I don’t know what to do with these poems; I don’t know if I will ever work on them again so they get to live here. Written in 2010.
I am super excited to announce that I have published the first book in my paranormal horror series 🙂
Meet Regina Slaughter. She’s 11 years old and she’s a werewolf. She’s also a prisoner, the property of an organization of supernatural monster hunters called HADES.
Dead Girl Moon is the story of how she breaks free of captivity.
In a world full of unseen demons, a werewolf is just another monster.
When Regina’s father accidentally bites and contaminates his daughter, he starts her down a path very different from the life her mother planned for her.
Life in prison is hard but what do you do when you’re an 11-year-old wolf girl?
Regina Slaughter was, according to police reports, the victim of a brutal murder. In reality she was the property of HADES, a mercurial mercenary company dedicated to wiping out the supernatural menace.
Good always triumphs over evil, right?
Not when evil locks you in a cage and does everything it can to destroy you. When Regina’s best friend Tiffany goes missing, she will do everything she can to find her.
Dead Girl Moon is currently up for free download on Kobo, Prolific Works, Smashwords, and Google Play. It will be up soon on iBooks and Nook, I’m just waiting for all of the download deliveries and processing goblins/gremlins/internet fiends to do all the processing.
This is technically Book Zero of the Slaughter Chronicles, as the events within take place when Regina is just a child. The real start of Regina’s story, Book One, will be published in October 2019.
Looking for more awesomeness?
Check out my friend Kathy’s short story and novel teaser here 🙂
Instead of working on 1 project I’m going to work on 3. Because 2 of them are small and near completion and the other NEEDS TO BE WORKED ON. So I’m trying to kill 3 birds with 1 stone this year.
Stretched in the sunlight
crowning Calypso’s shore
the big cat dozed,
small blue crabs drown
in a capsized silver urn, cream
filled and slopping beside him.
Why long for plump
tuna steak and cheesecake
crumbs when Apollo
scratches behind your ears
and no storm clouds
threaten tender olive saplings
with shaking? That
rural, stone hearth
plucked from the heart
of the hill your paws pounded
daily is miles away.
Waves lick gingerly
against the pebbly shore
the lambent royal blue of
Penelope’s summer dress.
He is still listless as
he is lifted up by
roughened driftwood hands
and tossed back into the sea.
1. The city went dark, bruised. First pale green at the edges then purple with spots of red where blood burst from the capillary confine and then darker, the black of abused flesh. Flesh left alive to suffer more.
2. We danced in the dust under bare boughs, between the bony cypress knees.
3. Fear is a kind of god, maybe even the oldest god. Fear can make of us one tasty meal despite all the hard work our parents put into the lies they whispered over our cribs about the terrible state of our bodies to gods who only want to eat the most beautiful of children.
4. Some people think vultures are overindulgent. I think they’re just really, really hungry. Their wings choke the sky, fill the atmosphere with feathers but their bellies are never full. One day they’ll eat the world.
5. A voice from the hollow, bound to fingertips of those who reach through the air and feel for what is hiding there.
6. The sunset is beautiful like a jellyfish is beautiful and it kills everything it touches, slowly, with diaphanous, poisonous rays that float through the sky like arms extending for a cruel embrace.
Mothers who love their children take them along.—Maxine Hong Kingston, Woman Warrior
When my mother goes away
she visits men in cages;
she has always known
are synonymous depending
on who locks the gate.
When my mother goes away
she takes me with her
sometimes and we walk
along the causeway,
looking for gates.
Take the splintered memory of your father beating you from between your mother’s clenched teeth. If you can still hear his voice, go west. You will come to a ditch cradling a dead cat. If his neck is twisted, proceed north. If his belly is split open like a rotten orange under a motorcycle wheel, go south; you will find the driver’s bloody bootprints scuffing the Black-Eyed-Susans. If you mix the pollen with loose-leaf tobacco and roll a cigarette, your doppelgänger in another universe will be gifted a front row seat to the next public execution. But that is not the direction you want to go. If you ignore me and walk towards the old Civil War battlefield marked with the city’s slapdash attempts at historical preservation, your old lovers, wherever they are, will turn pail as if a nurse has taken too much life force away from the abrasive latticework of a failed experimental procedure. You taste blood in your mouth. They will fall to the floor and you will not be there to kiss the languor from their eyelashes. If you don’t see a dead cat, continue west as if nothing is wrong. You will eventually come to a fork in the road. Or a river. And you must either cut off all your hair or throw your clothes into the Salvation Army donation bin that washed up on the riverbank with the rest of the hurricane detritus and proceed with your own body acting as a trembling neophyte’s compass pointing towards the sharpest point away. If fear clamps down on you so hard your ribs creak and snap against your heart, you can choose a different direction. You can run, screaming, back home or you can try to walk on water.