Amused Authors

Reyes-Ectomy Coming Soon
August 3, 2010, 5:48 pm
Filed under: Coming Soon, publishing, romance | Tags: ,

OK. So I’ve been trying to keep this under my hat, but I am so excited I can’t stand it. After taking about ten years to get this book where I wanted it, I’ve finished Inside Out and hopefully it will be available at your local bookstore in June 2011! 

As a result, dear friends, I have made the fateful decision to go through an amputation of sorts with this new release. Yes, I am going to drop the Reyes from my name when it comes to publication. Why you ask? No, it has nothing to do any mid-life crisis, it’s just that my name is much more succinct that way, and you won’t have to check two places for me on the shelf! Tahdahhh! Nothing more to it than that.

Sooo, about Inside Out: This book was a labor of love an while the central character is definitely not me she is a part of me in many, many ways and her struggles with identity and love resonate with me, and I hope it will with you readers as well.

So here’s a bit about the book, and an UNEDITED Excerpt:

Inside: I never really fit in anywhere as a child, so I work hard for college to be different.  Out in the world, I don’t talk about my parents, or my travels, or the languages I speak. I don’t talk much at all, because it frequently leads to black people asking me why I talk “white” and white people asking where I’m from; no one believes I’m a native Southerner.

But the people I meet in grad school aren’t satisfied with knowing me on the surface. And Garrett… well he isn’t satisfied that even though I can’t help falling in love with his southern charm and overall gorgeousness, I can’t be “that girl” that ends up with a white husband.

Out: Entering his last year in law school, Garrett Atkins can’t complain about his life. At graduation, he’s guaranteed a job in a prestigious firm… and a wife. But one mix-up on campus introduces him to stubborn, snide and sexy Tracey McAlpine. She may not be what’s best for him, but God help him, she’s what he wants, and Rett has never been a man whose accepted being told he can’t have what he wants, no matter the consequences.

Unedited Excerpt:

In a vision I saw Garrett. I whispered his name.

My mother shook me, a hand on my shoulder that brought me back. I put a hand to my head. Flames were rippling over me like rapids.

“Baby, are you alright?” her voice was shaky and urgent. She was holding on to me and I was holding on to me.

“I’m fine,” I answered with a Herculean effort to smile. I patted at my face with a napkin I got from God knows where then shuddered as heat pumped through me again.

“Tracey, Good Lord, you’re burning up,” I barely heard it. The sound of her voice barely registered.

And then I saw him again, as if I summoned him. He was coming towards me. He was running towards me. I was shaking. My whole body quivered from the inside out. Hot blood rushed and I imagined I could feel it—actually feel it—surging from one place to another through my veins. From one place to another. I swallowed but the lump growing at the back of my throat only got bigger. My eyes were tightening, my vision blurring. He had me by the arm. He wasn’t saying anything. His eyes were just locked with mine. His breath was coming so fast that mine became more labored. I struggled to let the air in deep and steady but it came out sputtered and erratic. Tears were streaming from my eyes mixing with the burning haze around me. I couldn’t focus. His broad hand wrapped all the way around my upper arm and I could feel him squeezing. He was squeezing so hard that my arm was throbbing painfully making me cry even more. He wouldn’t release me, not from his grip and not from his eyes. And he still stood there silent. He didn’t even know he was hurting me.

As I get moer publication details, I’ll be certain to share them with you!

–Grayson BigBlank Cole 🙂


The Real Goat Suck
February 24, 2010, 12:32 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

OK, so I am having a great time with accents and craziness. Check out an excerpt from my upcoming horror/comedy, “The Real Goat Suck”. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

The Real Goat Suck

Grayson Reyes-Cole

The camera in my hand clicked. My name is Denny and I reluctantly dropped mygaze to see what had happened. I didn’t want to take my eyes off the hypnotizing and naked fruitcake I’d met on an unusually silent and dark-despite-the-full-moon beach near Cabo San Lucas.

“I heff frriends ofer and vee drink goat meelk, vee eat pasta vit goat cheez, ven vee arre feel decahdent, vee eat rrost goat loin. Ven vee arre feel prreemeeteef, vee prrefer tehrr de flesh off de bone vile de goat still stroggle.”

Her accent is heavy, but her eyes are bright green and large, her hair is black as night, and her skin is so pale I can barely stand it.

These were her words: “I have friends over and we drink goat milk. We eat past with goat cheese. And when we are feeling decadent, we east roasted goat loin. When we are feeling primitive, we prefer to tear the fless off the bone while the goat still struggles.”

I fell in love with her when I first laid eyes on her walking along the beach. It was hot and sticky outside, but the breeze right there on the water made everything OK, or at least it made me want to jump into the water and die. Cool water, in the dark, relieving me from the heat, whispering to me that if I float away on the mild waves, the sea will love me to death.

“I am noht Mehxeecan or Pwehrto Rreekahn, I yam Serrbian,” she says. “My hair is dark-like and my eyes are lie-test blue, sohm time vite-like. You know, vite, almost like de skeem meelk…”

Her eyes are deep, dark green. They sparkle. But she is right, sometimes they flash white. I find that I can’t stay away from seeking that flash of white. I keep staring at her, waiting for her eyes to flare, almost like I am on a quest to prove what I have seen.

“Dis verd dat day yoos choopah… choopahkahbra. I dink dat eet sahunts zohhh fohnny.” A dimple appears in one of her cheeks that makes her look young and full of life as she laughs a deep hollow sound. It’s like we’re on a picnic, but we are not.

A chupacabra, I learned long ago, is something like the Hispanic Sasquatch, you know? Some folks describe it as a reptilf with a scaly gray-green hide with quills running down its back. Some say it hops like a hare, But always it has a big cat-like face, maybe a forked tongue, and sabreteeth (yes, that’s the plural of sabretooth). Either it screeches or lets off a high pitched hiss like water dropping in hell and its eyes glow either green or red. Staring into its gaze could kill the faint of heart.

This girl, Menassa, is nothing like what she claims to be.

She, a beautiful pearl in the night, gives me the impression of a starved, stalking dog. Hairless, sick, and perched for a kill that will make it joyous. I imagine if she changes that she will also have claws. I’m not sure why, but I see them in my minds eye. She seems capable of liquefying one’s insides and sipping one’s blood and organs through a single set of puncture wounds.

She continues talking to me:  “Ont dey put de ‘el’ in frront. Dat ees mell. Vee arre all born feymell. Uhll us, feymell. Nefer vee geeve birt to boy. My mahder make jok dat dee firrst boy born vill be de gay. I dunt no vie she beleef dis, boht it make her ont my seesters laff ont laff.

I have a quick thought that if I use a razor blade to slice through her marble-white skin, that slimy fur will be revealed and it will dry and expand and she will tear like a monster through this hypnotizing flesh.

“Vee arre hoppy mohst time. Boht vee battle. Eet ees like addickshon, you no? I watch de show, on tfee, and I dink I yam like doz pehple. Eet vill be ferry bahd soon. When seezon change, vee go crrrazee. Eet has nahting to do vith da moon I dunt dink. Boht, eet is deez for time a jear dat vee… go… crrrazee. Ont zo, vee go to Mehxeeco, farr avay. Ont vee change.”

I LOVE this story no matter what, I love it… still I like hearing opinions. Come on and comment!

Grayson Reyes-Cole

A Trip Through My New WIP
January 10, 2010, 11:33 am
Filed under: A Sharpest Wife, fiction, romance, writing | Tags: , ,

Hello Friends!

I have started a new WIP I’m thinking will be the beginning of a new fantasy/romance series I’m working on. I have the name of the series all together, however the name of this story is tentatively called “Galan, The Impostor”. This tale features a tempestuous relationship between the young woman, Raeche (Ray-kuh), and the Emperor Lanus (Lah-noos). Here’s a little piece from the second chapter. I’d love to know what you think!


On a day that knew no sun, on a day when only the blackest of dark clouds blanketed the sky and hung so low they were pierced by the mountains in the West so that from them fell raindrops fat and fast that assaulted the ground and raised a noise only overridden by the loud crack and roar of thunder and lightning, a storm brought the child.

Raeche knew pain the likes of which she had never experienced before. As her flesh rent while she tried to deliver her, the child, angry and frightened, lashed out with its first blast of magic. The strike of an untried empathy swamped them fear and anger. Even Raeche’s ever-increasing fear that the Emperor would come for her in the dead of night to strangle her, run her through, or have her dragged through the Royal City behind his mount while she screamed until she died, was forgotten.

Instead of trying to kill her, the Emperor stayed near, soothing them with his own Spirit of the Empath—strong for a male—as much as he dared through the labor. In preparation for the birth of their first, the royal couple had been warned that the interference of too much magic at birth could drive both mother and child mad or worse. Though Raeche knew herself to be an unfair woman, her heart and soul told her she would be forever grateful for his help and restraint.

However her heart and soul had always been traitors. And in this, they betrayed her once more.

After the labor was done, the nurses cleaned the girl-child, Taritana, performing her duty as Personal and Woman of the Spirit, blessed her, and—as Raeche listened carefully, waiting for The Rage that would overtake the Emperor—Valor, performing his duty as The Emperor’s Personal and Man of the Spirit also witnessed the Emperor’s acceptance of his heir. Only then, was the child returned to Raeche, laid in her arms against her breasts.

When the new heir to the Empire, finally calm, and on her way to slumber, blinked at her, Raeche noticed the pale almost icy green irises of her eyes, already open and perceiving. They looked just like the Clear Pool beneath the trees of the Forest to the East. With timid, trembling fingers, she brushed back the portion of the blanket covering the baby’s head. Skin fair like the moon, Rucha’s wisps of hair shined with the color of the sun at its highest.

Raeche gasped then. And Taritana, who was pretty but bitter and sometimes choked with jealousy watched, her eyes narrow and dark like the entrance of a sword’s sheath. She didn’t fail in her duty, though, rather proceeded with the ceremony as she proffered the child and Valor stood at her side. Raeche accepted Rucha in her own rite, proud she did not stumble and inspire further suspicion.

Raeche looked up at her husband the all-powerful, tall, fair, golden-haired, green-eyed devil.

She had known nothing of fear before this day.

Grayson Reyes-Cole

I’m Sure Halle Berry Smells Fine, But…
December 13, 2009, 9:39 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

I don’t want to smell lik her.

Here lately television has been awash with ads for cologne submitted by superstars. Halle. Usher. Britney. JLo. I love my scents, I do, but–yes, I know they have specialists who design the scents for them, in fact Coty is behind Berry’s recent foray into the market–I am not thrilled with the idea of smelling like anyone else but me. At least Britney didn’t name the scent after herself, but I cannot forgive her for being shot in the back with a plunger in the commercial advertising it. I bet Miley Ray Cyrus has one (though I refuse to check) and I imagine it smells like trailer and diamond pavé. Anyhow, my completely silly point is that I am turned off by celebrity scents.

So what?

OK, here goes. I celebrate Christmas. It’s a great time of the year for me to show people love. I’ll also share that I enjoy gift giving more than gift receiving. Most people who say this–you may know already–are liars. Me? I mean it.

And for selfish reasons, I admit. As a picky person by nature and a person who already has a lot of… stuff–(side note: I’m not dirty or a clutterbug so despite the fact that I have a lot of stuff… It’s all either put away or displayed as is requisite!)–I am more happy to get a sentiment than an object I don’t like. Does that make me selfish? Maybe. Or does it make me extra deep?

HA! An explanation is forthcoming! Don’t you find it uncomfortable to get something you don’t like? Further… don’t you wonder about people who give you a present that has absolutely nothing to do with your personal style, belief, or the way you choose to express yourself? It’s like giving a Christmas tree to someone at work with a photo of a menorah in their cube. ya know? Or maybe it would be like giving me Halle perfume for Christmas?

When I give a gift, I work very hard to figure out what I know about the recipient, what they like, what they don’t, what memories delight them. I love that expression that says, “You listen to me and you think I’m special.” I guess that’s what it really means: the thought that counts. Thinking about your loved one, knowing them, loving them, that’s what counts.

Merry Christmas,


Coming Soon: The Prescription Playboy
November 22, 2009, 5:51 pm
Filed under: fiction, new release, romance | Tags:
The Prescription Playboy

Cover for The Prescription Playboy

Using every weapon in her PR arsenal, Hunny battles her way through focus groups, the paparazzi, and old flames to rescue the reformed playboy who rescues her heart.

And so I introduce to you The Prescription Playboy my December 21 Lyrical Press release. Here have a tease:


As she walked out of the airport newsstand, her cellphone rang Rule Britannia! She grimaced but managed to wrestle the phone out of the handbag just in time. “This is Huntington.”

“Good evening, Ms. Lewis. It’s Arthur.”

Hunny could read his voice as well as she could the magazine in her lap. Something had her boss tense. “It’s already been planes, trains, and automobiles, but it’s all right. I’m sure I’ll make it into the office for the meeting on time tomorrow. You know I don’t sleep much anyway.”

“Did you have an opportunity to peruse the file?” he prompted.

“Peruse? Yes.” When the other end remained silent, she continued. “I think I’m ready to do mock ups for the television and magazine campaign. I’ve also got some ideas for the web design. The only sticking point I have so far is the CEO. Normally not a big deal with a pharmaceutical company as long as he plays golf, gets his wife to head up a charity, and stays discreet with lobbying, but this guy…” Hunny took up her seat next to the older woman and thanked her with a quick winning smile. She set her drink and crackers down and started to thumb through the magazine as she talked. Arthur had a habit of wanting to talk to her non-stop when she was on large projects. She wondered absently if he did this to everyone else. Yes, probably. Hopefully he would get around to telling her what he really wanted.

She lost her train of thought, though, as what she was seeing began to register. Her mouth lolled open in a horrifying silent scream. A heartbeat passed, then two as she desperately skimmed the article. “You have got to be kidding me,” she said. Well, that’s what she meant to say, although she was pretty sure there had been some other not-so-nice words spliced into the sentence. She clapped her hand over her mouth and shot an apologetic look at the older woman who had watched her suitcase. Bad habit, that. Something about being away from the office gave her a foul sailor’s mouth. Her mama would have a heart attack if she knew.


“Yes, Ms. Lewis, I can only assume by your outburst that you’ve discovered our slight situation.”

“Slight?” Her tone was dry, incredulous. Arthur was uncharacteristically stalling. “Arthur Adam.”

“Yes, Ms. Lewis?”

“Did you call to discuss our slight situation?” For a moment he was silent. Her heart started to race in anticipation.

“I was hoping to get in touch with you before you found out,” he began. “However, you are—as usual—advanced in your information.”

“Not as advanced as I’d like to be, I assure you. For example, I don’t care that he’s featured in four photos with four different women. But, I’d like to have been there to tell that jackass to keep it in his pants before he got involved with someone who worked for the Food and Drug Administration and was, at the time of the indiscretion, the girlfriend of star running back, Devon McAteer.”

So much for keeping a low profile, golfing, giving to charity, showing a staid, conservative image. Hunny couldn’t stop staring at the picture of the gorgeous man with brilliant white smile and the elegant beauty pictured beside him. She was tall and rail thin with thin lips, brows, nose and brown eyes. She wore a champagne-colored dress that melted against her cinnamon kissed peaches and cream complexion. She wore her straight black hair in a fashionable, tidy French roll making her look like Lena Horne in her prime. The woman was looking at him with such longing in her eyes.

He, all bulky and charismatic, was looking at the camera. Hunny almost felt like his eyes were right on her. He was dark-skinned, clean cut in his fastidious black tuxedo. That he was tall and his body thick and muscled was undeniable even in print. And that smile, that face. His jaw was square to frame full, soft-looking lips parted over strong white teeth. His black eyes were large and expressive. She breathed once, twice. She would stay quiet until she trusted herself to speak again. He was probably the most handsome man she had ever seen.

She reread the caption beneath the picture of him and Nicole Davidson. Two weeks ago, this picture was taken only two weeks ago. “What was he thinking?”

“Well…” Arthur started. Hunny had almost forgotten him on the other end of the line. “We’ve seen this before Huntington. In some industries, executives don’t always understand their own celebrity. And even when they are in the limelight, in many instances, people like to think of CEOs as, well, bon vivants.”

“In this industry, this CEO does not have to be a celebrity. He’s turning himself into one, and not—might I add—in a good way. And as far as being a CEO who’s a black James Bond type playboy—not a bon vivant as you so tactfully put it—I’m sure we can get him to sell tons of birth control and male enhancement gel—”

“Ms. Lewis.” Arthur gasped. “Let’s not forget that this multi-million dollar company wants us to help it become a multi-billion dollar company. Let’s also not forget this enterprise provides something no other pharmaceutical company can offer. And finally, let’s not forget this is your career. Your job is to either tuck this CEO away or clean up his image.”

Hunny nodded, though Arthur could not see it. “Yes,” she agreed vocally. She had to pull it together. She’d had harder assignments. Besides, it was only a little part of a little column. Though, she didn’t subscribe to the theory that any publicity was good publicity, she had to admit this was the only place she’d seen the article.

“Besides, the ended relationship isn’t the big problem.”

With those words, the hair stood up on the back of Hunny’s neck.

Look for it at

Grayson Reyes-Cole

Celebrating All Hallow’s Eve with an Excerpt
October 31, 2009, 12:09 pm
Filed under: fiction, Obsession, writing | Tags: ,

Hey, Hey AAs!

To celebrate Halloween, I figured I’d post a spooky excerpt or two. This from my upcoming short story The Fascination: Swallow and Nightingale. It’s a tale of obsession, violence and obsession, and the failure of protection.

The beautiful Philomela likes to lie in her bed on Sunday nights with her knees bent up and listen to jazz while she reads art books without her glasses on. She holds the books very close to her face and smiles even with her silver eyes. Sometimes she even sings like a lost nightingale. Her hair is thick and springy, luxurious. She has narrow hips. Her arms and legs are long and lean. When she stretches one out and points her toes like a ballerina, he is filled with questions. She leaves the windows wide open, and though the screen is in tact, Terrence can smell her on the night air as he watches.

If the screen was not there, he could stretch out his hand and wrap a sorrel lock in his fist. He could pull her through. He could put a hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming. He could wait until she stilled and looked at him. He could see the recognition in her eyes and watch a smile part her soft, rosy lips. He could hold her to him so close that he would leave himself, dig into her, and coil inside her chest, beneath her ribcage surrounding her heart and expelling the poison inside of her. But, he could not. Could only return home and watch Pro as she slept and wonder if he could take that which coiled within her and sever its ties to her. He would keep it for himself, himself and Philomela. 




Grayson Reyes-Cole

Creationism… er… Not Really
June 28, 2009, 2:57 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , ,

DSCN0040This is a sideways picture of a typewriter that is more than 100 years old. Simple enough description, I guess. But I have to share that when I found it sitting outside on desk on an agave farm in Cozumel, I lightly placed a hand over my heart and my mouth fell open.

God love my friends. They didn’t share my reaction, but they were patient as I studied it, touched it, placed my fingers gently on the home row keys, folded rusty little hammers back to their starting positions. I was in awe and I wanted it, and all out revered it!

Now, in truth, this typewriter may have never been used for creating sweeping, heart-wrenching novels about the human condition. It may have never spelled words that equalled up to love, jealousy, fear, pride, or any of those things. But even if it was only used to conjure up invoices for Tequila or Mezclan, it was used to create. Something that was not before, was after.

The typewriter was not for sale. Apparently, even if my friends did not share my appraisal of its value, the residents of the farm did. I even tried to insist that they didn’t want it because it was on a desk outside. They explained that the desk was not outside, it was just inside and when it rained or when night came an overhead door, just as ancient, was drawn down to protect the room and its contents. They said that that’s where the typewriter had always been, where it was used. Who could argue with that?

I left without it, but I have it’s picture. We all know that means I’ve stolen a little but of its soul.

Grayson Reyes-Cole
Author of Bright Star
and The Builder