The alarm blared. It was a high-pitched, terrible beeping that filled all three floors of the house. Maddie leapt from the couch, her Lays chips and Canada Dry Ginger Ale spilling onto the red and gold paisley rug underneath her slippers. Maddie couldn’t hold it in. A small gasp escaped from her mouth as she rounded the couch, passed the floor to ceiling windows that led to a blanket of freshly fallen snow on the deck and peered down the hallway toward the front door. The hal

Louise Rickshaw, good with numbers, bad with men and a look-alike to a dead girl. Spring 1979 in Gully, Georgia, Louise’s life is changed when a corpse is placed on a swing set just around the corner from her childhood home. While hiding her new job from her abusive husband, Louise becomes wrapped up in the murder investigation, not only because of her uncanny likeness to the victim, but because of the relentless coincidences and the persistent voices of her mother and sister

We met in the rain. Yet, your hair wasn’t wet because you held an umbrella flush to your chest. The drops cut through the burning street lamps that lined the cobblestone road, leaving behind blurry streaks of blue. Squeaking boots from streets over left us alone but reminded us it was not, truly, just the two of us. Your dark eyes searched me for what? Money? Or sex? Both. You took my hand but I tugged you in the opposite direction of your pull. You whispered your name in my

At the end of a very long line of black poles and strung wires, a matte steel building rose above the red sand. The man, who was wearing a fur coat and little else, had been following the line of electricity poles for weeks. His torso, his cheeks, underneath his nails, all was covered in the burnt red dust that covered the desert. The hairs on his legs had clumped into matted balls of maroon and brown and the fur coat, that had once been the shiny black fur of a long-forgotte

I’ve just finished the first draft of my third novel. In the last year, I completed one sci-fi YA novel at 72 000 words (I started this one a long time ago but completed it in Spring of last year), one adult psychological thriller at 79 000 words and another adult psychological thriller at 75 000 words (but still a WIP). They are all stand alone novels and not part of a series. I see a lot of posts that are related to wanting to be a writer but just ‘not being able to write.’