The Calling



This past week, I’ve been trying to make a list of things that scare me. I think you’d be surprised to know that my list is quite long. I think in order to become a better horror writer I need to have a better understanding of my own fears and why I’m frightened by them.

Lately, I’ve been having dreams where my car drives off a bridge and lands in a river, and I watch the car fill up with water as it sinks. Even in my dreams I save myself however, and allow myself to escape the car and swim to shore. So perhaps in these dreams it’s not just the possibility of death that I fear, but rather the fall. I think the scariest part of these dreams is the moment when the car is flying through the air, just before it hits the water. In these moments I can see the inevitable before me, and it’s horrifying.


I try to remember this when I write. Death is always scariest when you can see it coming plainly before you, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

I’m also scared of Ouija Boards and of having all my teeth pulled out. So I hope you enjoy these pictures of my new Ouija Board (I guess I like to keep things that scare me nearby for inspiration), and the final installment of “The Tooth Fairy.” Thank you for reading.

With Screams and Axes,



The Tooth Fairy (Part 3)

When Daniel got home that evening, he found Jorge there waiting for him. Jorge was sitting on the couch, looking at his phone, with his head resting against one of his hands. When Daniel opened the door and saw him, it felt like maybe this was a ghost or a vision, or he had accidentally traveled back in time to the way things were before. But the pain in his jaw reminded him that this was now, and this was real, and Jorge’s frown told Daniel that he wasn’t here to take him back.

“I still had my key,” Jorge started. “I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to see you.”

“Did you just come to return it?” Daniel asked, wishing he could say all the things he wanted to say, to tell him that he needed him, and that he needed help, that he was scared and alone.

“Yes.” Jorge stood up and put his hands in his pockets. Daniel could tell he was uncomfortable and wondered if a friend or a family member had badgered him into checking up on him. “But I also wanted to see how you were doing. I realize now that it might have been unfair the way I…”

“Left me?” Daniel sat on the couch and reached for the bottle of pills in his jacket pocket.

“Yeah.” Jorge watched Daniel struggle with the lid of the bottle before he took it from him, opened it and handed it back. Their hands touched for a moment, and all Daniel wanted was to take his hand and ask him to stay. But he knew that wasn’t right, and that he’d just make a fool of himself. He dry swallowed 4 aspirin instead. “You look like shit,” Jorge said.

“I feel like shit,” Daniel laughed.

“Is it your wisdom teeth?”

“Among other things.”

“You’ve known for a while that those needed to come out. I’m not sure what you’re waiting for.”

“I can’t afford it. And what’s the fucking point anyway?” Daniel didn’t want to argue with him, he didn’t want to raise his voice and make his head hurt. Maybe he just wanted Jorge to go away and not see him like this; go back to whoever it was he found to replace him.

“Well, it’s your choice to stay in pain and not take care of yourself if you want. I just want to let you know that if you do, that you can’t blame it on me. I know you want to, but you can’t blame all your problems on me.”

“Is that why you’re really here? To let me know that you’re not responsible for this? For me?”

“I guess so.” Jorge took the apartment keys out of his pocket and handed them to Daniel. “Please take care of yourself,” he said and turned to leave. Daniel looked away as he heard the door shut, wanting to say something but having no words. Then he was alone again and things were devastatingly quiet.

Under the kitchen sink, Daniel found a half-full bottle of vodka. He poured some in a glass and drank it straight, swishing it around his mouth before he swallowed, the subtle burn of it comforting his gums. Daniel sat at the kitchen table drinking big gulps of vodka, and resting his head against the smooth wood of the table. Pressing his forehead against the hard surface helped somehow. He gave into the pain and let his head swim in it. He knew that if he tried to stand he would collapse. He could feel the darkness around him. He listened to swishing noises that could have been the blood pumping through his brain or the shuffled steps of something with him in the kitchen. Little whispers tickled his ears, like muffled conversation in the apartment next door. He covered his ears, and tried to steady himself enough to stand; he knew it was time to do something.

Tottering to the bathroom, Daniel retrieved a razor blade from a package under the sink. With blurred vision, Daniel looked into the mirror and opened his mouth wide. He was going to get these god damn teeth out himself.

He barely felt the pain of the razor at first, and the cut he made seemed to relieve pressure somehow. But when his mouth filled with blood, his head began to feel light and he knew his work was done. He couldn’t do this alone.

That’s when he felt someone standing behind him. He turned around slowly, half expecting to see Jorge or maybe an angel of mercy. But instead he saw an extremely tall, skinny man with gray saggy skin, wearing no clothes. The man towered over Daniel and smiled, revealing double rows of needle sharp teeth. Daniel realized that this wasn’t a man at all.

“You shouldn’t do that, my dear,” the Monster said. “May I help you?” Daniel felt the Monster’s arm wrap around him, pulling him closer like they were partners in a waltz. Daniel relaxed into the embrace and let the Monster support his weight. The toothy smile remained fixed, his black eyes reflecting Daniel’s swollen, bloody face.

“Yes,” Daniel answered. “Please help me.”

“Oh, I will,” the Monster said. “What you have here is a delicacy.” And with that the Monster revealed an over-sized pair of silver scissors. Quickly and quietly, he reached into Daniel’s mouth, pulled out his tongue, and in one swift motion snipped it off. “Now that’s out of our way,” the Monster chuckled. He then continued to pull out each of Daniel’s teeth with long, plier-like fingers while Daniel moaned and his eyes rolled back up into his head. After each tooth was extracted, the Monster popped them in his own mouth. Daniel could hear the wrenching sound of the yanking mixed with the sounds of furious crunching. The Monster saved the wisdom teeth for last. After they were pulled and consumed, the Monster carried Daniel to his bed like a baby, and set a phone beside his hand. “Never say I didn’t take care of you, my dear.”



This past week has been a great week for writing. I’ve been feeling very inspired lately. Perhaps now that the weather is getting a little warmer, I’m finally thawing out and shaking off my winter slump.

I feel as though I have a lot to look forward to. I have new ideas and new projects in the works, and so far everything is coming together.

This week, I’ll give you part 2 of The Tooth Fairy as well as some lovely pictures of a monster receiving her dinner.

Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy.

With Screams and Axes,



The Tooth Fairy (Part 2)

Daniel was a delivery driver for the United Delivery Service. He clocked in at 8am every morning and helped the warehouse guys load his truck. He never spoke much to the warehouse guys, or to the other drivers. His favorite part of his job was when he was able to pull away with a truck full of packages and head out alone to make his deliveries. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, and he didn’t want them to get to know him. Today, Daniel let the guys finish loading the packages into the back of the truck while he took three aspirin, swallowing them dry. His jaw was killing him. Moving his mouth at all sent throbbing pains up to his temples. He hadn’t been able to eat anything today. All he could manage was a few sips of coffee.

“You okay, man?” Joseph, one of the warehouse guys, asked.

“Mmhm,” Daniel nodded, realizing he probably looked like hell. Daniel got into his truck before Joseph tried to elicit any more conversation from him.

It was a warm, sunny day. Daniel drove through a tree-lined neighborhood at a slow speed, already ahead of schedule. He had his window rolled down, and the cool, fresh breeze against his cheek helped the pain a little. Daniel knew that it was time to go to the doctor, that the wisdom teeth he had felt growing in his jaw were probably infected or something, and that pretending that he was fine was just making it worse. Daniel told himself that his crappy health insurance wasn’t going to cover the costs to get the teeth removed, and that giving in and going to the doctor would make him broke. Maybe the pain was okay; maybe it was good to feel something else.


After delivering an over-sized package to an elderly lady with a huge drooling dog, Daniel came back to his truck to find something strange. The back doors and the driver’s door were all wide open. Daniel knew for certain that he had closed the driver’s door. He walked around the truck to see if someone was playing a trick on him, and hopped up in the back to see if anything was missing. Everything was as it should be. He held his head in his hands and pushed on his cheek bones. The pressure felt nice. It must’ve been me, he thought.

Daniel made sure everything was closed and locked before getting back into the driver’s seat to finish his route. While he was driving down a busy street, he began to hear a banging coming from the back of the truck. He tried to ignore it, but it kept getting louder and more violent, as though something was throwing itself against the sides of the truck. His head was throbbing and the noise was making his hands tremble as he clutched the steering wheel. Daniel pulled over to the side of the road and opened the back of the truck. The passing cars flew by him, the noise of them making a whistling sound that made Daniel’s teeth ache and his vision get spotty. He climbed up into the back of the truck and saw a box in the middle of the floor. There was a dark puddle all around it, like it was leaking something, and the side of it was ripped. Daniel picked up the box and a hot red liquid began to pour out all over him. Then the tape gave, the box flaps popped open, and something tumbled out all over the floor. Daniel bent down to pick one up. It was a large yellow tooth, with twisted roots, like the legs of a horrible, ancient tree. There was teeth and blood everywhere. Daniel cried out and covered his eyes as everything around him went dark.

He came to in the back of the truck, flat on his back. He sat up quickly expecting to find himself lying in a pool of blood and teeth, but found that everything was normal except for a large bump that was beginning to form on the back of his head.  Next to him was an open package that was leaking white packing peanuts. Daniel picked one up and looked at it. Fucking things. Daniel rubbed his eyes and shakily stood up so he could drive himself back to the warehouse and finish for the day.


My Bloody Valentine


Happy Valentines Day my Ghouls! Love and I have been celebrating this holiday with brunch, horror movies, and Thai food. It’s been an amazing day.

This week I’ve been writing up a storm, and I’m hoping to submit two of my stories to horror magazines soon! Of course, competition is fierce and rejection is high, so I’m not getting my hopes up. But I’m excited just to try.


For this week’s photo shoot, I started this project with something completely different in mind, but once I got my hands on this gold, vintage-feeling dress, I was inspired to change everything. I hope you enjoy it!

And for this week’s fiction, I was inspired by a silly little poem I wrote about a tooth-eating monster last week. I enjoy coming up with quick little rhymes. They help me think sometimes. Thank you for reading and I hope you adore the Tooth Fairy as much as I do.

With Screams and Axes,




Daniel had been awake for 42 hours now. He stared at the clock that read 1 a.m., feeling so deliriously tired, yet still awake. There was a dull ache in his jaw, and his eyelids stung every time he closed them. He rolled over to the other side of the bed, and stared up into the darkness. He had never slept on this side of the bed. Now, this side was cold and empty, and he could lie here any time he wanted. This had been Jorge’s side of the bed.

Jorge had left two weeks ago. With little explanation, he had packed a couple of bags and had left the apartment they had shared together for over a year. Daniel’s calls went unanswered, and none of his friends could give him any insight as to why Jorge left. Daniel thought he must have met someone else, someone better than he was. Daniel had been struggling to sleep since Jorge left. Nothing felt right, nothing felt safe, and sleeping would only lead to dreaming; horrible, heart-breaking nightmares.


The pain in his jaw was getting worse. Damn wisdom teeth, Daniel thought as he slowly maneuvered out of bed and groped in the dark, feeling his way to the bathroom. When he got to the medicine cabinet, Daniel looked at his barely there reflection in the bathroom mirror with the lights off. He looked like a dark spirit, a shapeless mass in the darkness. He flicked on the light. In the mirror he saw himself smiling wide, except every single one of his teeth were missing, leaving only bloody, gaping holes where they should have been. Daniel screamed involuntarily and put his hands in his mouth. They were all still there.

He looked in the mirror again and everything was as it should be. He saw a young man with puffy eyes, sallow cheeks and a mouthful of not-quite-white teeth looking back at him. Had he fallen asleep for a moment while he had been standing in the dark? Or had his insomnia now given him the gift of hallucinations on top of everything else? He was too tired, and his mouth hurt too much to give it much more thought. He found the bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet, took three pills, and shuffled back to bed. He had to be up for work in a few hours.






It’s been snowing where I live, which has made taking pictures outside a chilly affair. But this week I decided to put on a nice dress and brave the cold.


This past week was a good one for staying inside and writing short stories. I’ve been working on some new pieces that I’m excited to share.


Today I will continue my zombie story, with part 2 of “He Walked.” Enjoy, and thank you for reading.

With Screams and Axes,




He Walked (Part 2)


They had little with them as they traveled: a blanket and some cans of food, and the memories of things they left behind. They camped out in a field with a small group of other refugees. Now they were dirty people, unrecognizable visages of their civilized selves, huddled around a camp fire. They soon discovered that fields were not good places to camp. They were attacked during the night. She ran into the darkness with her husband’s family while the final screams of those they left echoed behind them. After that, they tried to stay amongst the trees where no one could take a step without a noise, and the hush of the birds and an eerie silence would alert them to anyone’s approach. They tested berries and mushrooms in their hesitant mouths, and foraged like squirrels and mice. She thought of him while they ran, while they slept sitting up against the bark of trees, nervous and flighty as deer. She tried to convince herself that this war was like the others. He would face the violence as he always had, people would always kill, but he would always kill them first. In her heart she continued to wait.


He shuffled through the woods. Up ahead there was a small clearing where someone had pitched a tent. Animal carcasses hung from a tree, and pots and pans swung on a line with dingy shirts and socks. A man with a gun slung over his shoulder had his back turned, fiddling with a compass in his hands. He hissed and the man turned around and aimed the gun at him. He advanced and the man fired. The bullet struck him in the arm but did nothing to deter him.  “Wait, stop!” He grasped at the man and when he had him in his arms, began to rip him apart. The man shrieked, the birds hushed, and somewhere off in the distance someone wept. He was frenzied by the killing, but after it passed and the man was dead, he felt nothing. He poked his fingers through what was left of him. He left the corpse to rot in the open air and perhaps be finished by scavengers. It was all he could do.


They began to quarrel. They were lost and turned around. They argued over the correct way to the country home. His sister was injured and ill, and forced them to move slowly and stop often. She thought of abandoning them but couldn’t. It wasn’t her place. His father finally stopped late midday to stare at a road. They had been avoiding roads, which all seemed choked with marauders, murderers and the dead. Emerging from the woods, they saw the road and the father told them to stop.

“I recognize this place. The curve of the road, that tree with the scar across its belly, and that sign; Entering Hunstville…” He struggled to place this memory.

“When were you on this road? Where were you going?” The mother asked trying to help him remember.

“It seems so long ago.”

With the mother’s help, he was able to recall the road and which direction they had to go. On the way, the sister succumbed. She fell and could go no further. They stopped and waited for her to die. She took her time. She managed to pass her illness to her brother. His father bashed his ill son over the head with a branch and then dealt the same to his daughter. The mother shrieked and cried, and his wife had to cover her mouth with the palm of her hand to hush her. They moved on in the morning, his parents older and quiet and her with bite marks on her palm.


He came upon a band of them. Their rags were dirty, and they huddled around their fire close enough to catch their tatters aflame. A skinned raccoon skewered on a stick roasted above the flames, the juices dripped and sizzled as they fell. They had guns close at hand, but they had long run out of ammunition. He wouldn’t have feared them even if they had bullets.  They hadn’t seen him approaching in the darkness with their faces covered in filth. He entered their camp and scattered them. They screamed, and ran helter-skelter into the trees. He was unable to speak to them. They trembled at the sight of him. Their fear moved them as quickly as startled rabbits. He chased after a few, wanting them to wait. But they fled into the darkness, and he lost them. He let them go. He stood in front of their still burning fire and stared into the flames, watching the raccoon flesh burn.  It was all that he could do.


She and his parents found their summer home intact. It was lucky and amazing it hadn’t been ransacked and looted. The house was tucked deep into the countryside and couldn’t be seen from any roads and wasn’t near the highway. They stepped onto the porch and stared at the locked door. It wasn’t kicked in and it wasn’t riddled with bullet holes; it was in perfect condition, like doors had been before. His father took the key from his pocket and fit it into the lock. The door opened easily for the dazed family. First they changed their clothes, and wrapped themselves in blankets from the linen closet to warm their bones. The mother found the key for the pantry in a drawer and sorted out a dinner for them. While they waited, his wife looked at the photos on the mantle. They looked so strange now. She looked at him as a baby and a little boy. His father looked at the pictures of his children and cried with his hand clasping her shoulder too tightly.

“What happened?” he asked her.

“What was always going to happen.”

They decided over dinner that if they intended to stay here they’d have to board the house up and make it more uninviting to whoever may stumble across upon it. They feared being attacked while they slept, lulled to sleep by the false feelings of security a house provided. She thought about him and the things he’d need right away after rejoining them here. She prepared a mental list of things to set aside so she’d be ready, ready and waiting.


His journey took him days, but when he finally arrived home, she was there to meet him. As he stumbled up the long twisting path that led to their house, which had once been a dirt road but was now overgrown with grass and weeds, he let out a loud painful shriek. As if somehow aware he was finally close to where he was meant to be.


She sat at the kitchen table with his mother, drinking tea and feeling bitterness growing inside her.

“What do you think?” His mother asked.


“ Do you think we’re safe here?”

“We’re not safe anywhere. But we have to stay here, there’s no alternative.”


“This is where he’ll come for us.”

Through the slit in the boards nailed to the window she saw a small figure coming up the hill. She left her seat silently, and went onto the porch. From a few yards away she saw him advancing. His walk was a slow stumble and he moaned as he grew near. She stood still, eyes fixed on his figure. He was finally coming home to her, as he promised he would. She had waited patiently and done what had to be done. Now the wait was over, she had no other mission to complete, and neither did he. She was a good wife. His mother yelled from inside the house. She screamed to stay inside, stay away. She ignored her, and ran to greet her love and welcome him home. She met him in the yard, whispering their secrets and offering him her hand. He wrapped his arms around her, groaning and shaking, and she cried his name and his mouth met hers. His grey lips curled around hers and he bit till her tongue became his own.



This week I want to share a story I wrote a couple of years ago that caused me a lot of heartache. This story made me question everything I was doing and everything I thought I wanted.


This was one of the first stories I brought to workshop in Grad school. And it was torn apart. Torn apart so bad and in such a way, I thought about dropping out. The reason they hated it so much? It’s about a zombie. It was highly offensive to serious, literary writing. I know now I was foolish to think I could get away with that, but I didn’t think their response would be so severe…

I learned my lesson, and from then on did my best to write how they wanted me to write, while still trying to be myself. It was a difficult balancing act. This story reminds me that even when other people think I’m weird or that I don’t belong, that it’s okay. I believe in myself.


I’m going to post it in two parts. I’ll post part two next Sunday.


I hope you enjoy it.

With Screams and Axes,




He Walked

Over the hills and through the woods he kept his pace, followed by half-hearted ghouls with brains on their tongues and avoided by those with everything to fear. He did not fear, not any more. The forest creatures concealed in the leafy night, with gold eyes twinkling from places high or hidden, hushed as he passed. Only a crow braved to caw: silence; he walks. They knew that he had nothing to fear, not anymore. He was traveling to his old house, following the footsteps of his family before him. But he didn’t know that, some instinctual urge decided it for him. The blood on his hands kept his mind mechanical and his pace slow, his eyes wide and barely able to understand what they saw. The land was alone now, like an egg dropped behind the chicken coop, forgotten, with a crack forking across the shell and smeared with grime.  He was alone now, but he didn’t want to be. So he walked, and traveled where his feet felt others had walked. They had trampled these grasses, and he followed their scent, longing to have them within arm’s reach.


She had barely escaped the city with his Mother, Father, Brother and Sister. He had stayed behind to protect and defend, to bloody and kill. As masses fled and fed in the chaotic streets, they had promised to meet at the final destination: the summer home in the countryside. He was a good soldier who stayed his ground, who did what he was ordered, and who’d never desert his comrades. She was a good wife. Before, she had waited for him at home far away from war, the battles and gore. She couldn’t ask him not to go, no matter how vehemently she wished it. But now the war had come to their home, and it was she that had to go far away. As she ran from the city with his parents and siblings, she imagined him in his uniform, firing his gun, refusing escape from a war no one wanted to fight, and maintaining a barricade threatened by a mob of thrashing limbs. She prayed he wasn’t that good a man.


He came upon a barn. Inside shriveled cows lay in the dust, ropes around their crooked necks hanging them to their posts. Hens with wide eyes and patchy feathers hopped upon the remains. Their scratches and pecks marked the skin. He felt nothing in the face of death and disease. Death had claimed a part of him, but allowed him to survive without it. He carried on with the piece missing. In the farmhouse, the milk was spoiled. And the corpses in the kitchen spoiled as well. He held a dried hand in his palm, shaking it lightly, a relic of an old connection. The house had been tidy and comfortable once, but now the windows were broken and the doors hung ajar and blew open and closed freely in the wind. No one lived here, and it was hard to picture the husks on the floor as once alive. To him, there was hardly any difference. He foraged for what was left, what could be salvaged and consumed so that he could keep on. It was all he could do.


She remembered the last time he went away. On the night before he was leaving, they stayed at home together and she was quiet and solemn. She wasn’t allowed to be angry, she wasn’t allowed to be resentful, and she wasn’t allowed to upset him before he went away.  She was supposed to be supportive and faithful, and to remind him to be careful, and tell him how much she loved him and how proud she was. That’s what the other wives had told her to do. They had luncheons to discuss these matters, and to keep each other from being driven crazy with worry. She sat at the kitchen table with him after dinner.

“Are you all packed?” She asked.

“Just about.”

“Will you write?”

“Of course,” he promised.

“I don’t want to forget your handwriting.”

“My handwriting?”

“It’s one of those things. One of those little secret things about a person that’s easy to forget.”

“What else do you forget?”

“The way your skin smells just after you’ve gotten out of the shower, your eyes when you’ve stayed up too late, how you take your coffee and the noises you make when you eat. And your hands. Sometimes I have trouble remembering what they look like, feel like.”

He took her hand.

“How could you forget that?”


He came upon a girl on a rooftop. She murmured and paced, her voice rose and fell as she cried at his approach. He gazed up at her, longing to find a way to bring her back down. Her brown hair fell over her face in long strands and her clothes hung from her frame. She shrieked at him “Go away!” and cried. He was past the point of being able to understand her words, but felt her hatred and fear. The smell of it wafted down from her perch and stung his nose. His hunger cracked the whip.  He went into the house only to find the staircase destroyed. There was no way up to her. No way for him to wrap his arms around her shoulders. He stood in the yard moaning, staring into her as she cursed him and hated him for the gun at his hip, his torn uniform and his soiled skin. She wailed and sobbed, but eventually hushed. When she hushed he departed. It was all he could do.



2016 already seems like it’s going to be a year of trials and personal tests. I apologize for not posting last week, but I was far too busy experiencing my first illness of the New Year. Usually I’m a much healthier person, but these last few months I’ve been feeling run down and weak. Luckily, Love and I have a week-long vacation planned in March that I absolutely cannot wait for. I can’t remember the last time we took that much time for ourselves.


I didn’t do much writing last week. When I feel crappy all I want to do is sleep and drink water. It’s been difficult lately to find the motivation to actually sit down and write. I have so many ideas, so many projects outlined that are just waiting to be written, and yet I haven’t been giving them the time they need. I definitely need a vacation. I need to recharge.


This week I continue to explore characters in a much longer story I plan to write. This week’s Quick Horror features the Demon I hope will be at the center of it all.

With Screams and Axes,




He had been asleep for so long that he had forgotten his own name. As his mind jolted awake and his thoughts began to race with a million confused questions, he searched his memory for the name. What had his mother christened him when he was born? What had his father called him the last time they spoke? The name was there, in a thousand fragments of memory, hovering somewhere just out of reach. He couldn’t remember. But he could remember mother and father, and as he sat up and peered into the darkness, he remembered they had been bitter and cruel. They had locked him in this chamber. But he was awake now and he felt a calling. There was a man, somewhere in another dimension, a different world, a far off plane of existence, who was calling him. He was being summoned. After all these years lost in the darkness, he hadn’t been forgotten. Somewhere, someone knew his name. Someone was begging him to awake and finish what he had started long ago. He picked up a large spear that had been collecting dust, and thought about beating hearts and the smell of warm blood. He would answer the call.

The Summoning



Sometimes I struggle as a woman writer in the Horror genre. I feel as a woman, people have different expectations of my characters and my writing. People have said my narrative voice is very “cold and masculine” and find it odd that I don’t write like a woman. I’m not exactly sure what that’s supposed to mean. All I can do is stay true to my writing and my voice.


I want to embrace the idea of being a female horror writer. I want to find power and strength in this. I want to turn the clichés and the tropes we still see in Horror on their heads and write about characters of all races, genders and sexual orientations. I want to tell new and interesting stories. This may put some people off. Well, good riddance to them.

Since joining Instagram to promote my blog, I’ve been getting a lot of questions about my face. People want to know why I wear a mask and why I won’t show them my face. The short answer is this:

My face is mine. My sexuality is mine. I don’t care if you find me attractive or unattractive; attractiveness is not the point of my work. I don’t wish to be sexualized. I want to scare, I want to intrigue and I want to create dark images that speak to my writing.


Now, there are many women out there who show their faces and pose nude on social media. I have much respect for what these women are doing and how they’re claiming their bodies and their sexuality by putting it out there. I respect their bodies and their sexuality and I’m happy they can feel beautiful and empowered by the images they share of themselves. I follow many women who do this and enjoy seeing the powerful images they post. I however, feel empowered by keeping my sexuality and my face hidden.

If I were a man, no one would be asking me to take off my mask so they can see my pretty face…

I hope my readers can continue to respect my mystery, and my writing.

This weeks Quick Fix Horror is a continuation of last weeks, with new characters in the mix. I hope you enjoy it.

With Screams and Axes,





Mason stared at the brown paper bag on the kitchen counter which was leaking a pinkish fluid all over the marble, even though he had asked the butcher to double wrap it. The summoning spell had been vague about its requirements, but “fresh heart” had been on the list. Mason hadn’t been sure if this meant a human heart, or if any animal heart would be accepted. He was going to start his attempt with a cow heart and see if that took. He had spent months contacting professors in Rome, Berlin and Egypt who specialized in Ancient Theological texts, pleading for their help. He had read countless books on old gods and goddess, and had read the Bible, the Quran and the Torah multiple times looking for some speck of information on what he was after. After all his research and reading he had compiled a short stack of papers that easily fit into a slim manila folder, a compilation of all known history and instruction on summoning the demon. A demon whose name he didn’t know, that could only be summoned in a manner which wasn’t totally clear, to take revenge on the man who had destroyed Mason’s family.

He opened up the bag and looked down at the cow heart, big, red and slick. His stomach turned as he thought about how later he would be cutting this heart into tiny bits and consuming it raw as a show of worthiness to his demon.

“I’ve lost my mind,” he said aloud. He knew it was the truth. Because one had to be mad to do such a thing as he was planning on doing this evening.

A New Year



With the start of the New Year I feel refreshed and energized. After the chaos of December, I took lots of time to rest and relax and refocus my energy on what I want to accomplish in this upcoming year. I have lots of things on my to-do list and I know that I can check off each and every thing if I just keep myself motivated.

It’s been so frightening and yet so wonderful forcing myself to join social media platforms and to create this blog. I’m in the very early stages and am still exploring my voice and what I’d like to accomplish with it, but it’s definitely been an eye opening experience that has pushed me far out of my comfort zone.

Maybe it’s the idea of an audience that I find frightening. It makes me feel so vulnerable connecting with them, like I’m baring myself before a strange crowd, laying down the darkness in my head for everyone to finally see. I know not everyone will understand me, but I hope that some will.

I’ve been outlining some new characters that I’d like to explore soon. They’re making an appearance this week in my Quick Fix Horror. I hope you enjoy them.

With Screams and Axes,




The Demon Mother waited in a large chamber room she had created long ago out of darkness. The chamber walls were constructed from black, reflective slate that gleaned in the flickering candle light, showing her images of evils from other dimensions, other realms of being. She considered these images, watching with a slight smile as a man in a city basement removed and ate the heart of another man. Her walls echoed with the screams of suffering and the sounds of ravenous hunger. “Bring me enough of those hearts and I’ll give you the means to collect even more,” her promise whispered through her world and out into the human man’s mind like a subconscious spell.

She raised her horned head as her husband entered the chamber.

“Is our son still asleep?” She asked.

“For now,” Father answered, flames dancing along his arms, his skin cracked like burnt earth. “But he will wake soon.” She thought about this and sighed long, cold breaths.

“That won’t be ideal,” she said. Father agreed. Their son had slept for thousands of years, lying dormant in tormented dreams. It had been better that way. Father kneeled before Mother and took her hand, black smoke mixing with flame and searing heat, perfuming the room with ash and brimstone. She touched his hardened face with a soft hand and smiled. “But we will manage.”



Is It 2016 Yet?

December has been a rough month for my writing. There was so much going on this month and with the long hours I was putting in everywhere else, my own work took a backseat. This January I hope to really get back into it. I’ve been outlining a new project that I’m really excited to start. Sometimes I find myself with lists of ideas and seemingly not enough time to bring those ideas to fruition.



I didn’t like the way the Quick Fix Horror story I was writing was unfolding so I’ve set it aside. I’ll be back in January with loads of lovely horrors.

With Screams and Axes,