Coming Next:

 

Now Available for Pre-order!

 The long-anticipated sequel to Spirit Talker and second in The Seers Series is now available for pre-order and will be launched on May 31st. Presenting: Soul Seer

An Adventure in Narration

Time Management for Busy Woman...The Wonders of Green Tea...Essential Oils for Hormones...two in-progress epic fantasies that'll take over your reading time as you become drawn in by the incredible stories...not only have I been able to READ again for the first time since embarking on this incredible adventure, but I've learned so much.

I think most happily, though, I've made new friends with like-minded souls. There is something so gratifying in making those special connections, ranging from a shared passion for a story to a shared perspective on life and love. Today, I want to tell you about Edwina Martin-Arnold; one of those connections I'm especially grateful for. 

I consider it a great privilege to narrate The Chocolate Romance Series! Edwina draws unsuspecting romance readers in to her intricately-crafted plot lines, and then accomplishes something else: she opens our minds, teaches us something, and in the end, enriches our perspective, not only on love and sex, but on life! If one is so inclined, these subtle lessons could be brushed over in favor of simply enjoying the characters and their adventures...but there are nuances which, when perceived, hint at enlightenment.

Not an easy feat.

My own endeavor to offer new perspectives on death and the afterlife through my own books remain a constant undercurrent to my own efforts. It is refreshing to meet someone unafraid to tackle timeless issues with both bravery and an open heart, willing to learn as they go, as well. Readers of romance and thrillers , hold on; I think Edwina and I are up for challenging boundaries for the foreseeable future. Join us; you won't be bored. ;)

What's next?  Chocolate Friday is done and on sale here. Book 2, Vanilla Chocolate, will follow very soon. And new release Chocolate Drop is being narrated and will be available in audio format late spring/early summer.

What about me, you ask? Book 2 of The Seers Series, Soul Seer, is two-thirds complete on paper, and finished in my mind (heck, I've already written book 3 in my head!). I'm aiming for a May release!

And stay tuned for more work from the duo of Edwina and myself. What do writers of thrillers and romance have in common? So much, guys. How about following your dreams, to start? There may be a Facebook Live coming to expand upon that little nugget...stay tuned! 

Edwina Martin-Arnold

Spirit Talker Audio Book, Narrated by Moi!

 

Asylum: My First Audio Book!

Narrated by the wonderful Virginia Ferguson, who in my opinion tells the story beautifully. I'm so excited to introduce:

 

In Progress: Spirit Talker, Audio

 

A Letter to Stephen King

Dear Mr. King,

I know just when to start this letter: in my very early childhood, when I lived in a PMQ on Prince Edward Island and was desperate to connect with a father who was, at the time, an undiagnosed bipolar who self-medicated with alcohol. 

When he was at home, he could be counted on to be doing a limited number of things: listening to music on his headphones and sitting on the couch, reading. Always reading. And often, it was your name that graced the cover beneath the title. 

I would sit next to him, reaching with my entire self to perceive the music that soothed him. Sometimes he'd even place the headphones, heavy and overlarge, on my head for a moment or two, and I'd be enveloped in the magic of Pink Floyd, Jethro Tull, Elton John or the all-time favorite: Eric Clapton. I learned how my father's gentle tappings, fingers on the pages of his book or on his thigh, connected to the cadence of the tunes he'd share. The ebbs and flows, the driving beat... and it was magic. And I would keep the beat with him when we'd sit together, regardless of whether I could hear the music or not, because by then I knew what spurred his rhythmic tapping, and knew, too, that he loved it. And maybe, if I loved it, too, he'd love me even more. Maybe he'd realize I understood something about him, and feel better. Stay home more, even.

I used my mother's never ending joy of reading to us to my advantage. My father devoured thick, heavy tomes with powerful-looking block letters on the jackets, his eyes roving over the page hungrily. His busy, troubled mind rejoicing in the distraction of those rows and rows of letters drawn together in chunks and then blocked into sentences and paragraphs. But my mother read my sister and I smaller, brighter versions that had pictures and far fewer words. And I knew two things: that each example, though different, was categorized as a book. And that I wanted to graduate to those bigger and obviously more fulfilling books that held my father's attention. Because in my mind, regardless of all else, my father was the smartest, coolest human ever.

So, when my mother read to me, I studied the words. I remember picking out the pauses between sentences and asking her why some letters were bigger than others. And I noted the sounds of each, whenever I was able. 

But three, I was reading to her.

It was a celebrated accomplishment; my parents and relatives, and later, teachers and peers, seemed to think it was pretty special that I'd learned at such a young age. But they didn't know how hard I'd worked, and for what purpose. 

And then something else happened: I learned that, though I was able to read, I would not be allowed to hold my father's heavy books on my own lap, nor should I tease them out of their tight spaces on the shelf.

Those books weren't for little kids.

Imagine my disappointment!

I was seven when my father finally put my first Stephen King (The Eyes of the Dragon) into my hands. He'd comforted my mother in that it was "tamer" than many of your other titles... sufficiently enough for her to allow it, anyway. She still pressed her lips together, her eyes darkening, whenever she found me reading it. Which was always, until I'd torn through it and, eager for more, read it again. 

I loved it. And there was something else: it felt familiar to read your words. See, I've always been a different sort of girl... one plagued with nightmares, visions and a sensitive perception of the supernatural. And finally in my hands was solid proof that, fiction or no, I wasn't the only one in the world who saw things with a bit of a tilt to them.

But it was different than I'd ever imagined any reading could be. I specifically recall the scene in which Thomas is watching his father through the eyes of Niner and being shocked when the King is described doing things people tend to do when they're alone - peering at themselves critically, picking his nose, lamenting drunkenly to the empty room. And then there was Flagg, a villian the likes of which I'd never imagined, manipulating and conniving and so very dark.

That was the only Stephen King I was allowed to read for a long time. And the ones I read next were read in stealth, after I'd pried them from my father's bookshelf in the living room and secreted them to my room. I read Christine and Thinner and The Tommyknockers, then Misery (which I adored) and The Dark Half. Much of what I read shocked me but, in the clutches of your mastery with words, I read on, confessing to my parents only after I'd managed to get through my father's collection. Can you guess what happened, then? 

He determined I was old enough to read your novels. And my mother unhappily admitted that, as I'd already been so exposed, it was useless to ban them any longer.

And the love affair went on. The first book my father gave to me after that was Needful Things when it came out in '91, and I was floored. Sure, I'd been reading everything I could in between, interspersing library copies of Pet Sematary, The Talisman and IT with The Babysitter's Club, Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret, and Sweet Valley High. I'd take my books outside in the warmer months, reading in the grass or on the tracks with the sounds of the river in my ears. Over the years, I found some of my all-time faves: Bag of Bones, Duma Key, Lisey's Story, 11/22/63, and by then, I was writing, too. Poetry, for the most part (like my father) and short stories here and there, but as I progressed through school and eventually university, I'd kept journals and songs, too... a collection of my own experiments. My personal tribute to the art of language.

Now, I write my own books - supernatural thrillers - and put them out into the world, delighting in the perpetual process of learning. Relieved at the outlet it allows me for all those things that live in me and fester, otherwise. Saved by it in the wake of a chronic pain diagnosis and early retirement from my day job. I won't say it's providing financially just yet, but I see it down the road. I have to! But even if not, I'll still do it.

And my father edits it all. Masterfully. Oh... and he's been sober for nearly 30 years.

Isn't that cool?

So, I guess I just want to say thank you. I've admired you since I could recognize your name, and that was almost from the very start of this stint, in this body, this life. You've unknowingly provided me - and I'm sure many others - a refuge through your work, and I wanted you to know.

Thank you. 

Theresa Dale

Coming Soon: Soul Seer: The Seers Series Book 2

Warning: Seers Series Spoilers forthcoming! 

Book 2 of The Seers Series is loosely scheduled for mid-March. 

Shya is enmeshed in her own personal Hell, somewhere between life and death and woven into the roots of a powerful demon. But Asmodeus won't be satisfied with the bright souls he's collected - he's always wanted more. He's always wanted it all. So, using the weakened barrier between the realms and Shya's incredible energy, he's breached the barrier so that dark souls can slip through to the land of the living. And while the earth turns dark, the souls of the living start slipping, too.

The Seers must untangle Shya from her trap, but how, when they're fractured and the world is spiraling into darkness? Dawn thinks she knows, but the only solution that feels right isn't one she's willing to divulge. Not yet.

She won't lose another member.

Coming January 12, 2021

 

A Snippet: Constance & Enzo's Tea Time With Peyton

Hi, all. I've been working on the audition script for Constance & Enzo, which is slated to follow Asylum in the audio book category, and thought to share a chapter for your reading pleasure. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 7 – Two Lessons

Enzo’s focus intensified as he brought his face almost to the tabletop, his hazel-green eyes narrowing on the little white feather they’d retrieved from Peyton’s duvet.

Peyton giggled. “Your eyes are crossing.”

Enzo remained singly engaged in his task.

Peyton sucked in a breath and pursed her lips in silent support.

Enzo inhaled, then blew, his gaze never faltering, and though the feather remained on the spot they’d carefully placed it (which was the same result as the first and every attempt that had followed), it fluttered, ever-so-slightly.

Peyton gasped painfully, her lungs already full of held air, then cheered on a giant outbreath.

Enzo peered up at her, a light in his eye. “Did you see that?”

Peyton nodded, and Enzo cheered, too, jumping up and dancing around the room.

“You did it!” she exclaimed, hopping a little on the spot in a rare moment of unfettered joy. But a familiar feeling stirred beneath the excitement, too, as she watched Enzo whirl about the room, his form leaving trails as it zipped too fast to be solid, too smoothly to be trapped inside a body that was tangible.

Apprehension.

For Enzo’s progress meant something more than an improvement to his mood and endless possibilities insofar as his freedom was concerned. It also meant an enhanced capacity for the types of tricks and teasing that Enzo loved - and Peyton would surely pay for, should Constance catch on.

But even more ominous was the fact that Enzo’s hair-trigger of a temper would experience a dangerous boost in potential outlets.

He was happy now, but Peyton knew him well enough, even after only a few months of acquaintance, to predict a shift back to resentment – or worse – boredom, as soon as the novelty wore off.

Enzo whooped as he spun again, then darted back to the table. Peyton watched, a small smile still playing at her lips as she tried not to ruminate on the darker implications of his success. But instead of refocusing on the feather, which had moved in the wake of their celebrations, he jerked his gaze to the windows. “It’ll be time for tea soon,” he murmured, his voice low.

Peyton scanned the line of windows along the western wall, then looked down at herself, her heart starting to race. “Oh, no!”

She’d been so busy with Enzo that she hadn’t even dressed for the day, much less for tea.

Enzo observed the frenzied flurry of activity that followed with an amused smirk.

“Can I have some privacy, please?” Peyton asked, her voice high.

He picked at his teeth, then looked at her lazily, his eyebrows raised. “Hm?”

“Enzo! I need to get ready!”

He rolled his eyes. “You know I could watch you dress anytime without you having a clue.”

Peyton threw her hands into the air, the dress and tights she clutched flouncing dramatically. “Can we please keep up the pretense, for my benefit, that I’m able to believe nobody is watching me dress?” she exclaimed, punctuating the sentence with several little stomps, like an overstimulated toddler.

Enzo bent to the table again, his eyes on the feather.

Peyton feared she might explode. “Enzo!”

He ignored her.

She shut her eyes, inhaling. Willed her heart to slow and her blood pressure to stabilize. She blew out, regarding him again as she concentrated her angst on the clothes she grasped with clenched fists. “I’ve spent a lot of time helping you in the last week. The whole time I’ve been here, actually.”

Enzo raised an eyebrow in her direction.

Peyton shuffled her feet a bit. She loathed confrontation, but had found herself challenged by it more in her short time with Constance and Enzo than she’d ever found at any other time of her life. And that was saying something, given the very things that made her different. “Enzo, please.”

Empowered by her gift or not, Peyton was ever-aware that she was at the mercy of the twins. And if Enzo was angry with her and refused to cooperate, Constance would know. And she was fully capable of acting on her whims, being alive and all. Peyton hung her head.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Enzo lamented, but something like satisfaction laced his words.

Peyton clenched her jaw.

Suddenly he was in front of her and she froze. It was hard being this close to anyone.

“You’re so weird,” he voiced, and it hurt her more than anger could have, because it was true.

She glanced again at the trees, the sunlight dipping behind them, making them into silhouettes. “Fine,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes as she begun to remove her shirt.

Enzo giggled. “Don’t be indecent!”

Peyton, pressed onward by the anticipation of Constance’s arrival, did not pause.

“Ugh,” Enzo sighed, then snapped his fingers and was gone, just like that.

Peyton did pause, then. “That was new,” she muttered.

He was back before Constance arrived, though, popping back into existence as soon as Peyton was dressed. He was watching! she internalized with a frown as he sat beside her on the bed.

“She’s late,” he said.

Peyton nodded. “Do you know why?”

Enzo shrugged.

Peyton studied his features. “You do, don’t you?”

He smiled as he studied his fingernails. “She’s had a visitor.” Something darkened his expression, even as he feigned indifference.

Peyton paused, then ran to the window. “That car’s here again,” she remarked, mostly to herself. It was a black Bentley, and she’d seen it once before, but had missed its owner. She whirled on Enzo. “Whose car is that?”

He regarded her darkly.

“A friend?”

He laughed.

“Family?”

His smile faded.

“Is it your father?” she tried, but knew it was wrong. He wasn’t due to return for another week.

Enzo shook his head. “If it were, we’d be at tea now. He’s not here even when he is.”

Peyton looked down at the car again.

“You’ve seen her before,” Enzo hinted, but the teasing tone she’d usually have expected was apparent.

She frowned again. Her? “I’ve only ever seen you and Constance,” she retorted. “Unless -” she gasped. “Oh!”

Enzo watched her, waiting.

“You know what I’ve seen?”

“Who do you think’s been showing you?”

She shook her head. She’d never quite understood just how the dead communicated. The methodologies escaped her, though she heard them, loud and clear. It wasn’t just conversation, though. The give and take of that was easiest to comprehend, but more difficult for them. Dreams seemed easiest, and visions came in as a close second, but there were so many more ways. Her thoughts turned to the one constant she’d seen in her head since Constance had approached her after her last art class: the stables. The hayloft. The blonde woman, naked and straddling the bodily form of the ghost who watched her, now.

“Her?” she asked, and the word was met with a single nod, Enzo’s eyes hard. She looked back down and as if by some miracle of timing, she was there, walking toward the car in a smart skirt and blazer, her hair pinned into a French twist. Peyton leaned forward until her forehead met the cool glass, straining to see details and failing as the woman lowered herself into the driver’s seat smoothly. She watched the car turn and fade down the driveway, then looked over her shoulder for Enzo. She jumped back, having found his head just behind her, disembodied and gazing out the window over her shoulder.

“Sorry,” he muttered as the rest of him materialized.

She shook her head. “Who is she?”

“My mother,” he replied without hesitation, all traces of mischief erased from his comportment.

Just for that moment.

And then there came the sound of a key in the lock.

Coming Soon...Asylum! ...but Different.

 I'm so excited to finally be entering the world of audio books. Honestly, it's always been on my back burner, but I've held off, saying I can't afford it (I can't) and that I'll get to it when some real money starts rolling in.

Hahahahahaha.

And then I thought, wait a sec! What if audio books are the thing that will help the real money to start rolling in!?

OK I'm not so ignorant (or unrealistic) as to think that this, this will be the big break I've dreamt of... but maybe it's the little nudge that'll help my stories out of obscurity. Maybe their accessibility in a new/widened market will garner more attention. 

Maybe I just need to keep investing in my passion, aiming way too high and landing somewhere between buried in a seemingly infinite stack of indie authors and #1 best-seller. 

I'd settle for extraordinary. 

:)

So, stay tuned. Up first: 

Poem

I'm writing something new (surprise!). The first book of a new series called "The Seers". I see fivish books in this one, and the first (Spirit Talker) is weird, with poems taking the place of chapters here and there. 

Here's one:

            The Dark

Do you feel them creeping there?

Beyond the door, under the stair

Roiling belly, whisper, glare

Dark energy dwells there

 

You’re right to shun the musty rooms

Forgotten casket, eternal tombs

Headache pulsing, thick dread looms

Heavy heart, impending doom

 

They reach with twisted fingers, limbs

Hot, bubbling beneath the skin

Encite the boiling fear within

Paint canvasses of chain-linked sin

 

Once tethered, they will grasp and hold

With frost-lined tendrils, veins of cold

Infused with thoughts and dreams so bold

To terrify, sicken and drain when told

 

So do not let them hang from you

Dripping menace, sticky dew

Hell’s honey clinging endless to

The secret danker spots in you

 

Turn body and mind’s eye away

T’ward lighter thoughts, dwell in the day

Let paths of good lead you and sway

Your tendency to joyful play

 

Turn, child, be safe! Build solid home

Between sinew and blood and bone

Hold strength and comfort, lessons shown

            Your beating heart is not alone

A New Start

 

Chapter 1 – Fear

 

“But, why?”

At four, she knew enough to tense when she said it, because the result could be only one of two things: her mother would sigh and get a faraway look in her eyes while she crafted the perfect answer, or she’d reached her limit and her mother would roll her eyes, muttering something about her “answer well” having dried up for the day. Or worse, giving Shya that look – the one that meant stop.

Thankfully, this time her mother took her onto her lap and wrapped her arms around her, and Shya nearly swooned in the warmth of her embrace. But then came to attention, remembering to that faraway look in her mother’s eyes and straining to see it. It made her mother laugh. She kissed the top of Shya’s head.

“Daddy believes in what he can see,” she said.

“But -”

Her mother shook her head, her lips on Shya’s crown so that she would sense the movement. “It’s just how some people are, sweetheart.”

“But I know there’s someone in here,” Shya whispered, her eyes flicking to the dark corner, the closet door, the foot of the bed.

Her mother was quiet for a time. Shya moved against her chest with the rhythmic movement of her breath. She perceived her mother’s heartbeat against the back of her head and her eyes drooped, some past, pervasive sense of comfort threatening to overtake her completely.

“I know,” her mother finally said, her tone as hushed as Shya’s had been and the words tangling in her hair like extensions of the faint moonlight that filtered through her bedroom curtains.

Shya twisted around, needing to meet her eyes, and her mother loosened her arms, straining, too. Connecting. Understanding her need. “You do?” Shya asked and then held her breath, already having experienced enough interaction with people to know that they teased and sometimes even lied in order to smooth the truth. Mother hadn’t ever done that – it was why she trusted her so completely! – but she needed reassurance, anyway.

This was important.

Her mother nodded. “I do,” she said. Her eyes were luminous in the darkened room, somehow picking up the glow of the night sky and gathering it there. Shya thought her mother's gaze was very nearly magical.

“How?”

Her mother smiled. “My mother knew, too. And my grandmother. There is a long line of ancestors that knew, Shya. But we know something else, too: you don’t have to be scared.”

Shya hiccoughed suddenly as her eyes filled with tears. Her chest had filled so quickly that it shocked her, and the sound escaped her on its own, making her mother giggle. Shya didn’t mind; it was a funny sound. Besides, the fullness of her chest was what mattered. The fact that others knew. Others like her.

“I believe there are many things that exist outside of our perception, most of the time,” her mother said, her eyes going to the window dreamily. Shya would remember that statement for the remainder of her life, repeating it in the early years until she understood it fully, and then coming back to it when she needed the solidity of it.

Shya frowned.

“What?”

“I hear them, but I don’t see them.”

Her mother pursed her lips, nodding.

“Is - was it like that for you and Grandma, too?”

“It was,” she tucked a lock of hair behind Shya’s ear, her face unreadable, “but then it changed, and we could see them, too.”

Shya gasped, but her mother shook her head again.

“I was afraid too, at first, but then it became part of who I was and it stopped being scary.”

“Really?”

Her mother nodded solemnly.

“So, will I see them, too?” Shya felt her eyes widen at the thought and shivered a little.

Her mother paused again, rubbing Shya’s upper arm with an absently-moving thumb.

“Mommy?”

Her mother met her eyes again. “Probably, darling. But hopefully, it won’t be for a long while, and we can talk about it before then, so you’ll be ready.”

It was so simple, but so fulsome. So perfect. Her mother had a way with words.

“OK?”

Shya relaxed into the warmth of her mother again, confident enough to let go of the nagging sense of urgency that had nipped at her earlier.

Her mother kissed her forehead, the scent of her lingering in Shya’s nostrils intoxicatingly as she lay her down and tucked her in. Whispered, “I love you, sweet girl” into her hair and kissed her again.

Sweet orange, lavender and rosemary. Her mother’s nighttime oils were as much a part of her as her voice. Her touch.

Shya would catch them on the air long after her mother stopped gathering her into her lap. And remember her words – the ones that ended up being a lie, after all – “you’ll be ready.”

 

Love, Genny xo

In honor of reaching 300 followers of the FB Rose's Ghost page, I'm pleased to offer my latest finished manuscript for free: a novella called Love, Genny xo. 

Told in the form of letters rather than chapters, this often sad but overall triumphant story of a woman who decides to live in her camper through the harshest of Canadian seasons is a foray into something a bit different for yours truly, and written as a gift to myself and to the readers that support me on this beautiful journey of becoming a career writer. 

Please note that because this is not published for profit, you may find errors within! For that I must beg your forgiveness; during this crazy time, money is short and I confess to being flawed where editing my own stuff is concerned. 

Thank you, dear readers. You'll always be able to find the link to the story on the right-hand toolbar, and if you're so compelled to comment or inquire, please leave your input on the Rose's Ghost page linked above, or contact me by email. 

With love,

Theresa xo

Constance & Enzo's Tea Time With Peyton

 Out for edit, and shaping up for a September Release: a standalone that has familiar connections! 

The blurb: 

Peyton’s come a long way from the awkward twelve-year-old girl we met in That Summer, but her incredible gift is still wreaking havoc with her life.

In her ongoing quest to find others like her, she’s unknowingly left a trail of breadcrumbs to her front door – for commiserating friends and desperate souls, alike. But she couldn’t have predicted the lengths one visiting stranger would go to take advantage of her ability to talk to the dead.

She’s never been good at reading people, dead or alive, But this time her shortcomings - combined with the all-encompassing need of her captor - result in her disappearance.

Her advantage is that those who love her will do everything they can to find her and bring her home, including the recruitment of two uniquely qualified women. Will Margot - a pioneer in the world of science and the supernatural - and Charis - a sometimes reluctant, but incredibly gifted psychic - succeed in using their own special talents to see clues the police simply can't?

Coming Soon:

On Criticism - Constructive or Otherwise

First: tell me what you don't like. 

Please.

I appreciate those comments as much as the positives! Well...almost. ;)

I had a very talented, trusted reader (who also edits my stuff and is my Dad) drop a couple hints at criticism, then come right back and apologize, wishing he could take it all back.

But,..I NEED THAT SHIT. 

OK, if I'm honest, even the slightest hint at a negative remark caused me pangs of anxiety in the beginning. And suggestions - well, they nearly ended this career I'm trying to build, over here. Stuff like, I think you should start the chapter like this, or, I prefer this tense - sheer panic. Because all I heard was you did it wrong. But it's amazing what a year of rejection will do to toughen you up...and a year of self-publishing, including ARC results and honest reviews. There's a lot of self-doubt involved in this line of work, but there's a lot of triumph, too.

In short, your "criticism" was useful, Daddy, when some others cut deep, with no redeeming qualities to help the blood coagulate.

I need to know what I'm doing wrong, just as much as I need feedback on what hits you right, or else how will I change and grow? 

Second: I just said it. Tell me what you do like, too!

I think negative criticism is louder because it seems more important to point out the errors than to tout the scores. A positive review is usually short: vague sentiments and five stars, and they're done. But despite the affirmation of my chosen line of work that comes from any positive review, I'm often left wondering what I'd done to strike the right chord in the reviewer, too. 

I know I need to build my own team of beta-readers, and I'm trying! I really am - but it's challenging. 

I guess all I'm trying for something that will give back in value for both sides, and having a hard time figuring out the semantics. 

So in the meantime, whether you like my book or not, tell me. And for the love of God, tell me why. I love you. Thank you!

I'm Just Having Too Much Fun

Tom's Apocalypse is finished, cleaned up, and in the hands of my most trusted reader, input-giver, and grammar/spelling stickler. The fact that he's my Dad is just a gigantic bonus.

So, what's next?

I need to figure out what to DO with Tom now that it's finished. The pandemic I've created is maybe a little too similar to current-day circumstances for a quick release, though it's far more swift to devastate, and boasts a macabre host of symptoms COVID could never match. So, clearly fiction, but maybe a bit too much while we're still watching and waiting for answers during our own crisis.

In other words, maybe I should wait until we're sure our results aren't scarier than the fiction the virus inspired?

In any case, I'll get it ready (with my all-star team, of course) and see what happens. in the meantime, here are the cover contenders:

 

Now, on to what's coming:

 - I've submitted Dark Mirror to a press I admire; I should know mid - late fall whether it'll be selected. If not, I'll publish it in October.

- Stumble remains an enigma for me - more demon than ghost in some ways, and still hasn't be read by another soul. But I think some of my best writing is within its pages. Likely, it's another one that will have to wait for its time...

- Constance & Enzo's Tea Time With Peyton - Oh my God I cannot wait to put this out...but I haven't a clue when! It features characters from That Summer, Bird With A Broken Wing and the Rose's Ghost Trilogy, which made it a blast to write, but do I release it now, when the Trilogy is still gaining new readership, or wait until readers want more? Which brings me to my next project that's been percolating:

- A second Trilogy in the Rose series. Yep. Some time has passed, and we get to know the children of our past protagonists as they deal with experiences of their own. I see Dmitry, Greyson and Roisin in my mind so clearly, and their stories are begging to be told. But, first:

- I am going to finish a long-time in the works project this summer. It's called Dear Daddy and features a mentally unstable woman who is living in denial of what she's lost - and she's doing it in a camper in the woods, through a bitter Quebec winter. It's written as a series of letters, mostly to her father (hence the title).

- Totally new projects include a story called Wisp, which is told from the perspective of a ghost, and a thriller/fantasy mashup featuring a parallel world of elf-type folk. That one's called Fable, after the town in which it is set.

Can you feel how excited I am? Because I think I'm oozing it. I love this writing stuff.

I'll keep writing, and you keep reading. OK?

Deal.

Asylum Snippets...

Guys, I don't know if I can wait to get this one out...here's a taste, but let me give you some context: the majority of the story is told from our protagonist's (Bailey's) point of view. An intelligent young woman who was knocked off an ambitious course to doctorhood by the shocking end to a long-term relationship, Bailey still has a passion for helping those less fortunate than herself.

Which might explain the first time she saw the ghost. But it wasn't the last, not by far.

What seems like an epic adventure across the border to photograph long-abandoned Briarhurst before it is demolished turns into something very different when Bailey is entreated to stay, even after her group of friends must leave. But she's not alone in her quest to solve the mysteries of the lingering ghost children; she just happens to be the only one still living.

I've sprinkled historic newspaper articles throughout so readers are afforded a look into the history of the Briarhurst Asylum for Handicapped Children. The following is a portion of one of them, and I've stuck a bit from our Bailey in, afterward:

Chapter 8 – Article #2: Brambleton Times

BRIARHAVEN INSTITUTION: ANGRY FAMILIES UP IN ARMS AS POLICE INVESTIGATION CONTINUES AND SHOCKING REVELATIONS EMERGE.

September 25, 1978

Brambleton Times

By Jenson Carter

Reeling in the wake of the announcement that Briarhaven is under official Police investigation, former residents and their families are demanding answers. And one of their questions is “Should we sue now or wait until the investigation is complete?”

Perhaps I can help.

Let me tell you first that concerned families and those residents directly impacted by the downfall and delinquency of the failing institution – and let’s keep in mind that this is an institution that has been entrusted with disabled children for three-quarters of a century – aren’t the only stakeholders reacting in outrage. The City Council has announced an investigation of its own, stating,

“We are appalled to learn that a local organization trusted with the most vulnerable of souls from around the country has not only failed to meet standards, but appears to have abused this organization’s trust in it for far too long. In solidarity with the families and friends affected, we pledge to scrutinize the situation carefully, and ensure that safeguards are put in place in the future so that no one else suffers at the hands of such neglect and outright abuse.”

Strong words, especially considering there has been little released officially. Makes you wonder if the Council has heard the rumors, too? Makes you wonder if they know more already…

Mayor Jim Barney appears genuinely shocked, but is refusing to comment on the matter until results of the investigation are official and/or charges have been laid.

And then there’s the statement put forward by Briarhaven, itself. Yes! They’ve released a statement, and though it says very little, the fact that they’ve already acknowledged the investigation is rather a surprise. Here’s what we at the Times found most relevant amidst assurances of “effective processes” and “the prioritized care and comfort of our patients,”

“While we are aware that continuing staff shortages, as well as the impact of recently loosened regulations on qualified caregivers has had some detrimental effect on our organization as a whole, we want to reassure concerned citizens that we continue to hold ourselves to high internal standards. The health and safety of our children is first and foremost in our minds at all time, by mission and mandate.”

Excuse me while I vomit into my trashcan.

Apologies to the more sensitive of my readers, but as the lead undercover investigator for this publication, and someone who spent more than two months within Briarhaven Institution, pretty words from their legal team insight more nausea than comfort. They may succeed in turning the attention of some away, but not one who’s seen what occurs on a day-to-day basis inside their secluded walls.

~~~~~~~~~

A bit from Bailey:

...I looked backward at her and saw the door open inward at the opposite end of the hall. “Shit; they’re coming!”

Moshi’s face hardened and she was suddenly zipping past me. A bare foot - pale, but dirty - stepped through the door and I let out a shocked screech.

“What?” Moshi screamed in answer.

A shot of adrenaline coursed through me. I tore my eyes from the foot as it elongated into a leg, a knee, a filthy hem of a white dress – but when I whipped my head back around, Moshi was skidding to a stop and reaching for the door and I was on track to knock her over for the second time that day. Acting instead of thinking, I veered to the left at the last second, crashing spectacularly through the section of wall that came out into the hallway. My head slammed into the opposite wall and I crumpled instantly, stars bursting before my eyes and then fading, only to bloom into explosions of pain in my neck, head and – well, everywhere, really.

“Bailey!” Moshi yelled, then was looking down at me through the ruined drywall. I worked to get my bearings, but every movement was awarded with stabs of pain behind my eyes. And my awkward position was disorienting in itself; my right leg hung through the drywall, still, and I was half on my back/half on my side at the foot of a very narrow staircase.

I groaned, then remembered our pursuer. “Where are they?” I gasped as I tried to sit, but my head protested enough to knock me back. “Shit,” I muttered, no longer caring who we’d been running from as stars filled my vision once more.

“They’re gone!” Moshi’s voice echoed up the stairs beside me and I worked to regain my vision.

Vertigo rolled over me. “Oh, God,” I moaned. “I might puke.”

“I’m calling Cal,” Moshi muttered.

I stayed as still as possible, my arm over my face to block the light. “Did you see who was following us?”

“No; I only heard them! Cal? Oh, thank God. You’re not going to believe this: we found the false wall to the attic!”

I managed a laugh.

“Bailey crashed right through it! And I think she’s got a concussion; can you come?”

A sound, small but definite, echoed down to me. I held my breath and peered around my arm. Something moved in the shadows at the top of the stairs. I sucked in a breath. “Mosh?”

Moshi was telling Cal about the footsteps that had been following us. The sound came again from above me. It sounded like footsteps, too. Just like the ones from before. But, how -?  My stomach did a sick somersault as the shadows moved again.

“Moshi? I heard the pitch of my voice and tensed. “I know who was following us,” I called out, tears filling my eyes.

“What? Just a sec, Cal.” Moshi peered through the hole in the wall. “What, honey?” Her face changed. “Oh, you’re pale.”

I pointed weakly toward the top of the stairs. “She’s up there,” I cried, tears spilling onto my cheeks. “It was her.”

~~~~~~~~

Coming soon:

Free Rose's Ghost

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Chrysalis

Available now, on Amazon:

I hope Trey makes you fall in love with him, just like he did with me.