Please have a look around. Read my author reviews. Take a look at my books and works in progress. See WHO I’m reading!!!!

My Books


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My Anthologies

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Delve into my thoughts, as erratic as they are, and we’ll have fun being deviant together.

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#1linewed #PeaceSeries #FindingPeace Aft

#1linewed #PeaceSeries #FindingPeace After that first keening wail, they heard nothing else from that distant wolf pack.

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One Year ago…I became a Published Author

A year ago today, my debut novel was published by Loose-ID.

Such a simple statement…One year ago, I became a published author. Wow! And in the past year, I’ve subsequently gone on to publish several more books, culminating with the recent release of Twist of Fate this past February.

I’m continually awed by the outpouring of support in the writing community. And while I may have started my journey with traditional publishing, I’ve been warmly embraced by the Indie community. There is no way I will get all my thanks in order, and I will miss some people. As I write this, my mind is churning with all the flowery thank yous I owe to hundreds of people.

I’d like to start with a bottomless thank you to an amazing woman, who has become the sister I never knew. Sophie Lynn is my BFF and we have travelled through this past year on a cresting of highs and lows, coming out of this with a depth of friendship I treasure from a bottomless heart. I’m continually amazed by the support she’s shown me and my gratitude is simply not enough to express how I truly feel. Thank you, Sophie, mushy, mushy, blah, blah, and all that goes with that.

To my dear friend, Nathalie Pinette, we’ve chased around in circles, having the best damn time, and learning to embrace the best in one another. Your support is something I treasure, and I certainly can never repay that debt. We continue to grow and learn from one another, and that is a true gift. Thank you, Nathalie.

Shea Moran and Jennifer Guffey…you were my first supporters, my friends who read my words and urged me to keep on writing. But you’ve done much more than that. My first Beta readers, you became a foundation of my writing process. I love you more than I can say, because I’m a dork like that, but you give it to me straight, constructive in your criticism, and determined to help me be the best writer I can possibly become.

A special shoutout to Shea. I’m your loveable dork, and that is probably one of the highest honors anyone has bestowed upon me. Shea has an amazing talent, y’all. She creates words with the pages of books, and bestowed upon me this amazing gift. These unique creations are available for sale (customizable to your needs), just let me know and I’ll hook you up with Shea’s BookFolding Shop.


To Anita Renea, you have taken on a huge role in helping me with the ELLZ BELLZ. Your love and support are gifts I often feel I don’t deserve, but accept with a gracious and willing heart. Thank you for dealing with my foolishness and for helping me make my dreams come true.

To the ELLZ BELLZ, an amazing group of women. Your support of me and my writing is something I still have difficulty wrapping my head around. You’re my cheerleaders, my confidants, you’re subjected to the atrocious and mindless drivel of my random thoughts, like my candy corn obsession, and the ever important orgling of llamas, yet you still love me. I’ve taken you on my vacations and shared drinks with you at sea. You’ve been a constant positive driving force pushing me to write just one more story, one more thing.  Thank you, BELLZ!

To the authors I’ve run across, we share a kinship with one another as the creators of worlds and lives. We share similar passions and with that comes a tremendous outpouring of support. I’d like to give a special shout out to Pam Godwin, she’s the person who made today possible, who told me to stop fucking around and publish already. Pam always gives it to me straight and with her encouragement I continue to grow and thrive as an author. Thank you, Pam.

Kinships and friendships develop organically. I stumbled upon Riley Edwards late last summer and we kind of clicked. We’ve traded successes, frustrations, dreams, and have brainstormed late into the dark of night. We’re now involved in collaboration and I can’t wait to reveal the wonderful creation we’ve made. The Collective is coming the first of April. It’s a series of ten standalone stories, all interconnected with an awesome twist. And…you’ll want to keep your eye on us as Riley and I bring to you FOUR KINGS, a five book masterpiece which will blow your minds.

BANNER Season 1 Part 1 Episodes 1 thru 5

To the Collective guest authors: Erin Trejo, Elias Raven, Chris Genovese, and Carver Pike…y’all are friggin’ amazing individuals and I’m having a blast collaborating with you. Erin and I are new friends, and she makes my days better with each laugh, each word of encouragement and is a total hoot. I urge you to check out the magic which is her writing. Chris/Carver, what a creative brilliance lies within this mind. Erotica of many flavors and horror too, you’ll want to check out his books and the journey they take you on. Elias Raven, you are the Whisperer of so many dreams and fantasies. Your mind moves a mile a minute and I’m delighted to glimpse just a piece of the magic percolating within that impressive brain. Behind the voice which melts panties, lies a wonderful man, a person I call a very close friend. Kyocera, Raven, you spoil me rotten, and I absolutely adore you for that.

I have another amazing collaborative on the way…Welcome to the small town of Peace Montana, where things are not always as they seem. The Peace Novella series is an unique crossover series where 20+ authors bring the people of Peace to life! All novellas are standalone stories, and you’ll see the entire town of Peace come alive throughout this amazing series.

Peace Banner

Bloggers are the lifeblood of the industry, and I’ve had more than my fair share of supportive blogging friends who have gone out of their way to promote my writing to the world. You are amazing and wonderful people. Your passion for the written world is a powerhouse and incredible force. You’ve helped me beyond measure, and my author friends as well. This is my chance to say thank you for all the support you’ve shown me, but I’d like to take a moment and thank you as well for supporting my fellow author friends. We really can’t do this without you. Thank you!

I’ve really saved the best for last. I write the words, but my readers and fans are the ones who have embraced my dream and made them a reality. You are the reason I’m here, and the reason I continue to write. I love our conversations and cherish those tiny moments (which are huge for me) when a piece of my writing has touched you in some small way. Thank you for taking a chance on me. Thank you for supporting me. Thank you for reading my words. And for those who leave reviews, wow!, you totally rock.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Interested in reading my works? Click the pic…and one-click away.

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I also enjoy writing for fun and established a Flash Fiction Fridays Group on Facebook. Writing prompts are given out in the middle of the month, and Flash Fiction pieces are posted on the First Friday of the month. April’s prompt is posted. I encourage writers and readers to join in on the fun! Click on the picture below to join the group!!


And with that, I come to a close. It’s really more of a beginning….as I continue to bring MY-MIND-TO-THE-PAGE and into the hearts of readers every day.

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Friday Flash Fiction!

I started a group on Facebook called Flash Fiction Fridays.

This is for Authors to play around with their craft and readers and fans to see what words they devise. Prompts will be given out in the middle of the month, and the Flash Fiction stories (less than 1000 words) will be posted on the First Friday of the month on Facebook and then spotlighted here on my blog throughout the month.

These flash fiction prompts challenge you to create short and gripping narratives that are under 1000 words. All writing remains the intellectual property of the contributing author and should not be shared outside this group without permission.


The prompt for this month was: “While painting a portrait of a fictional subject, the image comes to life.”


Our second guest author is Teresa Crumpton


Reflection by Teresa Crumpton (Mar. 3, 2017)

With the base of the drums vibrating the floors and walls my brush strokes glide on the canvas with easy. Normally the scenes take weeks, to completely work themselves out of my head, but tonight with the glow of the full moon it’s as if the brush has a mind of its own. Truly I’m just the vessel.

There’s no other way to explain it. As I weave the story together with my brush, the wind outside blows through the open French doors making the long sheer curtains billow. The heat from this hot as hell New Orleans summer night is stifling. Sweat has been running down my neck, and everywhere in between for the better part of a day as the images fill my head.

The beat changes as the scene begins to remind me of the street outside. The French Quarter is always so vibrant with life and color that I’m not surprised it’s coming across in my work. I’d spent the last few days being a tourist, and taking pictures so that when I head home in three weeks I’d have plenty of material to inspire me.

I really hadn’t imagined that I’d get so overwhelmed that my muse would strike. She had become a fickle bitch as of late. But here in this city full of ghost she’d come alive, and I was willing to ride in her wake.

As three figures come fully to life the scene on the canvas turns dark and almost sinister. Where I had a seemingly loving couple before me, is gone as a third figure shows herself.

The tempo in both my head, and from the stereo changes, and the woman moves on the unsuspecting couple. I take a step back hoping that the scream that just sounded outside my doors is not what is reflected in the painting, yet in my heart I know the truth and I’m just trying to lie to myself.

The dark lady is staring back at me, and she hadn’t been when I put my brush on the easel. The knife in her hand is dripping blood. An eerie cackle cracks the night sky, and the red and black figure tries to find a way out of the painting. A blade is suddenly at my back, the pressure digging in.

“We are one,” the voice behind me says. “I am you. See what happens when you ignore me. When you hide from me.” She licks the the sweat off my neck pushing the knife in a little deeper. “Next time it will be you.”

The music changes again and the figure is gone. All that remains is the woman in the painting pointing the knife in my direction.

If you enjoyed this, I encourage you to check out Teresa Crumpton’s writing on her Amazon Author Page.

I would also like to invite you to join my Flash Fiction Friday group on Facebook, either as an author or as a reader….Flash Fiction Fridays

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#1linewed #TheCollective #LearningtoBrea

#1linewed #TheCollective #LearningtoBreathe The dancers could have tripped all over themselves and she wouldn’t have cared.

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#1linewed #PeaceSeries #FindingPeaceHis

#1linewed #PeaceSeries #FindingPeaceHis brooding silence confused her, but as she was out of breath, she was content to not engage him in unnecessary conversation.

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YOU: The Deep Dark

A short story….

I’ve been brought to the pit. He’s to fight for me again. When the next piece of flesh thrown down there is dead, he’ll finally have me. He’s seen me. He’s smelled me. He’s tasted and touched me. Only one thing remains.

I’ve lost track of time and my sanity fled weeks ago. The passage of time is measured by nothing other than the times I stand by this pit.

Screams echo in the dark cavern and reverberate in my chest while I’m forced to listen. Me standing by this pit. Me listening to the screams. This is how I measure time.

In the days before these brutal fights to the death, he paces the confines of our cell, growling promises of what he’ll visit on me next. Of course, he can’t touch me. Not yet. Such privileges must be earned, like the final violation he seeks in the dankness of that pit.

Each day—is it even a day? Sometimes it feels like an endless eternity—they bring us here, lowering him down to fight while forcing me to wait.

You’re only just now arriving to meet your fate. Do you even understand what you have to lose? Are you even human like the monster who lurks in that pit? Like me? Or are you something else?

Shadows dance over the hardened planes of your rough cut muscle, bipedal, but I your face remains a mystery. Your strength is undeniable, but it won’t be enough. And even if it is, what do I care. We’ll begin this dance again. Victories bringing sight, smell, taste, touch, and worse, to the newest victor.

You’re a mystery to everyone in this foul place. They anticipate your fear-stench, hunger for it even. They will lap up your terror and devour it.

Even if you win, there will come the time when you become him. It’s inevitable. One day you will turn from victor to loser. I wonder if you wouldn’t prefer the quicker death? I would join you, except they keep their precious prize alive with a religious devotion.

And there you are, no more than a passing glimpse before the Deep Dark swallows you with one step from darkness, to light, and back into shadow. You’re tall. Athletic. Powerful even. A ferocity coils within you. Even I can sense that. And while I have my own questions, these monsters have but one.

“Will he?’

And I shudder, wondering the same. My gaze locks on the glowing amber of your eyes. Not human. The shaking in my limbs intensifies and rattles the chains dangling from my shackles. While I don’t mean to wish you harm, the thought does cross my mind. A moments’ glimpse reveals your broad shoulders before they blocked the light. Your features, hidden from my sight, bring forth images of lethal power, of dominant strength, of feral lust, and imminent death.

Death to your enemies.

Your alien body vibrates the air of this place, filling it with fury and rage. Mine answers, a weaker response, fluttering outward before dissipating in the rankness of the air. It’s like I don’t even exist. You see, I know defeat. Whether you win down there or not, you will soon know it too.

Fear spikes through me, but I force myself to calm, unwilling to feed our captors’ hunger. I do not belong to you. Not yet.

The beast down there, he’s not entirely sane. This place does that. It breaks apart a person’s mind, feeding their fears until they crack. He’s killed four others, and knows what he’ll earn with his fifth victory. My dear warrior, I fear you, but I fear him more. Kill him. Kill him, for me.

We’ll begin another game, and I’ll dance around the cracks in my mind. This place…it’s hell and there is no escape.

The Deep Dark closes around the gathering, shrouding us in nothingness. For me, I accept the lack of light. I’ve long since abandoned hope. I embrace my fate, or at least what my mind whispers into the deepening cracks in my sanity.

You’re nothing but a twisting bulk of muscle to me, breathing hard as our captors maneuver you over the pit. Beneath your feet He waits to rip and rend. None of his bouts last more than a few of my strangled breaths. Each one bringing him one step closer to his prize, one I will not survive.

His rut is my ruin.

The platform sways beneath your feet, boards creaking and groaning with your weight. Your chains clang, and your breath rattles the air. Long, ponderous pulls of life giving oxygen—a substance you won’t need much longer.

Will they hand you the key? They don’t always. They enjoy playing with their toys. Not that you’d time during the drop to free yourself. It’s a tease, a taste of freedom they suck into their lungs.

But what do I care? I already count you among the dead.

Why am I wasting breath on you at all? Except, even if you are as bad as him, a win today would only earn you a glimpse of your future prize. Your win will buy me more time. Four more opportunities to pray another monster will take your place and reset the clock on my eventual ruin.

A guttural laugh signals the beginning. From the rustling, I deduce they’ve given you the key. Now it’s up to you. Waste time unlocking your chains or brace for your fall.

Beside me, Ranckor’s breath fills the air. His foul stench rolls over me, making me gag. “This one is strong,” he hisses, “but Icknor gave him the wrong key. What do you think will happen when he drops?”

My conditioning keeps my revulsion in check. I’d once been a fighter myself, if you can believe that. I was not always this pathetic thing.

Ranckor would fuck me if he could, but his body parts are incompatible with my physiology. They weren’t here for me. Ranckor, Icknor, all of them, they got off on the fight for dominance, by the males who fought for the privilege to rape.

With a slurp of his forked tongue, Ranckor yanks on the chain which releases you into the pit. You drop into dark depths. There you will battle for life.

I pray you climb out of that pit. I needed a new man to hate.

To be continued….

Have you joined my readers group? If not, wander over to THE EDGE and join the discussion.

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Friday Flash Fiction!

I started a group on Facebook called Flash Fiction Fridays.

This is for Authors to play around with their craft and readers and fans to see what words they devise. Prompts will be given out in the middle of the month, and the Flash Fiction stories (less than 1000 words) will be posted on the First Friday of the month on Facebook and then spotlighted here on my blog throughout the month.

These flash fiction prompts challenge you to create short and gripping narratives that are under 1000 words. All writing remains the intellectual property of the contributing author and should not be shared outside this group without permission.


The prompt for this month was: “While painting a portrait of a fictional subject, the image comes to life.”

Our first guest author is Gabriella Messina….

The Bather


Gabriella Messina


It was late… really late… and it was going to be later before I could call this painting done and call it a night. Honest to God, whose idea was it to paint an all-male version of Degas’ Bathers series for the exhibition?

Oh, that’s right… me.

I sighed, a heavy exhalation that blew the last remnants of cigarette smoke out. I’d been chain smoking like crazy as I painted… It relaxed me, relieved the stress that was building as the deadline loomed. The others had been simple enough, but this last one, that I had mentally dubbed “Francois”, was proving stubbornly difficult. The man just wouldn’t cooperate, and tomorrow the entire series was due to be picked up and carted off to the Albright-Knox for a special gallery event. I must have been out of my mind when I proposed re-interpreting the series with men bathing… The nudity was minimal, and it had been easy enough to find willing models for the sketches and color tests… Everything had clicked along perfectly… until Francois.

I sighed, looking at the nearly-finished painting. Just when I thought it was right… it was as if the body had shifted and the shadows and light were all wrong. Obviously that wasn’t possible… Francois still sat in his spot, ensconced in a chair beside a filled bathtub, left arm raised high above his head as he dried his side. His light brown hair was longer in front and fell forward, the tips brushing his eyebrows and cheek as they framed his face. It was another oddity about this painting, about Francois… None of the models had had hair like this… In fact, none of them had resembled Francois at all. I sighed again, quickly lighting another cigarette. I pulled over one of the kitchen chairs, swinging it around and straddling it, my chin resting on my hand as the other held my smoke. My gaze narrowed as I studied my creation, and I felt a pull in my stomach that I hadn’t felt for weeks, months even… I’d been way too busy to even think beyond the end of my paintbrush, had avoided my usually watering holes like the plague… But now sitting here, my body in what might be perceived by many as a very open and welcoming position for such carnal activities, I could feel myself wishing that my dear Francois here was a real boy. I chuckled, savoring the moment as I looked at my “Pinocchio”… it was a perfect painting, truly… But…

I groaned. Again, it looked different… the shadows along the side of the chair weren’t right, and the highlights on his strong, well-muscled shoulders were – I stopped myself, shaking my head and willing myself to get a grip. It was just a painting… just a painting… perhaps a bit more yellow ochre would do it…

I got up out of the chair, my legs stiff. I really needed some exercise, and fresh air, and… yellow ochre, that’s right… I grabbed the tube of paint, squeezing a small amount onto the pallet and dabbing my brush in white. I swizzled the colors together, creating a loose blend that would lay down as a dabbled sunlight sort of shade. Or at least that’s what I hoped. I turned back to the painting… and froze…

I heard the palette drop to the floor even as my vision blurred, the dark shade coming down quickly and then everything went black.

When I came to, it was dark. I tried to move and winced immediately, pain shooting through my shoulder. It wasn’t dislocated or anything, but I’d hit the floor hard enough to bruise for sure. I groaned, moving myself back up into a sitting position, my eyes blinking rapidly. Everything seemed to be in place until my eyes settled once more on the painting. The streetlight outside had cast a solid beam of light through the window and onto the canvas, illuminating it like a mini-spot… The bathtub… the chair… Francois… My eyes went wider than wide…

Francois was not there.

I felt my stomach fall like I’d just come over the top of a roller coaster’s primary hill and was beginning the rapid descent from the top. That was impossible! I closed my eyes and shook my head, hoping that it was just a residual bit of a dream or perhaps a very real eye problem that was causing me to see what I was seeing. I opened my eyes slowly… No such luck. Francois was completely gone out of the painting,

My hands started shaking… what could this possibly mean? Had I finally stepped over that threshold from simply tired and overstressed to psychotic? Was I having a nervous breakdown? I could feel myself starting to hyperventilate, and knew passing out again wouldn’t be long behind… when I felt a cool cloth being pressed to my head. My instinct was to fight, to flee, but something about the easy pressure made me relax to almost limpness. I leaned into the cool, relishing the shiver that ran down my spine as I did. I took several deep breaths and could feel the consciousness returning to me… the ability to see that the wondrous coolness was being held against my forehead… by a hand…

“There now, cherie… You are alright.” The smooth tones of his voice, slightly accented in French, wrapped around my spine and sent delicious chills running through my body. I turned my head slightly, finding myself face-to-face with his magnificent blue eyes… The shadowy growth of beard… the smirk at the corner of his full lips… “Better, cherie?”

I nodded, whispering, “Yes. Better.”

He leaned closer, his lips inches from mine. “Very good. And now… We need to finish your painting… But first…” He looked at her appraisingly. “First, you need to bathe.” He smiled a wolfish smile, and I knew that this particular bath would be more about getting dirty than getting clean…

Which was fine with me.


If you enjoyed this, I encourage you to check out Gabriella Messina’s writing on her Amazon Author Page.

I would also like to invite you to join my Flash Fiction Friday group on Facebook, either as an author or as a reader….Flash Fiction Fridays

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