on Shore Drive near ^^^^^^. Hit and run. A pickup truck struck a motorcycle. He’s in pretty bad shape. My name is Dr. Mason Flynn. I’m a surgeon at Norfolk General. You might want to consider sending Nightingale.” Nightingale was the Hampton Roads area air ambulance, used frequently for the transport of critically injured patients.
He gave a few more bits of information to the dispatcher while he ran his hands along the rider’s body. Blood was rapidly staining the road, where the broken bones on the man’s lower leg had ripped through both skin and the fabric of his jeans. Mason yanked off his dress shirt and wadded it up, pressing it firmly against the wound. That should slow the blood loss a bit. The man moaned as he began to regain consciousness, writhing weakly in pain.
“Easy. Don’t be moving around. An ambulance is on the way,” he said. One handedly, he eased the face shield of the helmet up so he could see his patient’s face. The rider’s eyes fluttered open, but he looked hopelessly disoriented and his face scrunched in agony. Mason took one of his hands in his and squeezed the man’s fingers. The thin black leather gloves he wore had been torn and bloodied by his impact with the road.
“Help’s coming. Just stick with me,” said Mason trying to reassure him. He let go of the man’s fingers and unzipped the leather jacket. The coat was scuffed and ripped but that meant less skin and tissue damage to its wearer. One less problem to deal with. He felt carefully across his chest and his fingers encountered the faint ridge of dog tags, beneath thin t-shirt fabric. He was military. It figured, given the area. The largest navy base on the planet was less than ten miles away. And that didn’t even count the handful of other bases scattered through Hampton Roads area. Skimming his hand lightly down the soldier’s side, he heard a whimpering moan as he crossed one side of his rib cage.
“Sorry. Bear with me. I’m a doctor. I’m trying to figure out how badly you’re hurt,” the surgeon apologized. He reached around beneath the jacket to run a gentle finger down his spine. No obvious depressions. Not that that meant he was necessarily free of spinal cord damage. The rider moaned a little and clutched at the doctor’s arm, eyes squeezing shut.
“I know you’re in a lot of pain. Just try to keep as still as possible. … My name’s Mason. What’s yours?” he coaxed. Keeping the man focused on some questions would be helpful. The cyclist opened his eyes and met the doctor’s gaze.
“C-c –cam,” he whispered. “Lt Cameron Bradshaw….” His eyelids were squeezing shut again. Mason wished he had some idea how long it would take the ambulance. The blood from the leg injury was soaking the fabric of the shirt pressed against it. He was going to have to do something or this guy probably wasn’t going to make it. Something he was probably going to regret. He touched his fingers to the man’s cheek, and slid the other up under his t-shirt.
“Look at me Cam. I need you to focus on me. We’re going to spend a few minutes checking to see what else is damaged besides your leg. You have to talk me, ok ?”
“Yeah….”
“Top down then.” And he mentally crossed his fingers that he could stabilize his heart and breathing while he did the rest at the same time.
“Head first.” Mason blinked slowly and extended his healing Talent, seeking head trauma. He mentally traced lightly across the top of his head , and down the back of his skull. The man was rattled, disoriented, and in a lot of pain but thank the god that invented helmets, there didn’t appear to be anything major there. Just probably a bit of a concussion. But he was going into shock. Not good. The doctor concentrated on his other hand for a moment, reinforcing his patient’s pulse a little. “How bad does your head hurt? A little? A lot?”
“A little.”
“Wiggle your fingers for me. Just your fingers, nothing else,” said Mason. Cam managed to waggle the fingers of his left hand. “Other hand too,” said the doctor. That one barely moved, but then again the shoulder it was attached to seemed damaged. Mason plunged his healing sense toward the shoulder. The scapula was cracked, not badly but enough to trigger the beginnings of the inflammation response. His first impression seemed to be holding true, though, there was probably no serious spinal damage. He threw his senses wide open and ran a quick “systems check” of the man’s vitals. Not good, and he was fading into unconsciousness again.
“Try to focus on your breathing for a minute,” he said, one hand sliding cautiously across the skin of Cam’s chest. He detected a couple of cracked ribs and there was internal bleeding too. “Can you do that?”
“Uh-huh.” It was as much a groan as a response. Mason cursed under his breath and focused his Talent on the bleeding. Had to get a handle on that. Damaged spleen, bruised kidneys, and some lesser damage to the liver. Cam was slipping, literally dying beneath his hands. Mason “reached out” and getting a grip on the faltering life force, forcibly yanked it toward him. He poured out a vast amount of energy through his hands, feeling spleen and liver lacerations beginning to mend. Feeling the texture of this man’s essence within his grip. Was he defying death by doing this ? Damn straight. Nobody was going to die on his shift if he could prevent it. He blinked hard and shook his head. The amount of energy he was putting out was leaving dizziness in its wake. Keep going, he’s not out of danger yet, he told himself. He turned his attention to the leg. He wasn’t going to be able to fix the broken bone, not out here on the highway. But the bleeding he could do something about.