My poem “This Is War” appeared in a video for Mother
My short story “Across the Woods” was turned into a short film for the anthology Scribbles from the Crypt: A Journal of Horror and also won an award as a writer for Best Horror Movie for 8 ½ Films Awards
Whatever Happened to Peyton Rose? Short screenplay won Best Screenplay at Sarah of Horror Film Festival
My poem “The Photographer” appeared in The Horror Writer’s Association Poetry Showcase Vol. X
2024 GOALS
*Write a horror feature screenplay.
*Write a play.
*Find a publisher for TEAR YOU APART (the novelization of my Crush screenplay).
*Read at least 50 books.
*Post more frequently on Instagram.
*Try to merge my author site with this blog site so that it’s all one website (I know I wanted to do this last yr but life got busy)
*Work on my horror novel.
*Find a publisher for my novella CRY ME A RIVER.
What goals have you made for the new year?
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
“When Dad had been sentenced, I had been orphaned, practically and emotionally, at a much younger age than I had anticipated being parentless. I had been thrust into a new phase of life, a lonely phase, an unguided phase, which was both terrifying and oddly liberating.”
PLOT SUMMARY:
Morgan always knew her father, Owen, never murdered her mother, and has spent the last six years campaigning for his release from prison. Finally he is set free, but they can no longer live in the house that was last decorated by her mother’s blood. Salvation comes in the form of a tall, dark and notorious decorative granite tower on the Cornish coastline known only as ‘The Folly’. The owner makes them an offer: take care of the Folly, and you can live there. It’s an offer too good to refuse.
At first the Folly is idyllic, but soon a stranger arrives who acts like Morgan’s mother, talks like her mother, and wears her dead mother’s clothes. Is this stranger hell-bent on vengeance, in touch with her restless mother’s spirit itself, or simply just deranged? And, most importantly, what exactly happened the night Morgan’s mother died?
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
I usually enjoy Amor’s books, and this was no exception. I got invested really fast to the daughter/father relationship, especially since it explored a strained relationship caused by the father having been in jail for the murder of her mother for many years. However, Morgan never believed he was at fault. But once they begin to live at The Folly – a residence near a coastal town, strange things begin to happen. Morgan can’t figure out if her mother is trying to contact her through the possession of a stranger, or if the stranger is simply trying to mess with them. Family secrets left buried come to the surface and it changes everything. I liked this take on possession and I personally love it when someone can make a perfectly “happy-sounding” song creepy such as in the case of Abba’s Waterloo.
This was a fast read (because of impeccable pacing and short nature) so if you’re looking for a novella that explores father/daughter relationships, the meaning of family, grief, and a new take on possession then I recommend you pick this up as it’ll be the perfect read for you!
*Thank you so much to the author for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
SUNDAY, October 15—Multiple people have been reported dead at the Van Ness Winery after an altercation late Saturday night, our Eyewitness Team reports. Police were dispatched around 1:00 a.m. on Sunday morning after a 9-1-1 call from the estate’s main house, but they were delayed hours getting to the scene because of the torrential rainstorm that flooded Rte. 8 and many of the small roads leading up to the winery.
Our news team is on-site but has not been able to verify details with officials, who are still investigating the scene. It appears the damaged substation in Parnell affected power to the estate as well as a number of neighboring homes and businesses in the Finger Lakes area.
This tragedy is the latest to befall the Van Ness family, whose matriarch, investor and philanthropist Katrina Van Ness, died earlier this year of pancreatic cancer at the age of sixty-eight.
The Van Ness winery, known for producing high-quality, award-winning wines, has been owned by the Van Ness family for several generations. The family started the business in the 1950s, after selling their Arizona-based copper mining company founded by Benson Van Ness. The 985- acre winery and estate is now managed by the Van Ness siblings, who live full-time in New York City. Their family investment office owns interests in multiple different real estate holdings and industrial and manufacturing enterprises. The siblings are believed to have been visiting the estate for the weekend for a family celebration.
We will report more as details are confirmed.
THURSDAY
Two Days before the Party
LAUREN
Ever since Zach told me about The Weekend, it’s all I’ve been able to focus on. Most people would naturally be at least a little nervous to meet their significant other’s family for the first time.
But most people aren’t dating a Van Ness.
“Earth to Lauren.” Zach snaps his fingers, grinning over at me. He left work early to get on the road sooner and didn’t have time to change, so he’s still wearing his suit, purple tie slightly askew but knotted even after hours of driving.
“Sorry,” I say, tugging the ends of my hair. “Zoning out.”
“You look like I’m driving you to your death,” he says, then grabs my hand and squeezes. “Don’t worry. I promise it’ll be fun. Even if my family’s there.”
All I can see out my window are trees and fields and cows, my cell phone bars ticking steadily down. We must be close. Zach is taking care on the steep, curvy roads. One bad turn could send our car into a deep ditch or crashing into a thick tree trunk.
It’s so beautiful up there, my best friend Maisie said when I told her about the invitation. She had that wicked look in her eye. All the rolling hills. A vineyard. Starry sky. Super romantic. Perfect place to propose. My stomach flips at the thought, and I breathe in deep. This weekend is not about us. It’s a birthday party for Zach’s older siblings, Harper and Richard, the twins, an annual tradition to celebrate at the family’s winery. I can’t get ahead of myself.
We drive up a winding gravel road, through patches of dense trees. Taller ones have already gone barren for the winter, but some of the smaller trees arch over the road, their branches meeting and entangling like fingers, blotting out the remaining light.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now approaching the famous Van Ness estate,” Zach says in a booming voice as the car’s headlights flick on. “Please, no photographs, and keep all hands and feet inside the moving vehicle at all times.”
Zach had told me the estate was large—a thousand acres— but I didn’t grasp what that meant until the tunnel of trees ends and the view opens to a sprawling expanse of green fields and rolling hills, stretching endlessly against the purple-hued sky. We cross a small stone bridge that extends over a stream, then bump along a rocky road. The vineyards creep closer to us now, eerie in their precise organization, each plant in a perfect row. We’re inching toward winter, and all the grapes must have already been picked for the season, pressed and bottled, because the vines are bare and withered.
When I first moved to New York and waited tables at an Italian restaurant, we served the Van Ness wine. I remember those dark purple labels, the name stamped big and bold on the front. A brand that said, We are too good for you. But Zach is nothing like that, like the Van Nesses you read about online. Sometimes I forget he’s part of that family in the day-to-day rhythm of our lives. He doesn’t talk about them much, offers the scantest of information, or cracks a joke, or completely changes the subject when I bring them up. All I know of them is from the press, fleeting and superficial, like the pages of a glossy magazine, but hazy enough that I can imagine slicing open my finger on the sharp edges if I’m not careful.
“Tell me about them,” I say now, when there’s no evading the topic.
He glances over at me. “My family? What more do you need to know?”
“I don’t know. How can I win them over so they all love me forever and ever?” I say, trying to hide my nerves.
He laughs. “They’re impossible to win over.”
“Oh perfect,” I say. “That makes it easy then.”
“Nah, they aren’t that bad. They’re…particular is all.”
We head up a slight incline. To the right, there’s a gravel path marked Private—Staff Only. We pass it and stop in front of a large metal gate. Zach rolls down his window, fetches a key card from the glove compartment. “We had this installed years ago for extra security,” he says. Once the machine reads his card, the gates swing open soundlessly. I turn to watch them rotate back and slam into place.
As we round a corner, I finally catch a glimpse of the house, a stone mansion, stoic on the hill. The long driveway curves up to an overhang in front, flanked by a series of round potted trees.
“Here we are,” says Zach as we pull up. He shuts off the car, taps the digital clock on the dashboard. “And on time for dinner, too. Elle will be pleased.”
My stomach does another flip.
Breathe deep.
Project confidence.
They’re going to love you.
I get out. The air is chilly—it’s dropped at least ten degrees since we left the city. I wrap my arms across my body.
The massive wooden front door opens, and an older man walks out, gray hair and beard, a deep purple polo shirt with the Van Ness logo stitched on the pocket, two flutes of sparkling wine in his hands.
“Bill! You are the man.” Zach trades him the keys to the car for the glasses. “Lauren, Bill and his wife Linnet have been taking care of the estate—and us—since I was a snotty-nosed kid.”
As Bill heads for the trunk to unload our baggage, I survey the house. My eyes follow the three short steps up to a wide entryway with pillars, to the archway above the door, and then outward to the wings on either side. Greenery climbs up the stonework between the windows, and I imagine Bill must trim it often to keep it so nice. I touch a pillar next to me and feel its cool smoothness.
“Where’s everyone else?” Zach asks Bill. For him, this is business as usual. I doubt he even notices the grandness anymore.
“Oh, they’re around,” he says. “Miss Elle says dinner at 6:30, and you can all meet in the library.”
I smooth down the gold silk top Zach picked out for me, hugging and hiding in all the right places, like expensive clothes do. What would my parents say if they saw me? They would never guess I’d be weekending with a famous family like this. They never thought I’d make it in New York, thought I’d come crawling back begging to return to my night shift writing obituaries at our small-town paper.
But I’m never going back.
I take a sip of the sparkling wine. The bubbles pop, cold and hard against the back of my throat.
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
What It Is: A brightening toner for all skin types.
What it Does: Gently exfoliates dead skin cells whilst improving skin clarity and even skin tone.
Active Ingredients: Vitamin C, Combination of essential acids.
Verdict: I absolutely love Rodial. Almost any product I’ve tried from them I’ve loved, and this toner isn’t any different. Since this toner has various acids, it may cause irritation to those with sensitive skin, but if you don’t mind a little mild stinging for a few moments, then it’s absolutely worth it as the acids really help brighten and even your skin tone. If you have any dark spots or sun spots, I would recommend using this, not to mention that it really helps with getting rid of dead skin cells without having to resort to harsh exfoliates.
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
“That’s her,” the driver yelled to the three men waiting in the rear of the transit van.
He pointed a gloved finger in the direction of a slender woman walking along the sidewalk up ahead.
“You sure?” a gruff voice asked. “It’s pretty dark out there.”
The driver was very sure. He’d watched carefully as his target walked with purpose in her high heels. He recalled her appearance an hour earlier as she made her way up a stainless-steel pole before slowly, seductively descending.
“Yeah, man,” he replied. “You don’t forget a pretty little ass like that in a hurry, even from this distance.”
He was confident their mark was completely oblivious to her impending fate. She stopped suddenly, searching for something that was seemingly wedged in her clutch bag; the streetlamps and neon shop signs illuminated the glitter in her hair. The driver lifted his foot slightly from the accelerator and dipped the headlights as he continued to stalk his prey. Meanwhile, his colleagues slipped black balaclavas over their heads and adjusted their bodies into position—one knelt with his hand gripping the door lever, ready to open it on command; another held plastic restraints, and the third clasped a hunting knife with a serrated blade.
“Ready?” the driver asked. They grunted in unison.
The van sped up, but not so fast as to throw the hunters from the positions they’d rehearsed earlier that day. Then, as it pulled up alongside the woman, the door flew open and the first of her assailants sprang out.
The man with the restraints was the first to reel backward into the vehicle as a bullet from her revolver tore its way through his shoulder blade, taking fragments of collarbone with it.
For a split second, the flash from the gun’s muzzle illuminated the van’s interior as she pinpointed two more would-be assailants poised to drag her inside. Twice more she pulled the trigger; twice more she heard the men screaming. The driver remained rooted to his seat, baffled by how off-kilter their mission had suddenly gone. They had been so confident of its success that there was no Plan B.
“Go, man, go!” yelled a desperate voice as another bullet found its target.
Tires squealed as the van lurched forward, veering across the median and then crisscrossing back toward the sidewalk.
A combination of adrenaline and fury propelled the woman to kick off her heels and run after it, firing twice more and shattering its rear windshield. The vehicle clipped an LA Times newsstand, hurling newspapers into the air; they fell like large chunks of confetti.
She fired one last time, but the van had already corrected itself and sped off out of range. Then she watched in horror as that final shot sent a stranger up ahead, carrying a backpack, sprawling face forward onto the pavement.
Time froze as the consequences of her last reckless bullet resonated.
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
Anna has two rules for the annual Pace family destination vacations: Tread lightly and survive.
PLOT SUMMARY:
It isn’t easy when she’s the only one in the family who doesn’t quite fit in. Her twin brother, Benny, goes with the flow so much he’s practically dissolved, and her older sister, Nicole, is so used to everyone―including her blandly docile husband and two kids―falling in line that Anna often ends up in trouble for simply asking a question. Mom seizes every opportunity to question her life choices, and Dad, when not reminding everyone who paid for this vacation, just wants some peace and quiet.
The gorgeous, remote villa in tiny Monteperso seems like a perfect place to endure so much family togetherness, until things start going off the rails―the strange noises at night, the unsettling warnings from the local villagers, and the dark, violent past of the villa itself.
GRADE: C-
REVIEW:
This book had a thrilling premise, a haunted villa in Tuscany and being trapped with family members who dislike you. That already sounded like a horror story ready to happen. I didn’t mind the first 20% of this book, but being Italian, there were many inaccuracies that I couldn’t overlook. I didn’t mind when Anna, the American protagonist spoke Italian like Google Translate, however, when the author had a two hundred year Florentine ghost speak Italian in the same way, I simply couldn’t stay focused on the story. Not to mention that the author doesn’t realize that Italy is culturally vastly different between the northern and southern regions. What this means is that there’s no way someone in Florence is using cornicelli amulets to ward off the evil eye when that is a very Southern Italian superstition that you won’t see past Rome. Not to mention that I disliked most of the characters in this book, including the protagonist (what annoyed me about her is that she returns to New York with the ghost following her home and she doesn’t act scared shitless as any normal person would be, but rather is cracking jokes at it). I really couldn’t enjoy this book for all of those reasons, and maybe if you’re not Italian, you won’t pick up all the inaccuracies that I did and might like this better, but for me, this was a complete pass. The author can write, but clearly, she or Tor Nightfire were sleeping at the wheel when it came to backing up her research.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Tor Nightfire for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
Embarking on a home-based writing business is a journey of transformation, blending passion with practicality. It represents a shift from traditional office settings, offering autonomy and the chance to craft a personalized work environment. This venture, however, is not without its challenges. This article, presented by The Inkblotters, provides a structured guide to help you navigate the complexities of establishing a successful home-based writing business.
Crafting a Comprehensive Business Plan
A business plan acts as a navigational chart for your enterprise. It’s essential to articulate your mission, identify your target market, and highlight what sets your writing services apart. This document is not just a formality; it’s a strategic tool that guides decision-making and can be pivotal in securing financial support from lenders or investors.
Embracing Efficient Digital Tools
In today’s fast-paced digital landscape, managing an influx of documents effectively is crucial, especially when multiple teams or individuals are involved in a project. A common challenge is handling a variety of documents in different formats. Here, the utility of a PDF merging tool becomes apparent. It allows for you to combine PDF files into a single document, streamlining the process of keeping track of important information. This consolidation not only simplifies document management but also enables easy reordering of pages to organize content efficiently. By adopting such efficient digital practices, you can significantly reduce the time spent searching for documents, thereby focusing more on the creative aspects of your writing projects.
Strategizing Marketing Efforts
Developing an effective marketing strategy is critical in capturing your audience’s attention. Determine the most effective channels to showcase your writing services, be it through engaging social media content, email newsletters, or a captivating blog. A well-planned marketing approach is instrumental in building your brand and attracting clients.
Establishing a Strong Online Presence
In today’s market, a professional and accessible online presence is non-negotiable. A well-designed website that highlights your writing portfolio and services is crucial. It should be optimized for both desktop and mobile devices, ensuring a seamless user experience for potential clients browsing your offerings.
Selecting the Right Suppliers and Resources
For a writing business, identifying and collaborating with the right suppliers is pivotal. This involves sourcing high-quality software and materials that not only enhance your productivity but also elevate the quality of your output. Establishing relationships with reliable providers ensures that you consistently have access to the tools necessary for producing exceptional work. Additionally, these partnerships can offer valuable support and updates, ensuring that your business stays ahead with the latest technological advancements and industry trends.
Networking and Building Connections
Cultivating a network is invaluable in the realm of home-based writing businesses. Engaging with fellow writers, joining professional groups, and participating in industry events not only opens doors to collaborative opportunities and mentorship but alsoenriches your understanding of the evolving writing landscape. Additionally, these connections can provide a support system, offering guidance and feedback that can be instrumental in navigating the challenges and celebrating the successes of your writing journey.
Designing an Optimal Workspace
Setting up a designated workspace at home is crucial for maintaining focus and productivity. This space should be conducive to creativity and free from distractions, effectively blending comfort with professionalism. Moreover, personalizing this space with elements that inspire and motivate you can significantly enhance your creative process, making it a sanctuary where your best writing unfolds.
Embarking on a home-based writing business is a transformative experience, melding personal ambition with the nuances of a dynamic market. It marks a significant shift from conventional work environments, offering an unparalleled level of autonomy and the opportunity to shape your unique professional domain. The journey, while filled with challenges, is rich with opportunities for growth and innovation. As you navigate this path, remember that the key to success lies in your ability to adapt, evolve, and persistently pursue excellence in your craft. This venture is not just a business undertaking; it’s a testament to the power of blending creativity with entrepreneurial spirit.
Have a question or comment about the content available at The Inkblotters? Reach out today via the contact form.
Guest blog post by Stephanie Haywood, read her previous guest blog post HERE and HERE or visit her website: MY LIFE BOOST.
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
It’s no secret that I absolutely love Benefit Cosmetics Mascaras, and the minis set is perfect because travel size is always the ideal size to slip into bags or keep at the office for a quick pick me up! Plus you get 3 types of mascaras for $28 and that in itself is a huge bargain!
GRACE & STELLA UNDER EYE MASK
I’m a big fan of eye masks because if there’s something your eyes need it’s hydration! The skin area is very thin and fragile so it’s always smart to keep this area well hydrated and moisturized. Not to mention that it also helps reduce puffiness! Currently $21.95 for a pack of 24 masks on Amazon.
TOO FACED LET IT SNOW GLOBES 3PC. PALETTE GIFT SET
This set includes three fun colorful palettes:
Taste of Christmas (smells like pecan pie!)
Peacock (smells like gum drops!)
Holiday Angel (smells like holiday treats!)
Each palette comes with a combination of eyeshadows that are both matte or shimmer, neutrals and some gemstone shades, and each palette comes with a blush. $27 for three palettes is an absolute steal (currently on sale at the Too Faced site, as regular price is $54).
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
On Asher Lane, some secrets are worth killing for……
CHAPTER 1
A fat, heavy tear trickles down my cheek when I yank the final hair from my left areola, and it’s not even twelve seconds after I exchange my tweezer for the disposable razor I grifted from Reggie’s top drawer that blood is gushing down the inside of my thigh. I pause at the shocking appearance of crimson and immediately wonder if this laceration is punishment for being impatient or an indictment of my anti-feminism. Part of me thinks hustling to shave the stray hairs that still stubbornly sprout along my bikini line, despite the six agonizing laser removal sessions I’ve suffered through, is a reflection of how deeply I’ve internalized the particular brand of misogyny that says any hair below the brows on a woman is gross and revolting, and the fact that I’m doing this for a man, not myself, is in itself gross and revolting. I’ve also already chugged sixteen ounces of pineapple juice this morning, for obvious reasons.
The other part of me thinks it’s complete bullshit, that being hyper hygienic and having a general disdain for visible body hair is simply considerate, because feminism and a preference for hairlessness shouldn’t be mutually exclusive. I don’t actually think Reggie has ever noticed the hairs on my tits, or even the splattering on my toes that I compulsively remove once a week,
so in a way maybe I am actually plucking the hair from my nipples for my own aesthetic appreciation, not because of the patriarchy, and my feminism is not actually in jeopardy at all.
My dad used to get on me all the time for fixating on tiny, inconsequential details, a habit I no doubt inherited from my mom. But I really am torn about whether I should be judging myself or just owning the part of my personality that is unapologetically vain as I glance at my phone again to see if Reggie has gotten back to my three where r u and did u leave yet and you’re still coming, right? texts, which is what I was doing when I slashed myself in the first place.
There is no reply.
No ellipsis to show he’s typing.
I sigh because I can’t remember the last time my thigh has felt even a trickle. Granted, the deep red liquid heading toward the marble tile is vastly less pleasant than the warm ropes that Reggie sometimes sends down my adductor, or wherever I request, but it’s warm and sticky just like it, and in the most bizarre way, watching it drizzle down my skin turns me on a little. After checking my phone again to no avail, I bandage the nick on my leg and toss the razor, assuming Reggie is already packed in a subway car like a sardine. He is not ghosting me. He is not cheating on me. He just doesn’t have reception and can’t write back yet.
Another thing my dad is constantly grumbling about, usually while he scans the days’ headlines in the Star-Ledger I bring him every Sunday, is how highly intelligent people can convince themselves of really dumb shit. So there’s that.
I look myself over, naked except for the fresh bandage and the glint of gold around my neck, and wish I could see myself the way Reggie sees me. I notice the flaws first. The blemishes. The discoloration. The faded scars I still have from childhood. He notices everything he likes and never has time to consider that I could even potentially see a single flaw in my own body because his hands and mouth are always busy pawing and sucking before he has the chance. Well, that’s how it used to be. Before Goldstein & Wagner claimed his soul. Now I think his perpetual delirium from the lack of sleep gives him a soft-focus gaze and that’s why he thinks I’m so hot.
Most of my dresses are of the silky, shapeless variety, but the one I pick for tonight is also obscenely short, more reminiscent of a chemise than a dinner garment, something I would never wear out alone. But whatever I wear has to pull its weight tonight. My period is two days away and Reggie squirms even at the idea of a speck of blood. I’m virtually celibate five days every month because even bloody hand jobs freak him out, but he does run to Duane Reade without complaint whenever I’m almost out of tampons and always grabs the right box depending on my flow, so it balances out. He’s put in at least ten hours at the firm today, but I’m totally down for doing all the work to get us both off, so yes, this is the dress, and I’m going to make sure he orders something light with plenty of green on his plate so he doesn’t get the itis on the ride back to my place.
Still, as much as I am craving tongue and hands and a long, indulgent dicking down to sustain me while my ovaries wreak havoc, I would happily handle it myself once he’s asleep and take a couple hours of slow, deep conversation instead. A little shit talking, but mostly watching him eat, and laughing the way we used to back when we first met, when he was finishing the last leg of law school and had a fraction of the responsibilities he does now. I try not to romanticize the days when we were fresh and new, because it was fresh and new and so of course it was fucking romantic, but I’m human and can only look back on the inception of our relationship through a halcyon lens.
My apartment is a microscopic studio in a freshly gentrified Bed-Stuy, all I can afford on my own with my salary, which, five hundred miles toward the center of the continent, could get me a mortgage on a cute starter home. It can feel claustrophobic with more than two people inside it at once, but when it’s just me here, it’s perfect. The galley kitchen is at the front and my bed is made semiprivate by the two white open-shelf bookcases I have packed with too many books, some vintage with gorgeous, battered spines, most pre-loved before I got my hands on them. Reggie thinks I have a problem since I’ve lost count of how many I have and because I have dozens more books littered around the four-hundred-square-foot place. He had the nerve to toss around the h word once. I deadfished him that night, and he never used it again. Though if I’m being objective, there is barely a flat space that isn’t occupied by at least one paperback, but that’s only because I am an actual slut for an aesthetic floppy copy of almost anything. Reggie doesn’t get it. He thinks hardbacks are supreme, and I think it’s tied to the fragility of his masculinity somehow, especially since he’s barely a recreational reader, which makes his opinion hardly justified. Then again, I’m a fiend for his dick when it’s floppy too, so maybe I’m the one with a complex.
I run through my standard series of poses using my floor-length mirror to check how far I can lean over without flashing my nipples or my ass, and frown at my visible panty line. They’re seamless, allegedly, but I can see the faint indent where they grip my skin beneath the delicate fabric of my dress. I step out of them and shuffle through my top drawer for a much less conspicuous thong, but then shut it empty-handed and decide that it’s fine, Reggie has had a long week and it’s only Tuesday. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the surprise.
I’m ten pages away from knocking another contrived, predictable thriller written by a man that swears the narrative is feminist but comes off glaringly misogynistic off my TBR by the time I hear the jingle of Reggie’s keys outside the door to my unit. I toss the book aside without dog-earing my current page, though I feel an instant pang of regret and swing my legs off the arm of my couch as I reach for my phone to see what time it is. It’s been two hours since I gashed my leg. I wait for the door to fly open and brace myself to be seen, for his jaw to drop when he sees me.
But nothing happens.
Reggie doesn’t push in. I don’t hear that jingle anymore.
Before I fully convince myself that I’m suffering from hallucinations courtesy of my surge of pre-menstruation hormones, I straighten out my dress and cross the space to glance through the peephole and be sure. Reggie is on the other side, head bent over, his thumbs beating away at his phone’s screen, whatever email he’s writing taking precedence over our date. Envy erupts like a geyser inside me.
It’s hard to stay pissed at him once I swing the door open and look him over without the distorting view of the peephole. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his forearms that are corded with thick veins, the left one covered in a massive tribal tattoo I still don’t know the meaning of. So slutty of him. His tie is loosened around his neck, but not all the way undone, and I can still smell the remnants of whatever soap he showered with this morning.
“Hey.” He hasn’t looked up yet. “Sorry I didn’t hit you back. I was swamped.”
I don’t reply, will not dignify anything he says with a response until he properly acknowledges me and all the work I put in to look edible for him tonight. He finally hits send and lifts his chin, a guilty smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. I don’t know why, with all this pent-up anticipation, his double take at my dress still makes me blush, and I sort of resent that part of me. Though, at the same time, it feels good to be taken in like this.
“Thought you said seven thirty,” I say, fighting to not sound too accusatory, but it’s not much of a battle since the way he’s checking me out is softening me right up like a stick of butter in a microwave.
His eyes are moving quickly, like they are being pulled downward by some invisible force. “This new?”
He reaches for my amorphous dress, his touch rough enough for me to worry about the preservation of its barely-there straps.
“Figured you’d like it,” I say.
I would have much preferred an immediate and sincere apology for keeping me waiting, but I relinquish my simmering irritation and let him feel me up as I lean in to give him a kiss. He settles a hand on the small of my back, definitely wanting me closer, wanting more, but I pull away before he gets too distracted by the dessert and no longer has an appetite for the meal.
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
Can she rewrite the fate of women who came before her?
Prologue
Last night I dreamt I went to Malibu again.
I stood barefoot on the sand, the cool water nipping at my ankles. And there, high above me, perched on the edge of that magnificent cliff, his stunning house sat as it once had, alive, whole. It had ten bedrooms and was on three private cliffside acres, with a lap pool, a tennis court, and a garden blooming flush with pink and white bougainvillea. But from the beach down below all I could see was its long wall of privacy-tinted glass windows, slanting out toward the sea.
He could see me here, out on the beach. I was certain he could, even in my dream.
He was still behind those windows, watching my every step. Though I couldn’t see him. The glass was one-way. But I imagined him there behind the glass so vividly, it had to be real.
Until it wasn’t. Until the heat from the flames would shatter all the windows, break them apart, send smoke spewing from the piano room, down the cliff, evaporating in wisps into the lonely Pacific.
But in my dream, the flames hadn’t existed yet. Or, maybe they never would. He and his house were there, watching me. Wanting me. Haunting me.
“Come back!” His voice was a desperate echo, my undoing. The smoke was so thick, even out on the beach I couldn’t see, and I couldn’t breathe.
So that’s why I did it, in my dream. I turned away from the house, and I walked into the bone-chilling water. It was so cold, it numbed me, but I walked into the sea, up to my shoulders, my neck, my chin. Until I could no longer smell the smoke or hear his voice.
And then my entire head was underwater, and the tide was strong. It sucked me in, held me there.
But I wasn’t trying to drown. I really wasn’t. I was merely trying to escape the fire.
DID YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU JUST READ? IF YES, THEN SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG, GIVE THE POST A LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT! NEW POSTS ARE UP EVERY TUESDAY & THURSDAY!
The Inkblotters 