Wednesday, March 13, 2024

Wednesday's Word: HEAVE. An excerpt from Small Town Escape

 Welcome to Wednesdays where I share a snippet from one of my stories using the previous day's word from the New York Times' game. WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was HEAVE. 

Here's an excerpt from Small Town Escape, the third book in the Small Town Series.



I followed the twisty road through a forest. The sun flickered through the trees, and the limbs casting shadows on the asphalt. I stopped and pulled over and stopped when I got to a wrought-iron gate. The name on the adjacent mailbox read Taggart.

“Are you here, Faith?” I asked.

Atticus answered with a small woof.

I debated what to do for a moment, but then decided, given the sturdiness of the gates, there was little I could do, unless I was willing to climb my way in.

Gates exist for a reason, and that reason is they either want to keep people in or out. If I wanted to find Faith, somehow, I would have to scale the gates.

I put the car back into motion and headed for town on the two-lane road.

More trees.

A couple of logging trucks passed me. A man driving a bright red tractor waved at me to drive around him. The forest gave way to a pasture filled with horses and cows.

Ten minutes later, a thrill of excitement tingled down my spine when I pulled up to the Dollhouse Inn. It was as creepy as Donovan had promised.

Tucked away in a forgotten corner of town, and hidden by a Hansel-and-Gretel-type -forest, the weathered and dilapidated house was covered in peeling paint covered the weathered and dilapidated house. Gangly trees cast eerie shadows across the lawn. A rusty sign hanging above the entrance announced its the inn’s vacancy.

The classic Victorian-style house had multiple stories. Gables and dormers interrupted the roof lines and stared off in different directions. Gingerbread trim and scrollwork hung from the eaves. There was not one, but two turrets. One wrap-around porch. Two balconies. Three chimneys. It was both hideous and glorious.

I loved it.

I parked the Jeep and pressed my finger to my lips, telling Atticus to hush. I gave him a treat for good measure. Gathering up my bag, I shouldered it, and climbed out. The damp air smelled of pine and a neighboring farm. My excitement mounted with every step across the fallen leaf-strewn lawn. The porch groaned when I took the steps, and a bell jingled when I pulled open the door.

I had found The Dollhouse Inn.

Now I just needed to find Faith.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with dolls in all shapes and sizes lined the walls.

A grizzled silver-haired woman reading Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ sat behind the desk. She looked up and gazed at me with swimmy eyes. “May I help you?”

SeƱorita Martinez. Reserva?”

"No English?"

I adopted my grandmother’s thick Hispanic accent. “Just a little.” I held up my fingers in a near- pinch.

She slid a bookmarker between the pages and put her novel on the counter with a thud. "Well, I don't care as long as your money is good."

I fished out my wallet and found a hundred-dollar bill.

The woman cackled, and her eyes gleamed. “You’re a pretty thing. I wonder what brought you out here. Guess I'll never know. I’ll give you my favorite room, the one with the largest collection."

Perfect.

The woman simpered and handed over the keys. “Room 14fourteen. Don’t touch any of the dolls. It has an outside entrance. Just follow the porch around to the back."

I hesitated, unsure how to respond.

The woman heaved out of her chair, and her knees popped. "I guess I'll have to show you." She waddled out from behind the desk.

I smiled, tried to look clueless, and followed her. Outside, I breathed a little easier, appreciating the fresh air after my few minutes in the dusty foyer. I prayed my room would be cleaner.

The woman paused at a red door, inserted a key, and pushed it open.

The musty smell of old fabric and decaying wood greeted me. Like the reception hall, the walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of dolls. Some big. Some small. All of them creepy. I had to tuck my hands in my pockets to keep from covering my nose.

The woman glowed with pride. "It's something, isn't it? My aunt started the collection, but I added these babies from all over the world." She stopped. "What am I saying? You can't understand me." She pressed her hand to her chest. "My name is Phyllis." She pronounced each word slowly and distinctly.

I mimicked her. "My—" I caught myself. “Belle.”

"It's nice to meet you, Mabel. I like a girl with an old-fashioned name. I hope you'll be happy here."

Should I correct her? I decided to let the slip pass. "Gracias."

I wandered into the room and dropped my bag on the bed.

"Just ring if you need anything, but don’t try calling anywhere but the front desk." Phyllis motioned to the old-fashioned phone hunkered like a squatty toad on the bed stand before going out and pulling the door shut behind her, leaving me alone…almost.

Most of the dolls had porcelain heads, with delicate features and lifelike hair that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. Others were made of stuffed fabric, their once- vibrant colors faded and worn with age. And then there were the dolls made of plastic, their cheap material giving them a hollow, soulless quality.

But it was the eyes that made the dolls so unsettling. Glassy and lifeless, they seemed to follow me, watching.

My gaze wandered the room, taking in the high ceilings, the crumbling molding, the ornate woodwork surrounding the windows, and the sturdy but stained, wooden floors. The furniture was a n eclectic mishmash —–an Art -Deco armoire, a Mid-Century dresser, a pot-bellied grandfather clock.  I nearly skipped into the bathroom, where I found a claw-footed tub, a black and white checked tile floor, a pedestal sink, and a small stained-glass window above the toilet.

My imagination soared.

How many more rooms were there? Did every room have a private bath? How much would a place like this cost, and how could I convince Phyllis to sell?

Desperate to show someone my find, I went back to the car to fetch Atticus. I knew he wouldn't be impressed, but he was glad to see me. Of course, I hadn't mentioned the dog to Phyllis. I hoped she wouldn't care, but I wasn't about to ask. Atticus stopped to pee on the lawn. I took the moment to further inspect the house.

I had to renovate it. My followers would eat it up.

Atticus barked, reminding me of Tom.

I couldn't buy this place, even if it was for sale. I couldn't renovate it, and I most certainly couldn't post pictures on my website.

What was I going to do?

The answer was almost immediate, as if someone had whispered it in my ear. Find Faith.

Wednesday, March 6, 2024

Wednesday's Word: STATE. An excerpt from Irish Wishes

    Welcome to #WednesdayWords where I share a snippet of a story using yesterday's word from the New York game, WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was STATE. 



He trolled past the Dublin shore, and as they moved closer to the dock, the waves kicked up and blew saltwater into Gillian’s face. The boat gained speed as Pete increased his efforts. He jiggled his eyebrows at her and grinned. Gillian laughed and took in the stunning cityscape and the eclectic mixture of modern and ancient. To their left, a fish jumped high into the air and landed with a splash that sent a spray as crystalline as diamonds into the air. Gillian itched for her camera, and wished she could capture the sky and river on her blog.

Pete, a little sunburned, looked rugged and handsome. The brisk weather had turned his cheeks pink, the wind tossed his honey-blond hair, and he glowed in the midday sun.

She looked down at the crevice where the side of the boat met the floor. An inch of water had seeped in from somewhere. Was Pete splashing as he rowed? Maybe a little, but not enough to explain the growing puddle on the boat’s floor.

Gillian searched the river for the closest place to dock. She glanced around the boat. Maybe if it’d been a proper boat there’d be compartments, nooks or crannies holding a repair kit, maybe a flare, a first aid kit, or a whistle. She slipped off her shoe and tugged on her bandage. She bit her lip and looked at the distant shore again. The boat ride had lost all pleasure.

Pete watched. “What are you doing?”

Holding the bandage in one hand, she used her other hand to try to find the source of the leak. She felt Pete’s gaze on her back.

She hoped the problem would be an innocent fraying of a seam, but where the side met the bottom, a small, clean slit let in a growing stream of water. The bandage proved useless.

Pete stopped rowing, and without the rhythmic splashing, everything was quiet and still. “Don’t stop!” Her voice verged on panic. “We need to go as fast as we can before we sink.”

“You should probably take off your clothes,” he said, lifting off his own T-shirt.

“What is it with you? I seem to be in a constant state of partial undress.” Gillian tried to sound like she was joking, but the last person that had asked her to remove her clothes had been a nurse practitioner with black chin hairs.

Despite the breeze, sweat dotted Pete’s brow and glistened on his chest. He reached for a coil of rope and tossed it aside to reveal a pair of orange life jackets. He flipped a vest at Gillian.

She felt jumpy and began to sweat.

“It’ll be easier to swim without our clothes,” Pete said.

Or underwear from Cleo’s Closet, she thought, slipping off her shirt, exposing the lime green bra with hot pink flamingos. She still couldn’t believe she’d let Flora talk her into ever setting foot in that store.

Pete quickly looked away, but his lips quirked as he slipped on the vest and tugged at the straps that barely fit around his chest. He kicked off his shoes and took off his jeans, exposing a pair of boxers that resembled Spiderman’s suit.

“A gift,” he said, catching her looking.

“From who?”

“Do you really want to have this conversation right now?”

Gillian pulled off her jeans and told herself that Pete had seen her countless times in her swimsuit...when she’d been a kid. While she put on her vest, Pete rowed as fast as he could to the shore.

The water rose above her knees and then her thighs. Soon, she was treading water. Pete swam to her right, with one arm stroking through the water while the other held the rowboat’s rope.

She’d grown immune to her throbbing ankle. The mild breeze had taken a mean turn and it whipped along the surface, splashing water in her face. She kept her mouth firmly shut to keep from swallowing the brackish water.

“We’re almost there,” Pete lied to her in a ragged voice. She admired him for towing the partially afloat boat. It couldn’t be easy.

She hoped Barney would appreciate his efforts to rescue the boat. Beside her, Pete grunted, turned, and stood up. The water reached his mid thighs. The partially submerged Spidey undies filled with air. He gave her a tired smile and reached out to pull her to her feet. She stood close to him for a moment, enjoying his warmth, but then he moved toward the shore, towing the boat behind him.

Gillian shivered and went after him. A flock of seagulls stood sentry on a crop of black rocks, and a fence with a rusty railing guarded the bank above the strip of shore.

Pete turned to look at her. His hair was wet and matted, he had dried salt in his eyebrows, and a piece of kelp was tucked behind his ear. She threw her arms around him anyway.

And he kissed her.

Her world stopped. Everything around her froze. The sights and sounds of Dublin fell away and she sank deeper and deeper into his kiss.




Wednesday, February 28, 2024

Wednesday's Words: Sense, an excerpt from my current work in progress

    Welcome to #WednesdayWords where I share a snippet of a story using yesterday's word from the New York game, WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was SENSE. 



Before Bailey’s arrival and strange proposition, I’d been considering dropping in on Hillary Hale and asking if she wanted to go riding. I had even considered taking Poncho out to the back thirty—the property where I’d found Bailey yesterday. But now, I wanted, maybe even needed, to be alone. Something that couldn’t happen in my dorm or the farm. I gathered up my backpack, not sure of where to go from here. Just two days ago on my twenty-first birthday, my parents had announced they were giving me property for a graduation present. Could I ask for property with a barn on it? A barn that Bailey wanted to rent?

Could this be the windfall I was hoping for? She could rent the property, and I could earn enough to update the farm’s online presence. Build a website. Set up a direct mailing system. Of course, I’d run my ideas past Dad a number of times, but he wasn’t interested.

We’re doing just fine, Dad insisted.

And maybe we were, but what if we could be doing great? I growled in frustration, and Sean, overheard.

Glancing up, Sean grinned. “Girl problems.”

“No,” I said through gritted teeth.

“So, that girl dropping in on you.” He cocked his head at the door Bailey had passed through. “She’s not giving you grief.”

“No,” I said, and the word came out harsh, much harsher than I had intended.

“So, can I ask her out?”

“No,” I said with even more force, even though Sean could ask out whoever he pleased, and Bailey, of course, was free to go out with whoever.

Just not Sean.

Not that I had anything against Sean. He seemed like a good enough guy. Rumor had it, he had a job lined up with Microsoft and if Bailey hooked up with him, she probably wouldn’t have to live in a barn with her niece and grandmother.

Why did she want to live in a barn, anyway?

I puzzled over this all the way to my car. Inside my truck, I went in the opposite direction of the Hale’s house, even though Hillary Hale was a very pretty girl with a brilliant mind and a royal fortune. I enjoyed her company, mostly, and whenever I needed a date to one thing or another, she was top on my list, but Hillary Hale would not appreciate my funk nor explain why Bailey living in a barn—my barn! should bother me. If I told her about it, she would laugh and maybe even turn her barbs and sarcasm on Bailey. She would never understand. I couldn’t make her understand—especially since I didn’t understand any of it myself.

All I knew was someday soon that barn would belong to me and Bailey wanted to camp out in it.

I revved the truck’s engine and pulled off campus, threading my way through the congested portion of the city and out into the comparatively empty highways, until at last I found myself in the suburbs.

Why not go back out to the barn? I tried arguing with myself. After all, I had just been there yesterday.

I began to look about and try to see things through Bailey’s eyes.

Most of the fields were green with spring. Pastel colors painted the horizon, and a few tall, lank trees sprouted blossoms. Dusk brought a chilly air, and, with the truck’s windows down, I drew in a long breaths.

Behind a copse of old willows, age-tall and hoary with weather, their extremities just hinting of green, as they stood knee-deep in the brook on its way to a larger stream, I caught sight of the old barn.

Was it habitable? I found it both regal and shabby. Substantial. I could see it just as Bailey had seen it, and something in me responded to her longing to live there and make it into a home. I pulled up beside the barn and got out.

The sun was just going down, touching the stones and turning them into a lustrous gold. I stood in the evening air, listening and looking. I could see the romance of it, and somehow I could see Bailey’s face as if she stood there beside him.

 She was right. It was beautiful, and it was a magic soul that could see it and feel what a home this would make in spite of its being nothing but a barn. Some dim memory, some faint remembrance, of a stable long ago, and the glory of it, hovered in the back of my mind, just beyond reach.

I went to the doors, practical, even if I was a dreamer. I tried the big padlock. Who locked this up and why? Was there anything to steal? How had Bailey gotten in? Would I be forced to break into my own barn?

I walked down the slope, around to the back, and found the entrance close to the ladder; but the place was dark within the stone walls, and I peered into the basement and took in the dirt and murk. She couldn’t live in this, could she? She wouldn’t want to, would she?

A crack looked toward the setting sun. A bright needle of light sent a shaft to pierce the inky shadows. Then I spotted a ladder. Had Bailey gone inside? And if so, if she could do it, so could I. The sense that she was stronger tickled at the edge of my confidence.

I got out my phone, flipped on the flashlight ap, and stepped into the gloom. Holding the flash-light above my head, I surveyed my property with a frown; then with the light in my hand, I climbed up the dusty rounds to the middle floor.

I stood alone in the center of the big barn, with the blackness of the hay-loft overhead, the darkness sliced by the flash-light and a few feebler darts from the sinking sun. A shudder ran through me.

Why live here?

Yet, that same feeling that Bailey had more nerve than me forced me to walk the length and breadth of the floor, peering into the dark corners. I climbed part way up the ladder to the loft and sent my flash-light searching through the dusty hay-strewn recesses.

Disgusted, I headed down the ladder, through the dingy basement, and out into the sunset.

The smell of damp grass enveloped me and it felt clean and pure after the barn’s dustiness.  The charm of the place stole back over me; and I stood and wondered about Bailey, Layla, and the Lady G. Where were Layla’s parents? Where were Bailey’s parents? Didn’t Layla have relatives on her father’s side? How would they feel about their granddaughter living in a barn?

Could I somehow make my barn habitable? What did I have to do? Because if it were in my power to help Bailey, Layla, and this Lady G person, I wanted to do that.

At dinner that night I brought a few pieces of the puzzle to Dad. "Did Grandpa Haywood ever live out on the old Glenside Road?"

"Sure!" he said, putting down his fork. "Lived there myself when I was a kid. I can remember rolling down a hill under a great big tree, and your Uncle Billy pushing me into the brook that ran at the foot. We boys used to wade in that brook, and build dams, and catch little minnows, and sail boats. It was great. I used to like to go out and stay at the farmhouse. After your mother and I married, we rented it out to a prepper; but his wife was a hoot, and made the best apple turnovers for us kids—and doughnuts! The old farmhouse burned down a year or so ago. But the barn is still standing. I can remember how proud your grandfather was of that barn. It was finer than any barn around, and bigger. We boys used to go up in the loft, and tumble in the hay; and once when I was a little kid I got lost in the hay, and Billy had to dig me out. I can remember how scared I was when I thought I might have to stay there forever, and have nothing to eat."

I leaned forward and propped my forearms on the table. "You said I can have an acre when I graduate. Would you mind if I have that old barn in my share? Can we arrange it? The others won't care, I'm sure." 

Dad blinked at me. "I guess that could be fixed up. Although, you haven’t graduated yet.”

“It’s two months away.”

“Geez. Time flies. Seems like you were just starting kindergarten.” Dad returned to his steak. “See Mr. Dalrymple about it. He'll fix it up. Billy's boy got that place up river, you know. Just see the lawyer, and it’ll be a done deal. No reason in the world why you shouldn't have the old place if you care for it. Not much in it for money, though, I guess. The property's way down out that direction now."

The conversation turned to my plans for grad school, and I didn’t mention Bailey or my visit to the old barn. Instead, I took Dad’s advice, and saw the family lawyer, Mr. Dalrymple, the first thing in the morning.

Monday, February 26, 2024

Book-tubers: 10 Clean and Wholesome Recommendations

 I'm fairly new to the YouTube world, but I'm loving it so far! I have five stories up (more coming every Friday.)







Recently, I came across a Facebook post recommending clean and wholesome booktubers. I can't wait to dive into these channels!

How about you? Do you have any YouTube channels to recommend?

Oceana Gotta Read Em All

Book Lover Amanda

Books and Jams

Chrissies Purple Library

Tales and Treats with Tay

Wandering With Stacy

Wandering With Stacey

Jane Reads

Chantel Reads All Day

Paperbacks and Pony Tails

Wednesday, February 21, 2024

Wednesday's Word: Match. An excerpt from Carly and the Christian Cowboy

   Welcome to #WednesdayWords where I share a snippet of a story using yesterday's word from the New York game, WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was MATCH. 



Christian listened for Carly’s lock to turn before heading for home. He strode across the pasture thinking about Carly. Why would she wear contacts? She was stunning, even with those contacts hiding the most remarkable thing about her.

Who was he kidding? Everything about Carly Wentworth was extraordinary. She was brilliant, beautiful, kind…

Christian spotted a hulking form lying in the shadowy tall grass and his heart sank. “Hey there, Bessie,” he called out.

The creature didn’t stir.

Christian crept forward and still the animal didn’t move. He knew the cow, a brown and white Hereford, was dead even before reaching it. It lay in a puddle of blood and its neck and gut had been torn open. Christian pressed his fist into his mouth to keep from gagging.

He would enlist Seth to help him clean this up. It would have to be done tonight, so as not to attract more even predators and endanger the rest of the herd.

Christian glanced around, expecting to find a pack of coyotes or the golden eyes of a mountain lion. He put his hand on his belt, where he kept his knife. His gaze snagged on the Wentworth house and his breath hitched.

Should he tell Carly to stay inside? Was it his place to warn her?

Without even being aware of having made a decision, he found himself striding back across the pasture. He climbed the steps and rapped on the door.

Carly peeked at him through the window before opening the door. She wore a white gauzy nightgown, her hair was loose around her shoulders, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, and she’d taken out her contacts.

Christian stared at her mismatched eyes. They were as stunning as he remembered, but they widened in fear.

Christian realized he was still holding his knife. Hastily, he tucked it back into his belt. “There’s a mountain lion, or maybe a bear, could be coyotes, though…” he wasn’t sounding coherent. He took a steadying breath. “I just wanted to warn you. Make sure you stay inside. Whatever it was, it took down and killed a Hereford.”

She probably didn’t even know what a Hereford was.

“A cow,” he said. “It’s dead. Just over there.”

Her eyes grew even wider.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, but I thought you should know. In case you decided to go for a walk, or something.”

She smiled. “Thanks. I’ll wait for daylight before venturing out.”

Christian’s gaze slid over her, before shifting away, embarrassed to be caught staring at her almost see-through gown. “That’s good. Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Christian. And thank you.”

He nodded before turning away and schlepping off the porch. An idea struck him even before he reached home.

You can listen to me read Carly and the Christian Cowboy for FREE on YouTube.





Wednesday, February 14, 2024

Wednesday's Word: SCRAM, an excerpt from Small Town Escape

  Welcome to #WednesdayWords where I share a snippet of a story using yesterday's word from the New York game, WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was SCRAM. I haven't used the word scram, so I went with SCRAMBLE.



On Saturday, the crisp morning air carried a hint of pine mingled with the unmistakable stench of a dairy farm. We rounded a hill, and a herd of camels came into view, contentedly grazing under the steady eye of a local farmer.

Mabel’s uncertainty was palpable as we approached Mr. Gibbs, who greeted us with a warm smile. "You folks here for a ride?" he asked, nodding toward the creatures.

Mabel shot me a glance that betrayed her nervousness. I grinned and took her hand. "Don't worry, they're gentle."

I introduced Mr. Gibbs to Mabel, and he introduced us to the camels, their names a mix of exotic and comical. We were paired with Sahara and Sultan.

Mabel hesitated beside Sultan, but I patted his side. "He's a big softie. You'll be fine."

Sahara, after some urging from the farmer, dropped to his knees.

With a boost from Mr. Gibbs, I mounted Sahara and settled into the leather saddle.

Mabel, however, eyed Sultan, uncertainty etched on her face. I gestured for her to join me.

"Climb up here with me," I suggested, offering her a hand.

She wavered, but after a long moment, she took my hand, her grip tight as she scrambled onto Sahara’s back in front of me. Once she was settled, I wrapped an arm around her, offering a comforting smile, even though she couldn’t see my face.

The farmer handed me the reins, gave us both a wink, and thumped the creature on the flank.

The camel ambled off in a steady gait, rocking us back and forth.

I shifted so Mabel fit snugly against me. "See? Not so bad, right? I thought you might be nervous, so I came prepared with jokes.”

“Jokes?” Mabel squeaked.

“Yes.” I tightened my arms around her waist and pulled her a fraction closer. “How do you ask camels if they want some tea?”

“Camels don’t drink tea.”

“They absolutely do, and when you offer them tea, you should always ask, ‘One hump or two?’” I paused. “It’s funnier in English, because lump and hump rhyme.”

Mabel's nervous laughter mixed with the rhythmic sounds of the camels' movements as we set off across the pasture. Cascadia’s scenery unfolded around us—the green hills, the distant town, and the camels grazing in the pasture.

“I have more.”

Mabel groaned, but even though I couldn’t see her face, I felt her smile and relax a fraction against me.

“Why do camels blend in so well with their surroundings?” I asked. I didn’t wait for her to answer. “They use camel-flage.”

She groaned again, but it was a happy groan.

“Just one more,” I said. “What do you call a camel that cries? A humpback wail.”

“What are those?” Mabel asked, pointing at a herd of ostriches.

“What do you think they are?”

“Ostriches, but what are they doing here?”

“Laying mammoth eggs, of course.” I kicked myself for not coming prepared with ostrich jokes—if there even were such things.

As the camels plodded along, Mabel gradually relaxed.. We chatted and laughed, and Sahara’s swaying motion bumped Mabel against my chest.

“Whatever made Mr. Gibbs want to raise camels and ostriches?” Mabel asked.

“He was stationed in the Middle East and, I guess, just fell in love with them.”

“Goodness, did he have them transported from the Middle East?”

“No. There are a number of exotic animal auctions in the U.S.”

“How do you know so much?”

“I’m from a family of farmers, remember?”

“That’s right. I keep forgetting.”

I tightened my arms around her and rested my chin on the top of her head. I loved that she didn’t seem to see me as just one of the Haywood boys.

“You really are too good to be true,” Mabel said.

“If you think that, I’ve done a good job of fooling you.”

“What do you mean? You are a perfect example of Dudley Do-Right.”

“No, Mabel, I hate to disillusion you, but I’m not.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you didn’t become a cop to make the world a better, safer, happier place?”

“In part. But the horrible truth is, I became a cop to become a better, safer, happier person.” I swallowed hard. “I had—have—an anger problem.”

“I find that really hard to believe.”

“Well, it’s true. In fact, when I was younger and stupider, I got in a fight with my best friend… We’re not friends anymore.”

“All kids fight.”

“We nearly killed each other.”

“You must have been provoked.”

I grimaced, grateful she couldn’t see my face. “Maybe, but it didn’t warrant my behavior. Have you ever heard of the berserkers?”

Mabel shook her head.

“When Norse warriors turned wild, fighting in this crazy, frenzied mode, they were called berserkers. They were fearless, super strong, and supposedly invincible on the battlefield. Stories from sagas and old texts talk about battling warriors going into a trance, pulling off insane combat moves unconcerned for their own safety. But here's the thing,” I pressed a hand against my chest as if taking an oath, “I don’t like being a berserker.”

“It’s a choice, though, right?”

I shrugged. “Anger is addicting, and, just like any addiction, you—and by you, I mean me—have to learn how to control it or it will control you. A cop probably kept Raff and me from killing each other. I haven’t been in a fight since.”

“And what about Raff? Where is he?”

“Ohio.”

“Ohio?” Mabel echoed. “That’s random.”

“And far away. He’s Harmon’s brother, by the way, and also the reason I’m fluent in Spanish. Although, we haven’t spoken in years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. It hurts to lose someone you love, but it especially hurts when you know you’re the reason they’re lost.”

Mabel glanced around. “Do you think we’re lost now?”

“No. I’ve lived here my entire life. I could never be lost here.” Although that might have been true physically, the more time I spent with Mabel, the more and more lost I felt. I was falling for her. Hard.

Monday, February 12, 2024

Inspired by a Local News Story

 My short story, The Picnic, was inspired by a local news story. Of course, I can't tell you what the story was about, because it would spoil my story, but you can listen to it for FREE on my YouTube Channel.

I really love this story. I love it so much that I'm submitting it to the Orange Country Romance Writers' Anthology (published this October.) But to be included in the anthology, the story needs to be about fifty pages. Currently, it's a measly fifteen.

This, of course, means The Picnic will grow and morph into something new, bigger, but not necessarily better. I'll post both versions on my YouTube channel, but, for now, there's just the original story.

If you enjoy it, I'd love to hear your thoughts.