Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Get Ready, Get Set, And...





It's almost here. It's right around the corner. It's so close, you can almost touch it. You might even say, you could...





PRE-ORDER TOO WYRD!

That's right. We have achieved the pre-order stage!

Are you excited? I'm excited.




So, go check out my new web site, The AuthorGoddess, to find lovely links, including this one, to the pre-order page of the initiates. (Don't forget to leave a review when you read it!)

Saturday, August 20, 2016

Sugar Daddy, Excerpt, Part 6

This is a short story that I wrote many years ago. It holds a special place for me, as it was one of the few times I was really inspired to write non-genre fiction.

Content and language warning.


I crawled out of bed around noon with a mild hangover. After stumbling through the kitchen searching for some instant coffee, I stood next to the microwave waiting for the water to heat up. I glared around planning how to rail at John for the mess, knowing I’d never actually bother to talk to him about it.
It dawned slowly, that he was gone. The thought snaking its way through the fog in my brain finally latched on. I scowled at the messy kitchen, then shuffled through the house, room by room. Finding nothing, I slowly sipped at my coffee, nearly gagging because it was too strong.
I slumped onto the ancient threadbare couch wondering vaguely what I should do. The flashing message light finally caught my eye. I pushed the appropriate button on the second try and slumped back to listen.

I was the only person in the state who knew John intimately, so I got to be the one to identify the body at the morgue. I never cried in public. I told them to send the junk-heap car to the compactor. After hitting a tree head on, it wouldn’t have been worth keeping anyways. I cried myself to sleep for a week straight and started planning my move to San Francisco. I skipped the funeral.

I’d been planning on moving for years, but now I had to. I would need to get out of the house so John’s heir, whoever that would be, could do whatever with it. I tried to pack by myself, but I kept feeling guilty, or getting angry and throwing things, or crying. The crying was the worst. Finally, I just called some friends over and we had pizza and beer while packing up the few things in the house that were mine. The rest of my stuff was in storage, waiting to be picked up just before leaving town.
I called Liza in San Fran to tell her I was actually moving. She offered me crash space on her couch until I got on my feet. I told her that that would be perfect. I got online every night for a week, filling out applications for everything from data-entry to Micky-D’s in the area close to Liza’s place. I started and online journal, telling the world how horrible John was. Then I told the world how horrible I was for saying that in the first place.

“Janice Larson? I’m Jacob Sorens, attorney. Can I come in?”
I let the conservatively-dressed man in, kicking at the cat who was attempting to escape. I waved him into the threadbare chair that only matched the couch if all the lights were off and it was nighttime.
“So, what do you want? I’m moving out in two days and nothing’s missing…”
“I’m here about Mr. Allers’ will. You are Janice Larson, correct?”
“Yeah, but what…”
“I have here the last will and testament of Mr. John Allers.” The young man pulled a few papers out of his shiny black briefcase. “Ms. Larson, you are the sole heir to Mr. Allers assets, estimated at $250 thousand. I have some papers for you to sign.”

I just opened my own business, teaching yoga to trophy wives and mistresses for the San Francisco elite. We often go through our poses, keeping bodies in shape for men who care only about the bodies. Then we go next door to the mega-chain coffee house for non-fat lattes. We talk about the men who give money to their women and what we think about them, really.

Sometimes I think about John; the way he treated me, the way I treated him. And the bitterness I feel threatens to overflow, I blink back the tears with a wisecrack about the size of a penis, and everyone laughs. If anyone ever bothers to ask, and no one here ever does, my feelings for him are only this: I was with him for love or money. But never both.

Friday, August 19, 2016

Sugar Daddy, Excerpt, Part 5

This is a short story that I wrote many years ago. It holds a special place for me, as it was one of the few times I was really inspired to write non-genre fiction.

Content and language warning.


I lived this way for years, four years to be exact. I felt like a whore to this man, my Sugar Daddy. The bitterness was so strong that I could taste it when John’s hands crawled up my thighs. Yet, I almost didn’t recognize it when it splashed across my life like vomit at a rave. I began to hate him.

I used his money to go back to school. I only had a year and a semester worth left to go through for my degree in business administration. I told him I was too busy with schoolwork to get a job, so he paid for everything that my student loans did not.
I asked him to come to my graduation ceremony. Then I begged him. Then I demanded he come. Then I went down on him for twelve nights running. He said he would try to make it.

The day of the ceremony, it was really hot in the auditorium. I stood under the stage lights, beads rolling down my back underneath the black, rented graduation gown. I tried to peer into the audience several times, but the glare was too much and I kept blinking when the sweat ran into my eyes. I almost missed it when they called my name to walk across the stage.
My parents had shown up, surprising me, so in a way I was glad John never showed. They had never found out about John, and I liked it that way. Still, the bitterness was rising in the back of my throat. I convinced myself it was some gastric reflux caused by nerves.
I got home late that night, having gone to dinner with my parents, drinking with my friends, and then I called Billy for a quick romp. I didn’t bother checking the messages on the machine, since I used my cell phone exclusively. I never noticed he was really gone until the next day.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Sugar Daddy, Excerpt, Part 4

This is a short story that I wrote many years ago. It holds a special place for me, as it was one of the few times I was really inspired to write non-genre fiction.

Content and language warning.


 “Janice, perhaps next year we could move to Santa Fe. We could get that extra apartment we’ve been talking about.”
“I don’t want to live in Santa Fe. I want to move to San Francisco and start doing my painting.”
“We can get a time-share in California also, after we’ve settled in Santa Fe, where you can open a shop for your work.”
“I don’t want to open a shop. That would keep me from traveling.”
“No, it won’t. I’ll send you wherever you want to go.”
“Whatever. Can I get some gas money for tomorrow?”

We drove down the dirt road in his old rusty car, kicking up dust in the dry-heat night. It was midsummer in Nevada and we were on our way back home from John’s family in Vegas. He had introduced me to them as his assistant and slept in the same bed with me.
The next morning, I had gotten up early. I never slept well in strange places. I went to the kitchen to dig up some coffee or orange juice, something to wake me up. I had just started the coffee when John’s mother walked in. She stopped short for a moment, then recovered.
“I didn’t realized you were up, Janice. I was going to make some eggs and bacon for John. Would you like some?”
I nodded and offered to help, but she waved me to the table, already hunting for the pans and ingredients. I tried to catch her eye and start a conversation once or twice. She answered yes and no and sometimes, but watched the eggs as if she was cooking them with Superman’s heat vision. After a half hour of this, John showed up, yawning and relieved the tension for both of us.
Now, fourteen hours later, he drove fast along the empty road that he claimed was a shortcut. I could not see any lights as far as the horizon. He was talking about his family and growing up next to the casinos; anecdotes that had nothing to do with me, that I could not bring myself to be interested in.
“Are you awake?”
I kept my eyes closed and my head leaning against the seatbelt. “Hmm.”
“Do you think you could drive as soon as we get to the interstate?”
“I’m really tired. Can’t we get a hotel or something?”
“Oh, you’ll be fine to drive. It’s a straight shot.”
“I have to work the day after tomorrow.”
“You can sleep when we get home.”
“Fine.”
An hour later, I slid behind the wheel. John was asleep in the passenger seat before we hit the interstate. I turned the music on low and drove all night, stopping for gas at a station near Salt Lake City. I raided John’s wallet and kept an extra twenty for myself. The attendant got fresh with me and I gave him the look I give to gangster-punks back home. The do-not-mess-with-me look.
I didn’t get to sleep until midnight the next day.

Monday, August 15, 2016

Sugar Daddy, Excerpt, Part 3

This is a short story that I wrote many years ago. It holds a special place for me, as it was one of the few times I was really inspired to write non-genre fiction.

Content and language warning.


My friends liked to make fun of John and the situation I was in. I laughed along and gave them fodder for their jokes. I never told them everything, but they never knew. Most of the time, we’d just talk shop. We ran a small discussion group for a psychology class, taking what we learned to the next level. At least, that is what we claimed. None of us had taken a psych class for years.
But, like I said, I never told them everything. I never told them that I craved John’s attention, even when it was degrading. I never told them that he didn’t just pay my bills and let me live with him rent-free. Instead of paying my bills, he would hand me a couple of twenties in the morning. I told them that I could turn him on like he was a teenager, but I never told them what the sex was like. I never told them about his war-games hobby. He loved talking about politics, world economics, warfare and strategies.

He talked about politics and warfare all the time, even when making love. He called it “making love.” I called it sex, or just fucking. He would talk about this obscure stuff while making love, running his hands across my stomach without really seeing it. It was as if that part of our relationship was a job that he was distracting himself from.
He would take off my clothes, and his own, discussing the platforms of various politicians. His caresses moved over my body in time to his monologue on whatever was on CNN that night.
His discourse on foreign policy, speckled through with criticisms of the government officials involved with the US invasions of whatever small country we had our thumb on, took on a rhythmic quality as he huffed and puffed and thrust. I could always tell when the explosive end was coming when he went into the strategies and tactics of his latest, favorite attack on terrorism. I swear he never saw fireworks when he orgasmed; he surely pictured the A-bomb. The saddest thing, though, was that he really seemed to feel that he gave me something special by doing this to me.

Saturday, August 13, 2016

Sugar Daddy, Excerpt, Part 2

This is a short story that I wrote many years ago. It holds a special place for me, as it was one of the few times I was really inspired to write non-genre fiction.

Content and language warning.


I did eventually test his resolve in regards to sleeping around. That’s when Billy entered the picture. My Billy-boy was just…a thing, nothing I was going to be serious about. After all, he had nothing to offer me except a notch on my belt.
Billy was an assistant manager at the Mi Casa Taco, a local fake-Mexican fast food place. He reigned supreme over part-timers, students, and lifers—those poor middle-aged schmucks stuck in minimum-wage hell. I would walk across the street from the stuffy office where I did data-entry, a mindless job that encouraged both mental and physical atrophy. My co-workers were clique-y and work was all politics and brown-nosing. At Mi Casa’s, I would always order the double cheese enchilada’s, no onion, extra guac. If Billy was working it would be ready before I could order.
Billy could make me laugh with his posing, acting like he was all that. Once, he literally strutted around like an over-plucked rooster, back and forth next to my table, thrusting out his thin chest and smoothing back his perfect haircut. He reminded me of the football players in my high school – underdeveloped, but bragging about their…muscles. He asked me if I didn’t think he made the very best enchiladas. I shrugged and smiled, not answering, but by then he didn’t care.
Billy got me, mostly, because he liked to tell me how good I looked. “You’ve got the greatest ass, hon. You’re not too skinny. I like your tits. I love your hair like that, long and flowing, and red; I love you as a redhead.” It was always a sexy outfit to Billy, while John never noticed what I wore. It was odd; John seemed to like me for my mind.
Billy asked me out and I agreed to meet him on a Friday night at the local cheap-seats theater. He met me at my car and said we had an hour until the next showing of the movie. He climbed into the passenger seat of my old, full-sized sedan and we started talking.
We missed the movie because by that time we were screwing in the passenger seat. After two hours, he slipped out of the car and walked home. After that, he only called me when he wanted some, but he was good, so I never minded.
I, on the other hand, went home to John and told him what happened. He said something about winning back my heart and heated up a bottle of sake. He didn’t say “you don’t have to” when I went down on him that night. I knew that was all the punishment I would get. I smiled to myself when he got that surprised look on his face. They always got that look.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking of anything in particular, John.”
“Of course you are. You are so brilliant, you are always thinking of something. I want to hear about it.”
“I don’t know what you want to hear.”
“I just want to hear you talk.”

Friday, August 12, 2016

Sugar Daddy, Excerpt, Part 1

This is a short story that I wrote many years ago. It holds a special place for me, as it was one of the few times I was really inspired to write non-genre fiction.

Content and language warning.


When I first met John, I was unimpressed by everything about him. Except his persistent romanticism. That I enjoyed. He had this way of describing the future of our relationship like he had been there and seen it. It made me laugh when he related to me the unlikely scenarios.
“I will be stuck here in Colorado while you, Janice, you’re in the apartment I’ll keep for you in Santa Fe. And you’ll be having a party with all your friends, all gay. Except for Hans, the gorgeous young Dutch photographer who wants to sleep with you. And I’ll say ‘Oh, honey, don’t,’ but you will. And I’ll just h
ave to wait until I get back home and try to win back your heart.”
That was how he told me I could sleep around on him. I almost missed it in the drone of his run-on sentences about our future and his former life as a coffee-house poet and musician. He was apparently quite famous for a time.

That was the way it worked, though. He would drone on about what we “will” do and I would agree or disagree. Not that my opinion ever changed anything. He was always talking about how I would never really love him because he was 30 years older then me. Well, okay.
It wasn’t that I found him attractive, or unattractive, for that matter. His appearance was never an issue. His full head of white-gray hair and slight potbelly never really crossed my mind. He had smooth, clear skin for his age and had kept all of his teeth through the years. Maybe I was just satisfied that I didn’t have to remind him to take a fistful of pills everyday, or give him Viagra when I wanted some.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Love and Criminal Activity

This is a short story that I wrote specifically for a contest.



Halley Burrows knows that she is a very forgiving person, but everyone has that line. The line that cannot be crossed. The line that is unforgivable. Hers is messing up her morning coffee.
It's really quite simple. She chants the order each morning: Venti double shot, double caramel, peanut butter, toasted marshmallow, double dark chocolate, light foam, whipped cream, no drizzle, 120 degrees Fahrenheit. At least once a week, Halley had to deal with something wrong about her order. But not with Tom. Never with Tom.
Tom was a coffee god. Tom with the ability to make her morning drug with finesse and speed. Halley loves Tom for that, but he wasn't working today. Instead, it was Johnny, a good kid, but he was no Tom.
"Halley!" He called her name, holding up the brick red to-go cup with the brown cardboard band that would keep her hands warm on this brisk winter morning without burning them.
She walked out of the coffee shop and strode toward the crosswalk at the corner. She sipped at her drink as she waited in the herd of people for the light to change.
Oh, no!
She sipped again, searching for the taste of whipped cream and caramel in the upper notes of the drink's bouquet. As a public defender for at-risk youth, she had a pretty stressful job that frequently ended badly. Her coffee, made right, was all too often the only thing great about the day. But, apparently, not today.
She weighed her options for a moment and decided she had time. They could add the shots, mix them in and top with whipped cream without making a whole new drink. If she hurried, she wouldn't be too late.
Halley turned on her heel and took a step before running full-on into a large young man. The coffee splashed down her practical tan, cotton trench coat as she cried out in surprise. She lifted her eyes to stare up into the young man's face. He grinned and, in the weird slow motion that happens when prey encounters predator, she recognized the maliciousness in his face. The scream was already rising in her throat when he grabbed her purse and took off down the sidewalk.
"Stop! Theif!" she called. Desperately, she added "Fire!" just for the attention. Her business-wear heels wouldn't support running after him, so she stared helplessly as he ran past the coffee shop door, pushing people out of his way.
Then, he was body-slammed against the building by a police officer.
"Oh!" she gasped, wide-eyed, as she trotted over in the classic running-in-heels clop. The cop slapped handcuffs on the young man and passed him over to his partner before turning to her. It crossed her mind that the thief might be young enough that her office would be defending him later that day. Oh irony.
"That's my purse," she told the officer, a little breathlessly. She bent to pick it up, but the cop got there first and handed it to her. She found herself looking into the deepest, darkest eyes she had ever seen.
His face wasn't classically handsome - more like swarthy, pirate-y bad-boy good looks. He smiled at her, giving her a subtle once-over, his eyes lingering on her torso.
She blushed, angry. How dare he turn this into some pick-up moment! She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind.
"I think you spilled something," he said, nodded towards her coat.
Halley clamped her teeth down on her tongue, remembering the coffee disaster. Well, disasters.
"Yes," she began. Then she choked up. The adrenaline of the purse snatching was draining away, leaving the fear and shock, and now she wanted to cry. For her messed up coffee. For her spilled coffee. For being late. For being the victim of a theft. For being messy in front of this nice, good-looking cop. Her throat closed and her eyes watered. She cursed herself for having such an emotional reaction.
The officer's face relaxed and he smiled pleasantly. "I'm Officer Darin Cruise. I'll need to take a statement from you."
Halley nodded mutely.
"Can I get you anything, first?" he asked.
She nodded again. Then her mouth opened and words not under her control came out. "I need you to arrest Johnny. He made my coffee wrong."
The officer stared at her for a moment. He glanced her over again, before walking over to his partner and speaking with him for a moment.
Halley mentally yelled at herself. What could I be thinking? He must know that I couldn't be serious. God, I was such an idiot!
Darin returned. "Okay, let's go." He took her arm, gently, and steered her into the coffee shop, right up to the counter.
"Are you Johnny?" Darin asked.
"Yessir."
Darin dropped her arm, crossed his arms over his chest and gave Johnny an intimidating frown. Halley's heart picked up speed. It was just nerves, she told herself. It certainly wasn’t the masculine posturing on her behalf that made her feel a little melty inside.
"You will make this lady's drink," he said. "Correctly this time." He gestured to the pair of handcuffs at his waist. Johnny's eyes went wide. Darin continued, "Do I make myself clear?"
Halley bit her lip so she wouldn’t laugh. Johnny nodded and grabbed a cup.
Darin gestured Halley over to one of the tiny coffee house tables and held the chair for her. He grabbed a handful of napkins and sat across from her, handing them to her.
"For your coat," he said, gesturing at the mess.
Halley began wiping at the coffee and foam, grateful that she'd gone with the trench coat today. It would handle a run through the washing machine, and it had protected her business attire from the mess. She'd almost worn the hounds tooth wool jacket, which only came down to the top of her waist and was dry-clean only. That would have been a real disaster.
Halley eyed Darin across the table. He was getting his notebook and pen out to take her statement. Johnny set the new coffee down at her elbow. "This one's on the house," he said, his voice cracking, before he scurried away.
This time, Halley couldn’t stop the giggle that bubbled up her throat. She took the coffee and sipped. The pure heaven of her perfectly-made drink hit her tongue. Her eyes rolled back in her head and a low moan of pleasure escaped.
She suddenly realized how her behavior must look to Officer Cruise and she quickly straightened up, glancing at him. His beautiful dark eyes had taken on a gleam that made her stomach flutter.
Halley cleared her throat and concentrated on giving him her statement.
*   *   *   *   *   *
Halley tried not to slump or yawn while she glanced at the clock. It was court day, and she was in front of a judge for the seventh and last time. They were mostly arraignments, outlining the charges and entering pleas of guilty or not guilty. She wanted to be home, relaxing in the bath and not thinking about her lack of dating options for the weekend - Valentine's Day weekend, no less. Instead, she was waiting for the judge to pass his sentencing of her client, a 14 year old boy up for vandalism – spraying graffiti on a mom & pop hardware store.
Judge Harrison cleared his throat, ready to give the sentence. "Last night, I took a piece of chocolate from a box I'd given my wife several days ago. She was so upset that she stopped talking to me. What I had thought was just a chocolate was an infringement to my wife. It is important to understand when you have infringed upon another, but I hope she forgives me and gives me a chance to make it up to her."
The judge peered at Halley’s client. "In the spirit of the forgiveness and mercy I hope to get from my wife, and in light of the testimonies given on your behalf, I am sentencing you to one year probation and 50 hours of community service, the first of which will include cleaning up the wall of the hardware store."
Halley's shoulders slumped with released tension and she congratulated the young man, warning him not to get himself into trouble again before he left with his mom.
"This won't be the first time I've been thankful for chocolate at work, but never quite like this," she muttered to herself. She hurried to gather her paperwork and stuffed it into her case, thinking she would have all weekend to sort through it while binge-watching rom-coms and crying over both Ben & Jerry.
Halley was used to spending weekends alone. Usually, she preferred it, but Valentine’s Day was always hard on the single ladies.
She pulled her trench coat on and grabbed the remainder of her third coffee of the day. She turned to leave the courtroom and crashed head first into Officer Darin Cruise, spilling the coffee down the front of her coat.
"Oh!" she cried. "Look at what you did!"
Darin looked down at the spill. "I am so sorry, Ms. Burrows. I… It’s all my fault."
Halley blushed. "Call me Halley. I didn't mean to blame you – ” She stopped. "Oh, no! What day is it? Did I miss the court date? Why didn’t you call me if I was late? Will that man who laid hands on my Kate Spade walk free?"
"No, no. It isn’t that. That trial isn’t until next week." Darin frowned. "Who is Kate Spade? Did that man hurt her? Was she with you when he robbed you?"
"Well, there was a scratch, but..." Halley looked at him like he'd grown another head. "Kate Spade is the brand name of my purse."
They stood awkwardly staring at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter.
"Oh, wow," Halley said, gasping for breath. "You thought..."
Darin jumped in. "Will you go out with me this weekend?"
Halley gasped, then choked on the air. "W-w-what? On Valentine's Day weekend?"
Darin grinned. "Sure! It would make a great story for our grandkids." He waggled his eyebrows, making Halley laugh again. Then he frowned. “That is, if you can stand to let me make up for spilling your coffee on your coat.”
Halley wiped at the spill. “This does seem to happen whenever we meet.” She eyed the officer suspiciously. “But I suppose I can give you another chance.”
*   *   *   *   *   *
Saturday night, after a lovely dinner at a nice restaurant, and a funny movie, Darin took Halley to a local, all-night diner and ordered hot chocolate and apple pie.
They talked about their work and about the people that they met at work, about politics and pop culture. Halley couldn’t believe it when she glanced at her watch to find that four hours had passed while they were talking.
Darin drove her home, telling her about growing up with two older sisters and getting a make-over during a weekend slumber party. Halley laughed and told him about growing up an only child to parents who were several decades too late to be hippies.
Darin walked Halley to the door and hesitated. “Well, we made it.” He gestured to her coat. “No coffee spills this time. Am I forgiven?”
Halley smiled and leaned forward. “I suppose so.”
Their lips brushed and Halley gasped at the tremor that began in her belly. The kiss deepened and Darin slipped his arms around her as she clutched his shoulders.
Too soon, it was over, and they pulled away to stare into each other’s eyes.
"Mmm," Halley said, leaning into Darin’s chest. She felt a little shaky on her feet after that kiss. "I think you may be right."
"Of course I am," Darin said, grinning, then he frowned. "Right about what?"
Halley smiled up at Darin, loving the way his face lit up when she looked at him. "This will make a great story for our grandkids."
*   *   *   *   *   *
A few months later, Halley trotted into the coffee shop, waited impatiently in line, and grinned when she saw Tom at the counter.
“How are you doing this morning, Ms. Burrows?” he asked.
“Good, Tom. Yes, my usual.” Halley grinned mischievously. “I’ve got some bad news for you, though.”
“Oh?” Tom asked, looking over his shoulder while he steamed the milk. “I’ve got bad news, too. But, you first. Are you leaving me for another coffee shop?”
Halley laughed. “Oh, good heavens, no! My caffeinated loyalty is yours until the end of time!” She waved her left hand at him, letting her new diamond flash in the fluorescent lighting.
Tom put the lid on her drink and slid it over the counter before peering at the ring. He slapped his hand against his chest, as if to hold in his heart. “Oh, tragedy! Oh, woe! I have waited too long to sweep you off your feet!” he cried in the voice of a Shakespearean actor. “My dearest is now betrothed to another!”
Halley laughed at his antics. “Serves you right for assuming that coffee was the only thing I needed from a man.”
She sipped the coffee and sighed. Perfect. “So what is your bad news?”
Tom shrugged. “Had to let Johnny go. He couldn’t get anything but the simplest orders correct. I gave him several chances, but…”
Halley nodded, with exaggerated solemnity. “Some things are unforgivable.” She thought about the events leading to her meeting Darin, including her messed up coffee order. “But, then again, there are always exceptions.”
Tom grinned at her and waved away her money. “On the house. Consider it my engagement gift for you. And congratulations! You gonna show it off at the courthouse today?”

“You bet I am!” Halley shifted her lucky Kate Spade onto her shoulder, tightened the belt on her freshly washed trench coat and grabbed her coffee. She lifted it in cheers. “Here’s to love and criminal activity.”

Monday, August 8, 2016

Granted: a micro-short story

This is a short-short story that I wrote around 15 years ago.


When Carolle Tinneman died Thursday night, right after Bingo, nobody had seen it coming. She was a young, vibrant woman, successful and well-liked by all. She was active in the church and helped run a couple of local charity organizations. She was dependable and always willing to help.
When word spread that she was found with a small handgun in her right palm and a matching bullet that had entered her right temple, it was assumed to be murder. Even when forensics determined it was, without a doubt, a suicide, no one really bought it.
A week later, the letters arrived.
Every person who knew Carolle from work, church, charities, even her longtime friends and her family, received one of the letters. They were each identical to the word, though there was no evidence that a copy-machine had been used.
Most people put it aside, sensing its importance, but not understanding its meaning. Some were even outright confused by the letter’s contents. Everyone agreed, however, that the letter was from Carolle:
            There is something in my life that has been sorely missing. I have chosen not to burden you with my need. I would rather to go to God, who can give me my heart’s wish without having to be told what it is. I need two words, not in the casual meaningless way we throw the phrase around every day. I need them to be genuine, as true to their meaning as only emotions such as love and respect can provide. I do not blame anyone for denying me this, for people do not think about it in this way. Thus I go to my God to hear the two words I have been longing for:

                        Thank you.

Saturday, August 6, 2016

Too Wyrd Cover Reveal

Here it is, the cover for #TooWyrd, book 1 of the Runespell series!
Stay tuned for information on pre-orders!




Thursday, August 4, 2016

Too Wyrd Cover Reveal Coming!

I've gotten the cover image for Too Wyrd. Who's excited?

I'll be doing a cover reveal event, so stay tuned! Meanwhile, here's a hint: