R.G. Richards's Blog

The Flame is now free!

For those interested, The Flame will be free all February on Smashwords. Download the format you need and enjoy. click on this link http://bit.ly/1fVH2pp


The Flame is an adult romance not meant for teens.

What is it about us that attracts us to the wrong people? We all have a flame in our life, something or someone we should avoid or else be destroyed by. Many of us can’t resist the temptation and get burned. Will they?

Jill has such a flame, she is a lesbian and in love with her best friend Mary. If she goes for it she will lose their friendship forever but she imagines how good it can be if Mary says yes.

Jerry’s flame is strip clubs. He meets all his women there and wonders why the relationships never work out.

Barbara’s flame is the one night stand. Her girls keep telling her that sleeping with a man before you learn his name is the problem but it doesn’t register, she doesn’t lead with her brain, she leads with her heart and softer regions.

Mary’s flame comes from a bottle. She can drink a man under the table and appear sober while doing it. If she doesn’t stop, death awaits her, but it so damn good and makes the world a better place.

Robert’s flame is the “forever after syndrome.” He has played around for years and is now wealthy and looking for a woman to share it all with, to grow old with. Marriage and children are on his mind and he has the misfortune of meeting Mary.

Like a moth to a flame, death awaits the breaker of the bulb. How many will be burned?

Zora Baker zombie series on sale!!!!!!!!!!!

For the next two weeks I have lowered the price of each book in my zombie series to $0.99 so pick up all the books in the Zora Baker series today.

Zombie Zora (#1) FREE
Zombie Invasion (#2) $0.99
Kill Happy (#3) $0.99
Zombie Eden (#4) $0.99

Demon Warrior's Light launches!!!!

My new book has launched. It's a story of a young girl constantly bothered by poltergeist called demons. Here is the first chapter:
Chapter 1: Shock


Death is not an ending. It is the beginning to something new, challenging, and exquisite. What will you become after death? On Ebara, the planet of the dead, death takes many forms: spirits or ghosts that soar in the skies, half-dead spirit and flesh eaters called ghouls, and returned souls—the dead raised by Necromancy who transform from spirit to flesh at will, they serve the living as household staff. At death, most fall into the void—the deep well within the core of the planet where spirits reside. It takes years to string together coherent thoughts and push your way back to the surface again. Once there, only one thought consumes you: take life from the living to live again. As to the living, some have “dead powers” allowing them to commune with the dead, order the dead, fight and kill the dead. On a planet that struggles on every level, life is a treasure and wanted in any form. Most would sell their souls for a chance to live again, no matter the form. In a world infested with evil spirits, life goes on as it does elsewhere, but for some reason, evil spirits called demons have awakened with a new vengeance, a new ravenous hunger the world has never seen until now.

The Foothills of Talbeth.

It is my first trip from home, a pilgrimage to the southern villages in search of lodging and food. Days of scarce eating withers my soul as well as those in my company to the point of reducing us to mere stick figures capable of drifting away on the gentlest of breezes. I look around in wonderment. To them the trip means dodging demons of the air and land while to me it means excitement. All I behold thrill me: the dusty land, the bare clad trees in the distance, and the soft gravel beneath my feet. I notice that as I step on stones they are either crushed or pushed into thin hot soil and I am weak, thin framed. Everything in this place is just as weak and in search of a respite. I pray to the Heavens we find one soon.
“Keep a sharp eye out for the next Bessie, Nista,” says father, scanning all sides of the shabby landscape before him in search of his prize. Bessies are safe platforms we stand on. They blend into the landscape so as not to make them appear as haughty obstructions the people will loathe. On a grassy plain they will be green as the grass from a distance so as not to spoil the view. The last one we stood upon was a white slab of concrete four by eight feet with black and gold writing littering its surface. They are spells and incantations placed on the surface by master casters of our world. You don’t need to know the characters, letters, or words to receive the protection. All that is required is that you reach and stand upon it. Once you do, an unseen field rises at its edges to build a wall around you to protect you from demons. None can pass through and attack you. Throughout the land Bessies sprouted where spirits frequented as shelters for the living. Maps showed their locations and signposts announced them as if they were rest stops along a roadway. We always received word of the newest locations from travelers to our small village. That is, before everyone gathered their meager possessions and left to avoid starvation. Taking your chance with spirits was better than starving. So we, like the others, prayed to the Heavens for safety and began our long march.
“Why are they called Bessies, father?”
The air is hot and will soon become even hotter as the day draws to a close. A nice wind will help but it is not in the cards for the evening. We are a small family of four: father, mother, me, and the future tucked away in momma’s womb.
“Shh, Sybil, shh!” says mother.
I like how mother strokes her large belly to soothe the rambunctious youth and calm it. Sybil is a kicker and often kicks me when I sleep next to momma. Momma says she is just anxious to be born. How can she know what awaits her? She lives in a cramped space with no way of knowing that to be unleashed on the world in its condition means nothing but heartache, if she is lucky.
“Kicking up a storm, is she?” asks father.
He is a thin man and when he chuckles it is more like coughing, but you can see the love he has for mother and Sybil in his eyes. They can do no wrong. Me, I am altogether another story—the bane of his existence.
Father never answers my question, it is typical to divert to baby talk. We march on and make our stop at an abandoned park. I watch them place a blanket on the grass and unpack for a scarce meal of bread, fruit, and water. I lie on the blanket looking at the sky wondering what lies beyond the twinkling spheres of heaven. I can’t say how long I stare before drifting to sleep.
A small sound as if a sniffle announces itself. Father turns his gaze to fasten on the interloper. In an instant the brown eyes that hold joy now scorn the sight they behold. His features sag as he gazes upon the horrid sight before him. Brown spittle falls from the corners of his mouth. He flicks his tongue to hold in what little moisture his body holds, not daring to let any of his precious fluid escape. He must have changed his mind for he crinkles his nose then spits a thick, dark liquid on the grass.
Momma rubs her belly again before fastening her eyes on the un-heavenly sight. Her hands stop their circular movements of joy. Long thin fingers filled with scratches and cuts from days gone by no longer move. The fingers, thin from malnutrition, show tightened veins that stretch as little roads on a map. The fragile fingers shake.
Two sets of eyes dart about the landscape. They search, knowing trouble is on the horizon. Momma searches east and west while daddy stands searching north and south. They perfect their routine to guard against what they cannot guard against. The cold wind blows through his short dark hair. He shudders, eyes growing wider, mouth gaping, searching harder for the terror that waits. I feel the wind caress my scalp and see it blow through mother’s hair. Her eyes widened, her mouth hangs open. She looks to her husband. Something is wrong. She always strokes her long blond hair as her tell, her early warning system to announce to all that spirits are coming.
“John!”
“I feel it, Becky. Mardour is coming.”
We sat our blanket on the grass to enjoy a meal before bedtime under the stars. We hoped a cool wind would blow to ease our stay in this desolate land. Today would not be that day.
I watch father direct mother to safety and once again feel that strangeness, that abandonment that consumes me during these times. They rush to the concrete slab that once lofted itself as the foundation of a small bathroom. They crouch low upon the surface with him covering her, her belly presses into the slab, her face hides in his small chest.
“Go away! Go back to Mardour! Leave us alone!” he shouts, his voice breaking with fear.
I look about to see the spirits he speaks to. Not seeing them I turn to see mother bury her face deeper, sobbing with the strong lungs of a newborn. She wraps one arm around him and clutches at her belly with the other to protect little Sybil as best she can. Daddy throws his arms around her as his eyes dart about. If not for the present trouble they would look as if they were sleeping under a cozy blanket beneath the stars. I gaze at the writing starting to glow on their clothing—a cheap spell he paid for by bartering away our tattered home.
“Leave us alone!”
I don’t wait to see what will happen next. I run to join them. I dive under the cover determined to reach their safe arms and wedge myself in the tiny crack between them. Sybil can kick me all she wants, I need that space.
“Oh the Heavens!”
“What is it?” asks mom.
“Something is coming, crawling, coming straight out of Mardour.”
I don’t need to see his face to know what he means. I feel the cold wind, but it isn’t the wind.
“Go away!” father orders again.
It must be near me because he bats his hand in my direction. I want to look behind me but I’m too afraid. For the most part, spirits don’t frighten me unless they are the big ones that take the shape of people. I like the small, fluffy, shapeless ones. They remind me of clouds. I can play with them all day. But I have a feeling these aren’t those kinds.
I burrow upward through the resistance around me. Inch by inch I go while daddy bats and screams trying his best to protect us. I break their grip and feel safe. I get brave and poke my head out to take a look.
“Daddy?” he looks at me with horror in his eyes.
“Go away,” he screams. He pushes me down to re-clutch his shivering wife to calm her. The pushing and screaming are somehow lost on me. Again, I burrow upward then lift my small head. Surely he will recognize the black patch of hair as me. “I said GO AWAY!” with his gathered strength he flings me from between them to the hard ground. I roll several times before coming to a stop a good distance away.
A howling comes from ahead of us. We are in a demolished park with fallen tree limbs and twigs that jab at me on all sides. I stifle a scream of pain so as not to alert the spirits that howl so. My young eyes open wide as I search for a voice to connect with the gruesome howl. Finding none I travel on scratched and bloody hands and knees in an effort to scamper back to the safety of my parents.
I scream as a red specter flies between my parents and me. I shake with terror listening to the eerie sound of what may be laughter from the creature. My heart pounds as I right myself for my journey to safety. Another specter, this one dark blue with smidgens of yellow that form carnivorous teeth from a hideous mouth shoots by me with a howl of its own.
“Stay back, you evil troll!” that comes from father.
Whether out of cruelty or concern I don’t know, the words can never register with me, so I rock on my heels, ready to advance. I check both directions as if checking for traffic along a busy street. I hear my mother’s pleas mixed with my father’s. They seem to be coming from miles away from a deep dark tunnel. I strain to hear them and keep watch. My fingers grip the dirt in front of me as I crouch low to the ground, a runner in sprinting position waiting for the sound of the starting gun. My tongue dips out of my mouth to caress the bite marks of days gone by on my chapped bottom lip. I draw a long breath. I listen to my beating heart as it drowns out the distant voices. I flex my small fingers then dig into the dirt more, tilting forward.
A second red specter flies by, this one freezes my soul by glaring at me as it passes in the night with a wide grin. Then, before I can think, another aims for me. I turn and run in a new direction with all the speed I possess. Ahead of me is a bathroom. It has no doors. Three commodes in various states of decay face me. I don’t have time to think about their condition or stink. I can feel cold fingers at my back. I push harder and dive into the middle structure. I crawl forward and snake my thin body around the back of the commode and draw my body into a tight circle.
I slam my eyes shut with all my might and listen to my panicked breathing and the gruesome howls that flow around the shack.
It takes some time but I calm. Why I am still alive I have no idea. I calm further but never move. Something about the closeness to the ground draws me into a peaceful state. I feel warm all over, though there is a chill in the night air. I can hear distant singing—mother singing me a lullaby. The tug of happiness in my belly radiates outward to my limbs to further soothe and calm me. As the night draws on, I slip into sleep while slinked around an old commode with more scratches, dents, and chips than I care to count.
The next morning, I lay curled around the commode in the perfect peace of sleep. Suddenly my eyes fly open. If not for out of place barrels and the like, no one will have imagined anything occurred. A twinge of fear dances across my face as my breath catches in my throat. Can this be like the last time? I look up, breathing heavy and fast. My eyes dart about the playground in the hopes of finding what I know not to be there. I can pray but it will do no good. Why did I go to sleep? Why didn’t I keep a lookout? I spring to my feet wiping moisture from my face and neck as I look about. Across the ways I don’t see anyone. The slab my parents had been on is now empty. A couple of quick chaotic breaths escape my lips. I sound dreadful and know it. I close my eyes to center. Moments later my breathing regulates then slows.
I take my first careful step by extending a bare foot onto the soft grass before me. It feels right. I place my other foot on the grass. After another breath I move toward the empty slab. Perhaps there is a note. Approaching the slab I see enchanted writing that protects any who stand on the slab. At the far edge I see a small folded bag. Too small to contain food, perhaps it is a letter. I kneel on the slab and with careful fingers open it. I pull my raven hair back to peer inside. My face meshes into confusion. Turning the bag over, I watch two thin bars fall to the slab. I shake the bag as if it holds something more.
A sound startles me. I turn. I make out figures in the distance. Someone needs help. Forgetting my food, I run toward possible danger.

I stop in my tracks when I see what it is — a small air demon circling my frightened parents. My eyes automatically tighten during these times. Once, I was told the gray left my eyes and they turned black. I don’t care or have time to think on that kind of silliness. I run with all my might, scowling with fists balled ready for action.
My mother huddles next to my father clutching him with all her might and whimpering while the phantom dances wistfully, howling at their fright. It stops to glower then as a petulant child it sticks its tongue out before continuing its mockery. I have seen ones like this one and know what it is doing though I am a good ways off. I don’t like their kind, not at all. They are bullies. They taunt their prey to heighten their emotions to make them a more tasty and powerful meal. High emotions, like fear, flow from their victims in waves to these demons.
Daddy’s small frame might not withstand such stresses. He spends hours in the field during long, hot summers and begs during winter when food runs low. People think I don’t understand their conversations when they speak of him as a man of little to no common sense. I know what it means. I also know he will be no match for the demon, electing to barter and beg instead of fighting. He clutches mom while watching the spirit. I know what he is thinking, that this is nothing new. Nothing to worry about. Spirits often show up to torment him and the others while they farm the land. Most are child spirits looking to cause mischief before moving on. It is the larger, older spirits that he fears. They are the ones who take your life no matter how much begging you do. For them, taking your life gives them life and who wouldn’t want to live again? he clutches mom trying to calm her and keep her quiet so as not to rile it further or attract more menacing creatures to them. I suppose bartering hadn’t worked.
“Stop!” I had no idea why I said it or if it would have any effect. The sight of the creature tormenting my parents was enough.
Father whirls. “Nista?”
I break into an all-out run. My tiny face shrinks into a scowl of determination. Nobody bothers my parents, not if I have anything to say about it.
“No, Nista. Stop,” he commands.
The words fall on deaf ears — I am in full sprint mode. The demon sees me coming and gives its own scowl. It stops its mocking dance and zooms toward me. It stretches its arms out in a brisk run toward me while I echo the movement. Somewhere in the middle we meet with a force that knocks me backward. We roll on the ground, coming to a stop in each other’s death grip. For me, I treat it as a child my age, a school-ground bully. I grab it and wrestle. The spirit shows signs of a solid form just before contact. At impact it draws energy from me to become a solid form. A smudgy face takes shape behind slow growing dark hair that becomes a girl of my age. Hands grip harder to draw more power. I weaken. From past experience, I know what to do at this time. The young spirit doesn’t know the proper procedure to fully restore itself and probably doesn’t care. Mischief is its chief concern. I see the look on my mother’s face and realize we must look like two teenage girls fighting over a boy or some other foolishness.
Wanting more power, the girl squeezes me tighter and begins glowing. I grip her tighter and before long, the girl screams. She glows as bright as the sun and then shatters into a million pieces of light.
“Nista! Nista!”
My mom holds her belly running to me in full gallop mode. For a woman in her eight month of pregnancy, she shows the grace of an athlete in their prime. She stops short of me, gawking. I lie on the ground looking up at her. She looks bewildered. I am alone except for her and she turns about for evidence to the contrary.
“Wh-where did it go?”
I shrug not knowing how to answer.
“Nista?”
“I don’t know, momma. It just . . . left.”
She looks about then turns. “John.” He hadn’t taken a step. “John!”
“Where were you going, momma? Were you going to get some more food? I don’t need it all.” I search her face.
She smiles with the grace of her years. “It’s okay, baby. We were just taking a walk and didn’t want to wake you.”
My face lights up with pure joy. I knew it! I had the best parents in the world.
Father arrives, stopping short of me. He sneers down at me as if I caused it all. He motions with a thin, callused finger then moves in that direction. Mother helps me to my feet. We fall in line and trail as he sets course for town. I want nothing more than to lie down and take a nap. Together, we assist each other so we can keep up. Joy floods me with every step. The air demon stole strength from me but it could not steal my joy.

Halloween Fun: House of Laughs

I remember fun times at Halloween. In that tradition I decided to post a story I wrote for a companion joke book.

House of Laughs

I walked to the door of the old haunted house. I expected a goblin, witch, or vampire to leap out and scare me. The rusty, ancient door creaked opened. The sound, loud and creepy. I took an anxious step forward, my body shaking with fear. Another step, then another. The door made a whining noise. I turned to look as the door slammed shut with a thud. No one was there, did it close itself? Who did it?

A new noise made me turn. A scratching—akin to a dog scratching at the door to get out—came from a shut door ahead of me. I’m no fool. I’m not dumb enough to check it out. I have seen way too many monster movies and know better. I went for the front door. Gripping and shaking the doorknob did nothing.

My heart pounded.

I was trapped with no way out. The pounding would soon kill me. It was warning me of danger ahead, I listened.

A rapping came from the far door. No! I’m not going to that door. I’m going to stay right here against the front door until help comes. When I get my voice back, I’m going to scream my head off. I plan on being hoarse for the rest of my life. With my back to the door, unwilling to budge, the house made the decision for me. My safe haven left me.
The door I stood against, gripping for all the life in me, moved forward. “Oh my God! No!”

The more I struggled, the faster the door moved, moving me into the door I feared to open. Moving me so fast that if I didn’t move, I would smack into that door. Still, I was scared shitless and couldn’t move for the life in me. I was going to die in the next few seconds. “Help! Help!” I found my voice and the strength to move a fraction, but no more.

Suddenly, the door ahead of me flung open. I managed to gain enough sense to slide back in front of my door so I would go through the now open door. Otherwise, I would be flatten like a pancake.
With a thunderous slam, I was pushed through the open door as the two walls smacked together.

I landed on the floor in the middle of a large room. The open door disappeared. I was trapped in darkness. A light came on.
“Good evening,” said a low, deep voice with power.

I turned to see a man sitting in a lounger. I’ve never been to a circus, but believed his colorful outfit to be that of a Ringmaster. I stood. Taking a step toward him, I stopped. A chair rose from the floor, directly in front of me.

“Sit.” The man said it with such authority, I sat, facing him.
He waved his left hand at the wall. I saw a glass cage filled with zombies. Bits and pieces of human flesh were around them. They chewed on bones that were once full of human flesh. The blood, the guts, it all made me sick. The sounds they made as they fed were chilling.

“Wh-wh-what is that?” I managed to get out.

“Well,” he rose with an evil smile, “it is as it appears, flesh-eating zombies.” He walked slowly toward me. “You and I are going to play a game.”

At that, he waved his hand and I was thrown back into my chair. A weight pressed down on me, pinning me to the chair. I couldn’t rise. “Wh-wh-what is happening?” I struggled against an invisible curtain, nearly losing my mind.

“You have entered the House of Laughs,” he said with a sneer. “We hate people who laugh. I give you three strikes. Three free laughs. At your fourth, I throw you into the cage with the zombies.” He chuckled, holding his over-sized, jelly belly.

“What?”

“Silence!” he rushed to me, putting his face inches from mine. His breath was foul. His eyes black. I think I smelled blood. “You can laugh three times before the end of our game. On the fourth laugh, you go in the cage. Prepare yourself human. You might be a buffet before the night is out.”
While he roared and laughed, I struggled to free myself, but couldn’t.
“Here we go human. Try not to laugh.”

He returned to his chair and a man and a woman walked in front of me. The man was dressed like the Ringmaster. He bowed, then cleared his throat. “Zombie joke number one: What kind of streets do zombies like the best?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Don’t know do you?” he smiled. “Dead Ends.”

If that was his best, I had nothing to fear. The woman dressed like a high-flying trapeze artist took her turn. “What is a zombie’s favorite toy?”

Again, I rolled my eyes.

With great satisfaction, she replied, “A Deady bear!”
She smiled at me. I gave a blank stare.

“Tough nut to crack, eh?” asked the man. “Don't worry, the zombies are looking for brains, you're safe.”

I half-smiled, trying not to chuckle.
He pointed at me with great satisfaction. “Ah ha! Gotcha!” he turned to the Ringmaster, “sir?”

“Strike One!” exclaimed the Ringmaster.

The woman rubbed her hands together, getting ready to roll me. “A zombie chews on a head in the graveyard. I mean he is going to town, slobbering and everything. A cop walks by and says, ‘hey, what are you doing?’ the zombie says, ‘Take it from me, Great minds taste alike.’”
I smirked.

“Gotcha!” she yells and then looks to the Ringmaster for verification.

“Strike Two!” shouted the Ringmaster.

Well, okay, I will give them that. Now that I know the rules, no smiles, smirks, or anything else. I lean back with my best bring-it-on stare. Round after round they hit me with one liners and I don’t flinch.
I made it! I only laughed twice. Some of the jokes got to me, but the fear of the unknown kept me focused. The dejected man and woman left and the Ringmaster came to me, depressed. He waved his hand and I was free to move again. I rose, quickly. No more sitting for me.

The Ringmaster walked me to the door. I savored my victory. He opened the door and handed me a bag of candy. “We will get you next year,” he promised.

It was my turn to snicker. “I doubt it. Trick or Treat, ASSHOLE!” I walked out with my bag of goodies. Halloween only comes once a year and I intend to cleanup. I put back on my werewolf mask and went down the street to the next house.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know, I gotcha! Enjoy these jokes and don’t forget, if you laugh at more than three, I throw you to the zombies.

Zombie Jokes is available free on Smashwords http://bit.ly/YemNaS so grab it and share a laugh with a friend.

CARGO - Tropfest Australia 2013

Just found this but it was some time ago. A great Zombie short. Interesting idea for a book.

CARGO - Tropfest Australia 2013 Finalist (TSI "Balloon")
Stranded in the midst of a zombie apocalypse, a man sets in motion an unlikely plan to protect the precious cargo he carries: his infant daughter.

http://bit.ly/14SRXJg

Excerpt: Cavers: A Vampire Tale

Though this is an action-adventure, fast-paced YA story of teenage hijinxs, it contains trace horror elements of a dangerous world. I thought I might give an excerpt from one of the few chapters that bring home the dangers of the vampire world.



Vampire Babies Are Deadly



While the girls slept, trouble brewed during the nightly feedings in the vampire nursery. Mira, a thirty-five-year-old woman, was alone with the three babies. She was an expert at feeding, and often fed two at once with no issues. Tonight she fed the first two simultaneously in their cribs while singing to them. When they finished their bottles she picked them up and put them back into their incubators one at a time.

Mira went to the last baby, Jessie, who needed changing first. She changed her diaper and sang to her as she sat her in the crib. Jessie was a bit gassy so Mira put her over her shoulder quickly and patted her on her small back. Jessie threw up a little bit on her shoulder so Mira put her back down. Mira took off her jacket and laid it over a chair so she could check her blouse to see if it needed changing. Satisfied there was no problem with her blouse, she went back to playing with Jessie before giving her a bottle. Jessie took half the bottle before turning her head and throwing up, requiring another pat on her back. Jessie saw the jacket and the crest and cooed as she was being rocked by her caregiver. Without thinking, Mira lifted her and kissed her and put her over her left shoulder. From this position Jessie could no longer see the jacket or the crest. Being next to Mira’s neck she felt her pulse and smelled her warm blood.

As Jessie listened to Mira’s pounding pulse and smelled her blood, her once-green eyes darkened to a reddish-brown. As Mira rocked and sang to her, Jessie’s little arms began stretching and wrapping around the woman’s neck. When her hands reached each other, the baby’s fingers interlocked and fused. This fusing made an unbreakable wrap around Mira’s neck. Jessie opened her mouth, shifted to get a better focus – and closed gently on the woman’s neck, sealing Jessie’s lips tight upon her. Her suckers protruded, moved carefully and gently to the woman’s skin, and extended a tiny black needle. With a gentle prick, they pierced Mira’s skin.

It happened with little resistance from Mira because she barely felt the punctures. Jessie’s body worked on instinct and began first pumping a hallucinogenic toxin into Mira’s system that gave her feelings of joy and happiness. She continued to sing and rock the baby with no warning that her life was about to be drained from her body. Nor did she notice as Jessie began sucking the blood from her neck and the arms of the little baby tightening their grip.

Like a tic or a leech, a small stream of blood flowed into Jessie’s mouth, down her esophagus to her stomach, which became darker and redder as it filled. After a couple pints her round belly expanded so it could take in more blood. Now Mira began to feel the effects.

Mira’s euphoria suddenly vanished. It was replaced by dizziness. Fighting confusion, Mira gathered her wits, and realized – too late – what had happened. She tried to push the baby away from her chest but it was locked around her neck and would not move. She panicked, started screaming – but she was alone. She hit at the baby and tried desperately, fruitlessly, to pry it off. Each time she pulled the baby, it came back to her, tightening its grip like a constrictor.

With her strength draining and her breathing being choked off, she collapsed to the floor and passed out after a few more minutes of futile struggling. Once she slipped into an unconscious state, the baby released her stranglehold and fed from her neck freely. The baby’s belly grew bigger and resembled that of a pregnant woman in her ninth month. Slowly her legs started expanding and growing longer; they turned darker as blood spread from her stomach into her limbs. Mira’s body seemed to deflate and crumble as the engorged infant continued to feed. By the time Mira’s heart gave its last beat, Jessie had doubled in size.



# # #

My Vampire series has launched

I am happy to release book 1 of my new vampire series: Cavers

Blurb:

When teenage girls enter the hidden vampire world to work, who will have the greatest influence on who? These human girls care for their children, fight in their wars, and become the hallmark for integrity and dedication as they help to shape the future of the vampire world.

Through an overabundance of curiosity, fifteen-year-old Allie Carter falls down the rabbit hole to discover this hidden world. Worse, her best friend, Sara Johnson, is running interference for them. Is she one, too?

Instead of running for her life, Allie joins a secret society dedicated to helping the vampires remain hidden. She becomes caretaker to adorable five-year-old Lila and must teach her to blend into human society, but if she fails, humans will kill Lila out of fear.

To navigate the vampire world and educate the children, Allie moves one step closer to becoming a vampire: she runs faster, leaps higher, hears and sees better, and has increased strength and agility. Will Allie have so much fun she forgets the danger or to educate and protect young Lila? Will turning her back on loving parents be worth risking all when the vampire princess wants to kill her for pure pleasure? Only time will tell.

Kindle Owners Buy your $2.99 copy from AMAZON http://amzn.to/U7Jnfj

Freebie 4 vampire lovers

Check out my new series. This is a vampire tale that goes in a new direction. Scary vampires and the people brave enough to work with them. It is free on Amazon for the next three days. September 20,21,22.

Vampires are ReaL amzn.to/TIivWq

Hooray for Gardeners and Gardening!

Why, you may ask? Because it’s fun, rewarding, and puts idle time to good use. A gardener has a busy life, yet he or she takes time out to nurture something tiny, a seed, an idea, a dream. See where I’m going? Gardeners take the necessary steps to bring forth that which is in the head into fruition. By the way, I love fruit.

It all begins with an idea, a thought. You look at a piece of greeny grass and envision a garden in full bloom. First, you lay the ground work. I have no tiller for my small garden so I borrowed my neighbors to carve out a twelve by twelve area.

Next, comes the separation and clarity of direction. I decide if the size is too big or small and make adjustments. Then I rake out the grass, put it in a pile to burn, and smooth out my fresh Earth.

Next, I imagine crops in full bloom, though I haven’t planted a thing. How much space does each plant need to grow? What kind of irrigation system will I use to water? What kind of fertilizer to buy? What exactly to plant and what will it all cost?

Now that I have taken care of the hard stuff, it is time to get going with the actual manual labor. A labor of love. I make my rows, plant and water, then go inside under the cold air-conditioning. It is time to kick back and marvel at the feat I have accomplished. Daily, I venture out to the garden and water. Then weed and rake. Nurturing. When my garden blooms, I notice too many plants in one area and not enough in another. Time for adjustments, I thin and replant.

Now, I have nothing to do but water and wait for the first blooms. I can go about my daily business, stopping to check, ever so often until the next stage. After my garden has brought forth its bounty and I partake of my Harvest (enjoying some now and putting up the remainder for leaner times) comes the last stage, removing everything and preparing for next year. I think back on what I did right and what I did wrong and note ways of improving the next garden, next year. My mind is ablaze with scenarios. Here it is winter, and I can’t wait for summer to get started. This garden will be ten times better than the last. Why? I’ve done it once, it was a challenge, but I made it through and now no how to do it better.

One of the pleasures of gardening is the time I get to rest and relax. This is when I get ideas for my stories. Rarely am I stuck, but if so, gardening offers the diversion and environment I need to find my solution. Things just come to me while I’m gardening. I love gardening. How about you?

Meet Jones

Michael Matthew Jones is from a generation that has been separated from its past. He and others of mixed ancestry, have fallen victim to a dominant parent who prefers their way of life to their mates. Jones’ parents are such a couple. His domineering mother, a white-bred Englishwoman, can trace her ancestors back to their exact seats on the Mayflower.

She accepted a husband of dubious background, but never accepted his family roots. As a result, she made an effort to pull him away, and in turn, once born, pull her only child into Boston’s High Society. The past became a blank slate. Every time young Matt asked questions, his mother would shut him down and dare his father to breathe one word of his cultural foolishness to her son. It will prove her undoing and perhaps his.

Matt was cutoff from his past and grew up believing himself to be one hundred percent white American. After all, he and his father looked the part. Breaking from her tight grip, he escaped into army life. It was bad luck that after completion of basic training, zombies emerged and took over the planet. Matt now leads a small party in hopes of reuniting with their larger group and destroying the zombie menace.

It hasn’t been that long since the outbreak occurred. Many are hopeful a solution can be found in time. If successful, the apocalypse will end and life will return to normal. If not, can he and his team find a quiet corner and hunker down? They have placed their trust in his knowledge and will follow him, sometimes questioning, but still following. Every day he wonders if he is leading them correctly. Soon, they will collide with their destiny and all will be revealed. Matt is in the perfect position to aid humanity. Can he draw upon a past he has been denied and shielded from? Will his team stay focus and follow orders without questioning him? Those are the questions and his dilemma.