Elizabeth Barone's Blog: Elizabeth Barone's Blog

“Hell, Established 1958”

He felt certain that something bad had happened or was already happening. His eyebrows furrowed. He tried to put the feeling in his gut into words, but it danced far out of reach before he could coax it into something tangible.

Horror just might be the love of my life. I started my career writing, submitting, and publishing it. I used to make my horror anthology The Last Minute Before Midnight available around Halloween every year. This spooky season, I hope you enjoy these tales for free, right here on my website.

Please like, comment, share, and subscribe!

Bruce Dean lost his job on the evening of the annual Halloween party. He could just hear his father: “You’re good for nothing, son. You should have gone to college.” He took the long way home from the old stamp mill and stopped at the town package store. Since he didn’t have to work in the morning, a few drinks at the party wouldn’t hurt. As he paid for the bottle of whiskey, his father’s voice continued: “How are you going to provide for your family, when the time comes? You need an education.”

“Why so glum, son?” Pat, the owner of Cerrito Package, asked as he bagged the whiskey and slid it across the counter. “Say, you’re off pretty early.”

“I’m just on my lunch, sir,” Bruce mumbled. “I’m picking this up for the Weatherby party.” He turned to leave the store.

“Lots of airplanes and ‘copters flying overhead today,” Pat remarked as the buzz of a plane flying overhead drowned out the sound from the television set in the corner. “I heard they’re doing some kind of testing out there.”

Bruce shrugged. “I should get going.” He tipped his cap and left the store, the bells attached to the top of the door jingling behind him.

The sky above him hovered bright and blue, completely absent of clouds—a perfect fall day. When his supervisor had called him into the office, Bruce already knew why. The mill owner had hired too many people during the economic boom after the war, and rumors about layoffs had been circling the mill for months. Most of Cerrito Del Fe’s people worked at the mill or in the mines. Harold, Bruce’s father, forbade him to work in the mines.

“Your best bet,” his father had told him years and years earlier, “is to work in the mill part-time during the summer and go to school full-time. Get out of this dusty old town.”

Bruce climbed into his 1940 Studebaker Champion. Turning the key in the ignition, he pulled the driver’s side door closed behind him. The Studebaker sputtered to life. Even with all of the money he had saved so far, he would never be able to fix the old car or buy one that wasn’t almost twenty years old.

As he got closer to home, he heard another plane flying low overhead, but barely gave it more than a second’s thought. Pat had been right about the number of aircraft flying over Cerrito, but it hardly mattered to Bruce—unless the people flying them wanted to give him a job, he surmised. He pulled into the driveway of his parents’ small home and turned the coughing Studebaker off.

The neighborhood sat, quiet as a cemetery after a funeral. His father wouldn’t be home from the men’s emporium for at least another hour. Harold couldn’t work more than five hours at a time since the mining accident. Bruce’s mother Nancy worked full-time as a secretary, but came home during her lunch hour. He took a deep breath, got out of the Studebaker, and went inside.

“Brucie,” Nancy said, drying a plate with a ragged dish towel. “What are you doing home?” She put the plate down, eyes searching his face.

He sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table. Even though his mother sat behind a desk and typed memos all day, her ankles were swollen to twice their size. Hot guilt washed over his face. He put the cup of coffee down, hands shaking. “I might as well just tell you,” he said, sighing. “Stan laid me off, Ma. He gave me a good severance, but he laid me off all the same.”

“Oh, Brucie,” his mother said. She rubbed his back and shoulders the way she had done when he was little and had the flu. “Well,” she said, sitting down in the chair next to him, “look at it this way. You can go to school now. I’m sure you can still use that scholarship—”

“I don’t want to go to school, Ma,” Bruce said. “How many times are we going to have this conversation?”

His mother shook her head at him. “Brucie, your father had nothing when he lost his job—”

“I have nothing now, Ma!” Bruce removed his cap and put it back on, adjusting it. “I just can’t see myself sitting behind a desk in some stuffy office every day for the rest of my life. It’s not for me.” He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jackaree.

“Oh, Bruce,” Nancy said, wringing her hands. “What are you going to do? Your father’s not going to stand for you sitting around the house.”

“I’ve got some money. I wanted to wait and save up more, but I think I’ll just go tomorrow,” he said.

His mother pressed her lips together and sucked them in a little the way that she did every time she had an opinion but didn’t want to express it. “You know what your father is going to say about that,” she said. She stood. “I have to get back to the office. Your father will be home soon. I think it would be best if you tell him you quit your job so that you can start school in the spring.” She kissed his forehead, stooping a little.

Bruce shook his head. “Are you saying that you want me to lie to him?”

“He only wants what’s best for you, you know,” she said as she gathered her things. She walked out the front door without a single glance back at him.


The phone rang, cutting off Harold mid-sentence. Bruce’s shoulders sagged in relief. He couldn’t stand one more minute of his father lecturing him. He was an adult. He should be able to do whatever he wanted, without having to get his father’s approval.

“Brucie, it’s for you,” his mother said, covering the mouthpiece.

“Who is that?” Harold asked.

Bruce stood from the kitchen table and took the phone from his mother. “Hello?” he said.

“Brucie!” Calvin sang from the other end. “Are you still picking me up for the party, or should I start walking?”

“Aw, Calvin, I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “I completely forgot. I’m on my way right now.” He handed the phone back to his mother and she gently laid it back in its cradle. Bruce grabbed his keys and jackaree.

“Where are you going, boy?” Harold asked. “I’m not done with you.”

Bruce sighed. “I already know what you’re going to say. I’ve heard it a thousand times. Tonight, I’m going to this party, and tomorrow morning, I’m heading to Las Vegas.” He looked his father in the eyes as he spoke, even though he wasn’t sure that he meant it. A moment later, he walked out the front door and started up the Studebaker.


“Did you make it to Pat’s?” Calvin asked as he slid into the Studebaker. Bruce held up the bottle of whiskey and his best friend whooped. Bruce tried to smile, but the corners of his mouth remained stiff. “What’s eating you?” Calvin asked.

Darkness slowly settled over Cerrito like ashes floating in a fireplace. Bruce shivered, despite the double lining that his mother had sewn into the jackaree. He shook his head. “I’m just tired, I guess,” he told his friend.

“I know what will cheer you up,” Calvin said. “Margaret Cox asked me if you were going tonight, and I told her that you would pick her up.”

“Why did you do that?” Bruce asked. His voice sounded flat to his own ears. Guilt writhed through him. If he couldn’t even manage to play the role of embarrassed friend, he wouldn’t be able to fake enjoying the party.

“You don’t like her anymore?” Calvin asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

The Studebaker hit a bump in the row. The tops of their heads slammed into the roof. “Ow,” they said in unison. Grinning at Calvin in the dim light from the street, Bruce felt a little like his younger self. He wondered when he had suddenly gained so many responsibilities and worries. “It’s not that I don’t like her,” he said, trying to explain his bad mood. “I just don’t feel like very good company tonight.”

Calvin clapped him on the shoulder. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t have a cure for you?” He removed the bottle of whiskey from its paper bag and twisted off the cap. Then he passed it to Bruce. “Have a shot. It’s on the house.”

“On the house,” Bruce said. He snorted. “All right, then.” He took the bottle and slugged back a couple of shots. Then he passed it back to Calvin.

“Give it a minute,” Calvin said. He took a shot of his own.

Bruce nodded. He stopped the Studebaker and made a U-turn. Then he headed to Margaret’s.


Bruce stared up the long driveway at the front door. The Studebaker idled in front of the house. Sweat dampened his palms.

“All right, now go ring the bell,” Calvin said, nudging him.

“Me?” Bruce shook his head. The world around him felt warm. Even the incessant droning of helicopters flying back and forth over the town felt soothing, lulling him into relaxation. “You invited her,” he told Calvin. “You go ring the bell.”

“I’m not the one who’s going to sleep with her. Besides, I’ve got my eye on Judy.”

“Judy Weatherby?” Bruce laughed. “She could buy your house right out from underneath you.”

Calvin shrugged. “Are you going to ring Margaret’s bell, or are you going to keep her waiting?”

“You’re right,” Bruce said, opening his door. “I can’t keep her waiting.” He climbed out of the Studebaker, swaying slightly as his feet touched the ground. A smile danced on his lips. More heat thrummed through him. He strode up the driveway to the front door. His footsteps felt light on the concrete. Perhaps, he mused as he climbed the porch steps, he had overdone the shots. As he neared the door, music floated to him on the air through an open window.

Taking a deep breath, Bruce pressed the doorbell button. His fingertips felt slick against it. He swallowed hard. He wondered if he should have waited to start drinking.

The door opened and Margaret’s father stared down at Bruce with raised eyebrows. “Can I help you, son?”

Bruce opened his mouth, but no words came out. Mr. Cox crossed his arms. Bruce’s heart thudded in his chest. He thought about telling Margaret’s father that he had the wrong address. He could just run back to the Studebaker and take off. The engine was still idling.

“Daddy,” Margaret said, peeking from behind Mr. Cox. She winked at Bruce. “He’s my date.”

“Let the boy speak for himself, Margaret. Now,” Mr. Cox said, his eyes boring into Bruce. “Can I help you?”

Bruce cleared his throat. “I’m here to take Margaret to the costume party,” he stammered. Mr. Cox glared down at him. “Sir,” he added. He swallowed hard.
Mr. Cox’s eyes felt like hot fire pokers drilling into him. “You’ll have her back before curfew.”

Margaret put a hand on her father’s arm. “Daddy, I’m almost twenty.”

Mr. Cox never took his gaze off of Bruce. “You’ll have her back before curfew,” he repeated.

“Yes, sir,” Bruce said, trying to speak so that Mr. Cox couldn’t smell his breath. He wished he had never started drinking. Sweat trickled down his back.

“All right, then,” Mr. Cox said. Bruce stood straighter, his jaw dropping open slightly. “Have a good time, kids.” He moved out of the way.

Margaret kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Daddy,” she called over her shoulder to her father.

Still gaping, Bruce felt Margaret’s small, warm hand slip into his. She pulled him away from the house and led him toward the Studebaker.

“Let’s go before he changes his mind,” she whispered.

“Goodnight, sir!” Bruce called. Calvin hopped out of the front seat, diving into the back. He rested his elbows on the front seats. Bruce held the passenger side door open for Margaret.

“Thank you,” she said. She glanced back at the house. Mr. Cox still stood in the doorway. Bruce whistled and got in on the driver’s side. “Hurry,” Margaret said. She giggled.

Bruce pulled away from the curb.

“Do you mind if I turn the radio on?” she asked, reaching for the dial.

Bruce shook his head. She switched it on. A Buddy Holly song filled the Studebaker, temporarily breaking the Halloween music marathon. Bruce loosened his grip on the steering wheel and actually looked at Margaret. She wore her blonde hair in short, loose curls and Victory rolls. Red lipstick painted her luscious, plump lips. She had drawn a fake mole on her cheek.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

Bruce nodded. Heat flushed the back of his neck. He imagined himself kissing her, his hands on her thighs underneath her short dress. “Marilyn Monroe, right?” he stammered. He wished he had put together his own costume.

Margaret nodded. She moved closer to him. “I’d like to say that I’m really glad you invited me,” she said. “I’ve been so busy with exams and I was hoping you would ask me—”

“Turn the radio up,” Calvin interrupted.

Bruce glared at him using the rearview mirror. Static crackled over the announcer’s voice. He wondered when the music had stopped. He turned the volume up.

“Reports… nuclear testing… It’s unclear… Reports of helicopters… military sighted outside of town… repeat, not an attack but… fallout test…” The static rose and completely drowned out the announcer. Then the broadcast went dead.

Heart thudding in his chest, Bruce pulled the Studebaker over onto the shoulder of the road. Several other cars had pulled to the side. Some people stood next to their vehicles, gazing up at the sky, their faces perplexed. Planes buzzed overhead.

Bruce climbed out of the Studebaker and looked up. “Those look even closer than the ones this afternoon,” he said. His voice caught in his throat. He swallowed hard and tried to moisten his dry mouth.

“Awfully close,” Calvin agreed, climbing out behind him. He tapped his fingers on the roof of the Studebaker. “What do you think is going on? Why did the program cut out?”

“Maybe it’s some sort of Halloween prank,” Margaret said from the other side of the Studebaker.

Bruce laughed, but it sounded strained to his own ears. His stomach tightened. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He shivered. He felt certain that something bad had happened or was already happening. His eyebrows furrowed. He tried to put the feeling in his gut into words, but it danced far out of reach before he could coax it into something tangible. His shoulders relaxed slightly. Maybe Margaret was right. “Gee, I never thought of that,” he said to Margaret.

Calvin shook his head. “Look at all of us. I can’t believe we fell for—”

A roaring sound drowned out their laughter. Seconds later, a blast of bright white heat roiled through Cerrito. Houses along the streets exploded. Trees blew over. The blast rocked everything to the north, blowing it hard. Then, as if undecided, everything blew in the opposite direction.

The wind disappeared as abruptly as it came.

Only skeletons of houses remained. Cars sat like silent tombstones. Dust fell to the ground like flakes of snow. The doors to the Studebaker stood open, its windows blown out. Burnt husks lay beside the car, their features unintelligible. The scent of burning flesh filled the air.

A mushroom shaped cloud hung over the town. Thirty minutes later, soldiers dressed in black with gas masks strapped to their faces rushed into what remained of the town.


Bruce woke up to the clanging of his alarm, his body drenched in sweat. He felt as if he had just dreamed something terrible, but already the details were far out of reach. He sat up and turned the alarm off. Then he headed into the bathroom to shower for work. Things at the mill were tense, and the threat of being laid off hung over his head constantly. As the hot water sluiced over his head and down his body, though, he began to relax.

It was, after all, Halloween, and he and his best friend Calvin had a party to go to, no matter what happened.

Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash

An open letter to BlueSky about your new noncon and mental health guidelines

Dear BlueSky,

Your new noncon and mental health community guidelines going into effect October 15th are very concerning to me as a user, author, and human being.

In Section 1D, Adult Content, Article I, you state “We allow consensual adult sexual content, including fictional depictions,” and then in Article II, you specifically ban illustrations.

I’m an author who writes dark romance, and one of the tropes in that genre is noncon and dubcon. I can understand how, at first glance, one might think these are problematic. I’m also a sexual assault survivor and, when I first heard of NC and DC dark romances, I balked. It seemed like the antithesis of what I wanted to accomplish as a dark romance author and sexual assault survivor.

Then I started hanging out in dark romance reader groups. I didn’t post, I just listened. I discovered that survivors engage with noncon content as a method for healing. Reading and writing non- and dubcon dark romance gives survivors a sense of having control back. Because the story is fiction, no one gets hurt. A survivor can write their story and use their five senses to immerse themself in it, promoting healing in ways similar to EMDR therapy.

I’ve read a few NC/DC books since, and while it still isn’t my go-to, I respect it so much as a tool for healing. I also respect it as an art; even when I didn’t understand it, never did I try to prevent others from engaging with it.

I’m concerned that your new guidelines specifically target illustrators on your platform who create NC/DC dark romance images. These are fictional depictions, usually featuring fan fiction or original characters. If you’re trying to mitigate revenge porn generated by AI, I completely support that! I just think Section D needs clarification so that artists don’t get caught in the filters.

I’m also concerned about your new mental health discussion guidelines. In Section 1E, Mental Health & Wellbeing, Article I, you state “Do not share content, methods, instructions, or promotion of self-harm, suicide, eating disorders, and extreme dieting practices.”

In Article II, you similarly state “Do not share methods, instructions, depictions, or promotion of dangerous stunts or abuse of dangerous or controlled substances.”

This makes it sound like users can’t even post that they struggle with suicidal ideation, self-harm, eating disorders, and other mental health issues. Especially because down in Section 5B, Article I, you state “Personal recovery experiences or survivor stories shared to promote healing and community support rather than encouraging harmful behavior” fall under protected expression on your platform.

This is problematic because mental health isn’t always positive. People need to express themselves and their uglier experiences without censorship, and people need to see that they aren’t alone in those experiences. The way your new guidelines are worded, it seems like only positive content will be permitted.

I know these darker topics are tricky to navigate even in-person. I believe there’s a way to clarify these guidelines so they don’t sweep up artists and people just trying to connect while still keeping users safe on your platform. I hope that BlueSky will keep its skies open and blue, because I’ve enjoyed my time there. However, if these guidelines aren’t clarified, I will no longer recommend or use your platform.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Photo by Yohan Marion on Unsplash

September writing, ditching Kindle, and a free short horror story

Happy September!

It’s been a busy last few weeks for me. I’ve been banging away at my keyboard, because I’ve finally figured out how to write Sleeve of Hearts. I had to do a lot of things wrong first, but man am I proud of this version.

What I’m Writing

When I was writing the first draft of Sleeve of Hearts, I wanted Antoni to be that addictive bad boy hero, but I had too much fun and made him an asshole. It’s like accidentally adding too much salt. A little is just right, but too much and you’re parched. Seven drafts later, I feel confident unleashing Ant into Romancelandia. He’s always feeding Kinsley, supportive of her dreams and crazy ideas, and a total dirty talker.

I’ll be done with this draft soon, and then it’s off to my publisher. I’m hoping we won’t have too much to revise. Either way, it may be a while before it’s published.

This month I’m rewriting the ending to a horror novella I wrote a few years ago. I got to the end and didn’t like what I’d planned anymore. It just didn’t work. So I put it aside and went back to my small town romances. Four years later, I’ve worked out the right ending, so I’ll be adding that, and I’m sure rewriting the rest so it works.

I’m also wrapping up the River Reapers summer bash miniseries from last year. I was writing episodes alongside my main WIP while juggling lupus things, and my hands got too full so I had to drop it. Sometimes life’s just like that. Anyway, I’m wrapping that up to warm up for my next project.

Pulling all my books from Kindle

Thank you so much for all the lovely comments on my open letter to Amazon! I’m really glad it’s not just me. I’m also really grateful for all your support. We can’t control what Amazon does. What I can control, though, is what I do, and I’m working on getting my store back up and running so that you can buy ebooks directly from me that will transfer between devices, as well as work with the Kindle ereader and app. If you’d like to help, you can become a sponsor for $5 a month.

Quitting social media

Earlier this month, I left Instagram for good. A few years ago, I deactivated my Facebook, then deleted Twitter. I’ll probably let my TikTok go, too. I’m feeling more and more disillusioned by social media, for a lot of reasons. Privacy, intellectual property, and algorithms, oh my—it’s much more complicated than I can get into in a newsletter, never mind one post. I forgot to mention in my goodbye IG post that I’m on Bluesky, a Twitter alternative. I’m also on Whatnot.

Livestream Friday, September 12th, @ 4 pm EST

Join me this afternoon for my first ever Whatnot show! I’ll be reading from A Disturbing Prospect, signing copies of the River Reapers MC series, and unveiling a secret project I’ve been working on since January.

Watch

I’m aiming to do these once a week, maybe themed. If you can’t make this one, follow me on Whatnot and let me know the best day/time for you.

Get in the mood for spooky season

It’s that time of year when I break out the spooky short stories! Over the next few weeks, I’ll be posting one from my horror anthology The Last Minute Before Midnight. This week’s story is “The Corpse in the Tree.”

“The Corpse in the Tree”

The only constant is change, and the book industry is sure going through a lot of them. I can’t thank you all enough for your support over the past decade. There’s so much to look forward to, I feel like I’ve only gotten started.

Until next time, happy reading!

“The Corpse in the Tree”

The corpse stared at the map sitting on the ground in front of him, then folded it and put it in his pocket. He did a double-take at the clothes he wore and nodded to himself. The devil always took care of him—in return. For a moment, a flicker of his former life came to him, then disappeared like a candle flame in the wind. He shook his head and got to work.

Horror just might be the love of my life. I started my career writing, submitting, and publishing it. I used to make my horror anthology The Last Minute Before Midnight available around Halloween every year. This spooky season, I hope you enjoy these tales for free, right here on my website.

Please like, comment, share, and subscribe!

He lay underneath an uprooted tree, curled into a twisted ball of shriveled limbs and paper skin. He had forgotten his name long ago, watching the years ooze by with hollow, sagging eyes that could no longer blink. He spent his nights weaving himself further into the roots of the oak, and his days watching the legs of children walking to school. Sometimes, if he got lucky, a couple would use his oak’s trunk as a thrusting post. On a bad day, a bum used his tree as a toilet. Luckily, his sense of smell had long ago deteriorated. The acid in their urine only burned what remained of his skin. He relished in the last awareness of being alive that belonged to him. Even the laughter hurt, though, flakes of skin soughing off as the corners of his wrinkled and dried mouth moved.

Sometimes, he absorbed more than just kidney waste. The extra proteins and vitamins stored themselves in the tissues of his flesh and gave him a little color. Sometimes, if there was enough, he could blink for a few hours. During those times, he slept, hoping that he would be able to open his eyes when he woke, or that he wouldn’t wake at all.

On a cool autumn night—he only knew this because of the colored leaves that blew into his shelter—he realized he could no longer move. He and the old oak had finally become one. He smiled on the inside. It won’t be long now, he hoped. A glow filtered in through the roots and he welcomed its light.

“I have one last task for you,” a rough voice said, cutting through the fog of his thoughts.

And look, the corpse thought. I’m hallucinating.

“Oh, knock it off,” the visitor said, poking his head through the roots. Hunched over to fit, he only slightly resembled a human. Coarse black hair covered his olive skin, a fur coat for his body. Coal black eyes bore into the corpse. Silver rings on his fingers glinted in the moonlight. Slowly, the corpse remembered who his visitor was. “You’re just as alive as I am.” The devil laughed.

The corpse strained his eyes, staring at the craggy face.

“Yep, it’s me,” the devil said. “Lost your tongue?”

The corpse moaned, a dry creaking echoing through his throat.

The devil rolled his eyes. “You’ve really let yourself go, man.” He snapped his fingers and the roots of the tree loosened, spitting the corpse from their clutches. “I think I’m gonna call you Squishy,” he said, laughing as the corpse bounced onto the soft earth. “Or maybe Pepper, since you look like a dead cat.” He dragged him out from under the tree and leaned him against its trunk. From his coat he produced a flask. “Whiskey,” he said, pressing it to the corpse’s lips. “Drink up.”

The honey colored liquid flowed down Pepper’s throat, warming his vocal cords and reviving his organs. As he finished the last sip, he blinked and looked down at his hands. They were still thin and boney, but bore a more red hue—coloring him like the passersby that sexed and pissed on his tree. He smiled.

“That’s better,” the devil said. He lit a cigarette and held out the packet to the corpse.

The corpse shook his head. “Those’ll kill you,” he said.

The devil tipped back his head and laughed, its echo booming through the forest. “You’re all right, Pepper.” He sat down next to the corpse and smoked for another moment before looking at the dead man. “Go on. Ask me.”

Pepper shook his head. “If you think I can do it, that’s all the answer I need. I want to know how to die, though,” he said.

“All in time, my good friend. Do this thing for me and I will give you the answer to your question.” The devil pulled a rolled up parchment from his coat and unraveled it in the grass. “This is a map of the city,” he said. “It’s a lot different from back in your day.”

Pepper only shrugged. He had assumed as much. People got restless. Things changed. It was a part of life.

The devil poked a finger at a red square on the map. “This dick’s got Frank’s daughter dancing for him. You remember Frank, don’t you?” When the corpse said nothing, the devil continued. “Take care of this for me and I’ll tell you how you can end your suffering.” The devil stood. “I’ll see you in the morning. Happy Halloween.” He disappeared.

The corpse stared at the map sitting on the ground in front of him, then folded it and put it in his pocket. He did a double-take at the clothes he wore and nodded to himself. The devil always took care of him. For a moment, a flicker of his former life came to him, then disappeared like a candle flame in the wind. He shook his head and clambered to his feet.

The place was only a few blocks away. The corpse caught a cab and, when the cab driver announced his fare, was not surprised to find a wallet in his back pocket. When he arrived at the location—a squat building with a flashing sign declaring live nudes—he was also unsurprised to find a driver’s license in his wallet declaring him well over age for the establishment. The name on the ID read Stephen Steele. He tasted it in his thoughts, but nothing about the name felt familiar. The nickname that the devil gave him did just fine. The guard at the door—a man as squat and solid as the building he allowed admittance to—waved the corpse in and took the next man’s license.

Pepper stood in the entrance, his newly revived sense of hearing cringing as the sound pounding out of the speakers assaulted the delicate bones in his ears. His stomach twisted and turned, and for a moment he thought he might be sick before he could even start his mission.

“Hey there, sugar,” a honey sweet voice purred in his ear. “Shot?” Pepper turned and blinked, his eyes taking in her sleek waxed and oiled body, clad only in a few triangles of cloth that, in his opinion, did not pass for a bikini. Yet no one seemed to care and, as he glanced around the room, he realized the others girls wore even less. His eyes widened and he took the shot that she pressed into his hand, tipping his head back as he drank.

“Tequila,” he growled, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “How about some whiskey?”

She laughed and took the empty glass from him. “We just ran out,” she said.

Pepper snarled. “What kind of place runs out of whiskey?” He rolled up his sleeves and glanced around the room again. “Does a girl named Claudia work here?” The name came naturally to him, and he wondered what else had been in the devil’s whiskey.

The shot girl shook her head, bouncing her curls. “I don’t know no Claudia. All the girls here have nicknames.”

Pepper gave her a nod and strode away. He passed the stage and moved toward the bar. He snuck looks at the stage as he passed. A girl hung from a shiny metal pole in the center of the stage by her legs. Another girl licked her stomach. He grumbled and marched up to the bartender, a muscular blond man with piercing blue eyes. “Give me something, anything, just not that tequila,” he said.

The bartender grinned and handed him a cold beer.

As he sipped, the corpse leaned against the bar counter and checked out the room again. “Do you know the girls here?”

The bartender smiled and flexed his muscles. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“My buddy Frank’s wondering about his daughter, Claudia. Wondering how she’s doing.” The corpse gulped down the rest of the beer. He sneered as he set the bottle on the counter. “This is more water than beer. Gimme something with bite.”

The bartender cocked his head, one eyebrow raised. “You know Frank,” he said as he poured a glass of thick and dark beer.

Pepper let the beer flow down his throat. It tasted better than the other beer, but wasn’t quite right. He wondered whether all of the “I know lots of people,” he said.

The music softened slightly and a voice boomed over the speakers. “Now get ready, gentlemen, for the crazy, classy, sassy Diamond!”

A tall woman with flowing black hair and bright green eyes strut onto the stage, a silk robe wrapped around her. The music kicked back on at full volume and she shook her hair, curled her fingers around the pole, and lifted herself up.

Pepper gaped. The bartender laughed. “There’s your Claudia.”

As the tendons in her muscles bulged, the corpse noted the track marks lining her arms. He shook his head and withdrew a handgun from his jacket. No doubt the stuff she injected into her veins had been invented by the devil himself, but he never got involved in the devil’s games, he remembered. At the sight of the weapon, the bartender flattened himself against the shelves of liquor. Bottles crashed to the floor, glass shattering, and the fumes of alcohol filled the corpse’s nostrils. He smiled as the patrons around him scattered. The music remained on, though, and he used it to his advantage, running toward the stage and the unsuspecting Claudia, who spun from the top of the pole, her legs and arms spread like a halcyon.

He jumped onto the stage, more people jumping back from him. Pepper reached out for her arm as she lowered herself to the floor. He felt thick fingers close on his shoulder. His body jerked back as the usurper yanked him off the stage. A beefy dark man sneered in his face. The bouncer’s breath smelled like vodka and onions. “Did you think you were going to get away with this?” the man asked. The corpse wrinkled his nose. Pepper realized that he still held the gun, though. Hoping that he did what he thought it did, he fired into the ceiling.

The bouncer laughed. “You think that’s going to stop me?” He tightened his grip on Pepper’s shoulder, yanking him away from the stage. “I’d pummel you myself but—”

Yellow flames lit up the room, searing exposed flesh like a third-degree sunburn. It licked and burned the speakers stationed throughout the establishment, plastic oozing to the floor. The music stopped. The air crackled and sizzled.
The bouncer yanked his arm away, and ran toward the exit. Pepper smiled to himself. He turned back to Claudia.

She sat on the stage, naked but wearing a glazed expression. He reached her without hassle this time and clamped his cold fingers around her wrist. She stared up at him with widened eyes, her red lips forming an O. He squeezed her arm tighter and absorbed the heroin in her system into his own body. With a belch, he freed the drug into the air. She blinked and shook her head, tears springing to her eyes.

“Not so fast,” a voice boomed. The corpse turned to a fat, bald man, his arms covered in tattoos that wrapped around his muscles. “That bitch is mine.”

Pepper pointed his gun at the man, who laughed and drew his own. Before the corpse could fire, the man put a bullet into Claudia, who sagged to the floor.

His jaw dropped open and his arm sank to his side. He looked down at Claudia’s limp form. Sputtering, he stared at the man who killed her.

“That’s right,” the fat man said. He snapped his fingers and two men climbed up onto the stage. They dragged her body to the edge, then jumped down. As they prepared to maneuver her to the floor, Pepper shook his head.

He pointed his gun at them. Pale yellow flames consumed them, their flesh crackling and twisting. When the fire died out, only steaming, charbroiled bones remained.

“The gal comes with me,” Pepper said, “dead or alive.” He pointed the gun at the fat man, who dropped his own gun and held up his hands. The corpse glanced around. Patrons cowered in small groups, grown men clinging to each other. He pointed his gun at one of them and the man whimpered. Dark urine trailed down one leg of the man’s khaki pants. Pepper laughed and strode across the stage. He lifted Claudia’s body, draping her over his shoulder, and jumped down.

Outside, he waved his gun to hail a cab idling at the curb. As he ducked in behind the girl’s body, he used his gun one more time.

The establishment went up in citrine flames, puffy grey smoke curling against the black sky.


“It’s a damn shame,” the devil said, looking down at Claudia’s body. They stood in Pepper’s cemetery, the only place the corpse could find a patch of ghost flowers to use to summon the devil. The devil sighed and snapped his fingers. Claudia’s body disappeared. “Frank will see that she’s buried properly.” He lit a cigarette and again held out the packet to Pepper. The corpse shook his head.

“I’m sure you’re wanting your reward now,” the devil said. Pepper shrugged. The devil pulled an envelope out of his coat and handed it to him.

Pepper accepted it with cold fingers and stared at the front, stark and blank. He looked up at the devil. “Why did she have to die?”

The devil sighed. “Don’t get sentimental on me,” he said with a wave of his hand. He finished his cigarette and flicked it into a headstone. “I suppose this is goodbye.” He tipped an imaginary hat, then snapped his fingers and disappeared.


The corpse crawled back into the tangle of roots of the old oak, the envelope tucked safely into his jacket. As soon as his limbs were wrapped around the roots, he pulled the envelope out. Squinting at it in the dim light of the moon, he read the devil’s words—the secret to ending his existence. Absorbing the knowledge, he tucked it back into his pocket. Perhaps it wasn’t quite time yet. There were other girls to save. He could get faster. Maybe the devil could find him a better weapon.

He would sleep on it, he decided as he closed his eyes. He had lived so many hundreds of years. One more night wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps it didn’t matter, anyway.

Cold moonlight filtered in through the hole. The corpse slept.

Thank you for reading “The Corpse in the Tree.” For more short horror stories, please subscribe!

Photo by Mitchell Orr on Unsplash

Open letter to Kindle: Authors concerned about your use of AI

Dear Kindle Direct Publishing,

I’ve been publishing to the Kindle store since 2012, when my debut novel Sade on the Wall was a quarterfinalist in your Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. I’ve published dozens of titles in your Kindle store since. I’m so grateful for the platform you provide indie authors and how it revolutionized self-publishing. However, I’m deeply concerned about how you’re implementing AI.

Many authors have expressed concerns about the beta Kindle summaries feature, provided by AI. A number of complaints have been filed about errors in the summaries and trope lists the AI generates for books. There is no way for authors to opt-out of this feature, nor is there any way for us to correct the errors.

Authors spend hours crafting summaries, descriptions, trope lists, and more to market our books. We’re required to input some of these things into our book’s metadata in KDP. I’m not sure why KDP decided it was necessary to roll out an AI tool to do this, inefficiently at that, when authors make these resources readily available in KDP and on our websites and social media. I’m also not sure why there’s no way for authors to opt-out (personally, I’d prefer if something like this was opt-in).

Furthermore, KDP has yet to explain how authors’ books are being used by the AI or update your TOS regarding this feature. My books are involved in lawsuits of multiple instances of AI companies using artists’ work to train their LLMs without knowledge or permission. I don’t consent to my work being used with or to train any AI. I want to ensure that my work isn’t used without license. Your lack of response to authors’ queries about how our books are being processed by the AI is most concerning, especially in light of all these lawsuits.

I’ve decided to pull all my titles from the Kindle store until these issues are addressed. I’d like to see KDP continue working directly with authors for marketing materials, rather than rely on AI. I’d like to see AI tools and features made opt-in and editable for authors. And I’d like to see your TOS updated to outline in clear, direct language how authors’ books are being used.

KDP was once an underdog, supporting authors who are also underdogs. I’d like to see this dynamic and relationship continue. I’m so grateful to the many other platforms available to authors for carrying on this spirit, and I hope that KDP will course-correct.

Thank you for the time we’ve had together, and thank you for hearing me out.

Sincerely yours,
Elizabeth Barone

Photo by appshunter.io on Unsplash

Pulling my books from Kindle

My dear readers,

Recently, Amazon rolled out automatic AI summaries for Kindle books. They gave authors no way to opt-out of this or edit what the AI generates. They also have yet to update their terms of service, explaining how books will be processed by their AI and for what purposes. This is all problematic for several reasons.

AI doesn’t understand nuance or sarcasm or storytelling. Many authors have reported glaring errors in the AI’s summaries and trope lists, asking Amazon to let us opt-out or fix the mistakes, as well as asking how our books are being used with their AI—all these messages we’ve collectively sent have fallen on disorganized, deaf ears.

At the time, I decided to wait and see what Amazon did. The new feature was beta, after all, so it’s always best to focus on other things while they work out the kinks. Except… they didn’t. They haven’t given authors any sort of meaningful response. Their customer service reps seem to know next to nothing about this feature, and the company itself still hasn’t updated its TOS months later. This is concerning, since tech companies are stealing content to train their AI. It wouldn’t surprise me if Amazon is waiting to see how all the lawsuits shake out.

I’m not okay with my books being used to train AI, especially without my knowledge. I’m not okay with my books being incorrectly summarized by AI, with no way to revise errors or opt-out entirely. I’m also not okay with third-party book review sites scraping these erroneous summaries and using them as marketing materials. We’ve collectively dived headfirst into AI without much thought and certainly without baking in protections for artists—which artists have asked for from the jump. We certainly didn’t ask for these features, which are more like bugs.

Every book I wrote took months if not years of my life to write, and I put time, research, energy, and heart into every single one. I also spend hours crafting descriptions, summaries, trope lists, and other marketing materials that are readily available for Amazon’s use—right in their dashboard. It’s redundant and silly of Amazon to use AI for these materials. It makes me wonder whether they’re quietly working on AI-generated books, which would be a slap in the face of all authors who’ve dedicated years of our lives writing for Kindle.

It’s not enough for me to say I’m not okay with this. I have to walk my talk; I have to tell Amazon in no uncertain terms that this won’t fly. I believe that if enough authors pull our books, Amazon will finally listen to us.

Or maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll keep pushing their AI onto authors and readers who don’t want it. That’s not my circus or my monkey.

Retailers need creators, not the other way around. There are other platforms we can sell our books on—places that support rather than push around authors.

That said, a lot of my readers are Kindle users. Amazon’s making it more and more difficult to sideload and backup ebooks, which is yet another way they monopolize the market. Reading should be easy and fun, especially now that we have so much technology available. That’s why I publish my books as widely as possible.

I’m in the process of re-launching my shop, which will carry ebook editions of my books in all formats (including Kindle). I’m also always expanding into new-to-me platforms.

In the meantime, I’ll start pulling my books from the Kindle store next week, updating here as I go. If there’s a book you’ve been eyeing, I’d grab it now if you don’t want to wait for me to roll out my new shop. (At the time of this writing, AI summaries don’t affect paperbacks, so those editions will remain available in the Amazon store for now.)

I really appreciate your understanding and patience during this process. It’s just another bump in my little author journey, and we will get through it. After all, I was writing and publishing before Amazon, and I’ll be writing and publishing after Amazon, too.

If you have any questions or concerns, please reach out! You can email me privately, or reply to this to add your public comments.

As always, I wish you happy reading!

Photo by Perfecto Capucine on Unsplash

Get tattooed (fictionally) for $5, summer updates, and a free River Reapers novella

The only constant in life is its challenges. We can either spend all our energy avoiding them, trying to fix them, or staying on our path. It’s all hard, so we have to choose the right hard for us. Sometimes there are no fixes, so the best thing to do is stay the course.

Romance with a Body CountAuthor Elizabeth Barone’s Reader NewsletterJuly 2025

Archive: January 2025 | February 2025 | April 2025

When I wrote A Touch of Gold in 2020, we’d lost my Noni and our family home. I baked my grief into the book, and wrote a way for Goldie to save her family’s home.

Cut to 2025, I’m working on the last book in the series while staring down the barrel of being homeless.

I really don’t need any more writing inspiration!

The only constant in life is its challenges. We can either spend all our energy avoiding them, trying to fix them, or staying on our path. It’s all hard, so we have to choose the right hard for us. Sometimes there are no fixes, so the best thing to do is stay the course.

For me, that means writing.

It’s really hard to focus when everything is crashing around you. Lately I’ve been practicing my original reason for writing: to stay sane. Over the years, my why evolved first to keeping my mind occupied while sick and unemployed, then to giving my readers more of the story they loved. I struggle with the fawn trauma response, so I’ve done a lot of people pleasing over the years, almost always to my detriment. Going back to basics and writing for myself has been so healing.

Whether you’re struggling with health issues, horrified by the evils of the world, or going through something else entirely, it’s a good time to pause and reflect on your why. You don’t have to be a writer to have a why; my best friend says her five children are hers. It can be that simple and wholesome. We all need a light that keeps us going.

What’s yours?

What I’m Working On

Summer is in full swing, and for me that means a renewed focus on my work in progress, Sleeve of Hearts. It’s slow going as ever, but a change in attitude has made things a bit easier. Instead of beating on myself for only being able to do one thing a day—often that one thing is making a meal—I’m shifting to focusing on one thing at a time. I’m practicing prioritizing my needs and keeping my expectations realistic. Much like anything else in life, it’s a work in progress; it’s a practice, never perfect. I’m practicing remembering that.

I’m so grateful for my publisher for being so understanding and supportive while I duke it out with this book and my own body and brain. Their publishing schedule is set for the next two years, so I’m hoping Sleeve of Hearts will see a 2028 release.

You don’t have to wait three years to go back to Stagwood Falls, though!

Get a (Fictional) Tattoo for Only $5

Inflation’s fucking crazy lately. I’m sure I don’t even want to know the going hourly rate for a tattoo these days. Let my apprentice Kinsley tattoo you fictionally!

I’ll turn you into a character in Sleeve of Hearts and your fictional self will receive a tattoo, microblading or permanent makeup, or haircut or braiding from apprentice Kinsley. All you have to do is upgrade to a paid sponsor of my newsletter for $5/month!

I’ll post a rough draft of your scene on my website, and you’ll see the edited version in the published book.

Don’t worry, if you don’t want to upgrade, you’ll still get my free reader newsletter and occasional goodies. But if you do upgrade, you’ll also get access to serialized editions of my books and exclusive goodies (like new stickers before they even hit my shop).

Become a sponsor now!

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Thank you so much to my Sponsors Lauren, B., Dee, and Katy! Look out for your characters’ scenes soon.

Free River Reapers novella

As my email subscriber, you can now read Her Mercy for free! All 25 chapters are now live.

If you’ve already read Mercy and Bree’s story, leave a comment with your emoji reaction to the novella. Mine would be like !

What’s your biggest challenge this summer? Let’s cheer each other on—tell us yours by replying to this email, or you can leave a comment on my website.

I hope you and your loved ones are as well as can be, and that your summer’s giving all the good vibes. Or at least good AC.

This summer, I’m having six MRIs and a tilt table study to assess what lupus is doing all up in my brain and nervous system. I could let the fear freeze me in place, or I can choose to see these scary tests as a scheduled nap and amusement park ride. I’m somewhere in between—like I said, I’m practicing.

May you always be in practice as a beautiful work in progress, too.

Happy reading!

How age verification laws censor authors (and how to fight back)

Age verification laws have been spreading like wildfire, and now that Bluesky is requiring all U.K. users to verify their identity and the U.S. Supreme Court upheld a Texas law blocking minors from viewing porn, authors need to prepare.

Here in the States where I live, we are under a christofascist administration. Evil people have been passing laws targeting immigrants and transgender people, and if you’ve read Project 2025, you know what’s coming next. I believe this administration and other fascist lawmakers are using age verification and children’s safety to push their agenda. Don’t get me wrong—as an auntie of nine, of course I want kids to be safe online! But let’s leave that up to their parents to monitor, rather than instilling sweeping legislation that strips adults of privacy and access to information, and violates authors’ freedom of speech.

Age verification violates internet users’ privacy. If you use anonymous social media accounts to protect yourself from an abuser or simply because you want to talk about romance without your co-workers discovering your guilty pleasure, age verification will make it impossible to remain so. It can also be used to target authors, especially those writing romance, erotica, or LGBTQ+ characters. Fascists love labeling anything they don’t like as porn.

These laws are already effecting authors. If you live in the U.K. and use a pen name, you’ll have to provide photo ID, scan your face, or upload a pic of your bank card to continue using Bluesky starting July 25th. That’s only two weeks away.

There are a few things you can do.

I know I’ve been beating on this drum forever, but seriously, if you’re an author, you need your own website and email list. When you own your platform, it can’t be damaged by social media algorithms changing or new laws passing. Too many of us got dicknotized by Facebook/Instagram/Meta and the like; it’s time to take back control. Make sure you have a way of contacting your readers no matter what.

It’s only a matter of time before platforms like WordPress.com and SubStack require age verification, so if you post chapters or excerpts of your spicy romance on these platforms, you could be fined millions of dollars. From the Verge article I linked above:

The UK passed the Online Safety Act in 2023, which privacy advocates have warned will “lead to a much more censored, locked-down internet for British users.” Another part of the law is coming into force on July 25th, requiring sites and apps containing porn and harmful content to provide “highly effective age assurance.” Platforms that don’t comply with the new rules will face fines of up to £18 million ($24 million) or 10 percent of their worldwide revenue, whichever is higher.

These laws, as written, are insane. Who decides which content is “harmful”? And why are lawmakers hiding behind the very same children they won’t pass gun control laws to protect? I digress, but what the actual fuck?

I’ve been posting excerpts, chapters, and whole texts from my romance books for years. Right now I have this content on my website freely available to everyone, some locked to my email subscribers, and some locked to paid members. Under these laws, authors won’t be able to post such content on our own websites or social media without some sort of “highly effective age assurance” if someone deems it “harmful.”

I’ve long been against self-censorship on social media to bypass bots flagging and people pettily reporting posts. I believe that in this political climate, with a convicted rapist in the White House, it’s obscene to soften the word rape to “grape.” Rape is real. It happens to 1 in 3 real people, probably more. It happens to children. It happened to me. It should be shocking to hear. And from an artist’s perspective, it’s fucking silly to use symbols or emoji to write words like sex or cock. Yet everyone just rolled over and complied, adopting ridiculous terms like unalived instead of killed (another word that’s supposed to be shocking).

An age verification bill just passed in Ohio, despite criticism from the ACLU that the way it’s written is vague and could be weaponized. The “blue” state I live in, Connecticut, is considering passing a similar law. We all need to be pushing back on these laws. Call and write your senators and representatives, submit comments on bills being written, attend town halls. We cannot rollover.

You can choose to not verify your identity, but unfortunately this results in a restricted account. Bluesky won’t allow unverified users to send or receive DMs, or view content that is “adult appropriate.” Considering Bluesky flags stock photos as porn because a woman is showing her *gasp* stomach, and doesn’t answer DMs or appeal requests, I don’t have much faith.

I’d like to think I wouldn't do anything to land me back in prison, but when it comes to Olivia, all sense goes right out my head.She tosses her cigarette. “Just take me home and fuck me.”“Then get on the fucking bike.”elizabethbarone.com/a-disturbing…#Boo... #DarkRomance #SpicyRomance

— Elizabeth Barone (@elizabethbarone.com) 2025-02-20T15:56:03.887Z

It’s only a matter of time before the other social media apps follow suit. Instagram has long been working on tools for age verification. I believe our best bet is sticking together and fighting these laws, while amending our own business plans and practices in preparation for a more restricted internet. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best, and fight like hell to protect privacy and information.

Do you think you will be affected by age verification laws? Let me know your thoughts in the comments, or send me an email! I’d love to hear what you make of all this.

Photo by Jansen Yang on Unsplash

Her Mercy, Epilogue 🔒✉️

“It’s gonna be a long ride,” I warn Bree. “I’m not as young as I used to be.” Even as I say the words, I know they’re no longer entirely true. Overnight my heart is younger, my body lighter—more free.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” she says, nuzzling into me. “I just don’t know what I’m gonna say to her.”

Catch Up Her Mercy, Chapter 1 Her Mercy, Chapter 2 Her Mercy, Chapter 3 Her Mercy, Chapter 4 Her Mercy, Chapter 5 Her Mercy, Chapter 6 Her Mercy, Chapter 7 Her Mercy, Chapter 8  Her Mercy, Chapter 9  Her Mercy, Chapter 10  Her Mercy, Chapter 11  Her Mercy, Chapter 12  Her Mercy, Chapter 13  Her Mercy, Chapter 14  Her Mercy, Chapter 15  Her Mercy, Chapter 16  Her Mercy, Chapter 17  Her Mercy, Chapter 18  Her Mercy, Chapter 19  Her Mercy, Chapter 20  Her Mercy, Chapter 21  Her Mercy, Chapter 22  Her Mercy, Chapter 23  Her Mercy, Chapter 24  Part 3: The Bohemian and the BikerEpilogueNowMercy


In the morning, I borrow the kitchen and cook too much breakfast for just Bree and me. The thought of hundreds more breakfasts like this one makes me smile. She sits in my lap and I feed her bites of bacon and eggs, unable to physically separate. Not just yet.

Soon there’s nothing more to do. Our bags are packed—not an impossible task, since there are only two of them. I hold her in my lap, bringing her hand to my lips.

“It’s gonna be a long ride,” I warn her. “I’m not as young as I used to be.” Even as I say the words, I know they’re no longer entirely true. My body has aged, but overnight my heart is younger. Lighter. Freer.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” she says, nuzzling into me. “I just don’t know what I’m going to say to her.”

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Her Mercy, Chapter 24 🔒✉️

If I close my eyes, I can pretend we’re in the club house. No time has passed. We haven’t missed a beat. But I don’t need to pretend anymore, because finally, after all these years, we’re on the same page.

Catch Up Her Mercy, Chapter 1 Her Mercy, Chapter 2 Her Mercy, Chapter 3 Her Mercy, Chapter 4 Her Mercy, Chapter 5 Her Mercy, Chapter 6 Her Mercy, Chapter 7 Her Mercy, Chapter 8  Her Mercy, Chapter 9  Her Mercy, Chapter 10  Her Mercy, Chapter 11  Her Mercy, Chapter 12  Her Mercy, Chapter 13  Her Mercy, Chapter 14  Her Mercy, Chapter 15  Her Mercy, Chapter 16  Her Mercy, Chapter 17  Her Mercy, Chapter 18  Her Mercy, Chapter 19  Her Mercy, Chapter 20  Her Mercy, Chapter 21  Her Mercy, Chapter 22  Her Mercy, Chapter 23  Part 3: The Bohemian and the BikerChapter 24NowBree


The second his lips close over mine, a sigh of relief passes through me and into him. I have waited twenty years for this kiss. Twenty years, and it’s twenty-thousand times better than I ever could’ve imagined.

One of his hands curls into my hair, the other falling to my waist. I arch into him, lacing my fingers together behind his neck. My lips open for him, tongue sliding against his, welcoming him into me. He tastes sweet and tangy, with a hint of cool. I slide my lips against his, relishing the way his bigger lips consume mine while giving me oxygen, infusing me with him.

Already I want more.

I slide into his lap, my knees straddling his hips. He presses against me through the sheet, hard and hot even through the worn cotton of my skirt.

“Bree,” he says, voice strained, and I can’t tell whether it’s a plea or an incantation. Maybe both.

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