Mystic Red wasn’t the kind of town people actually stayed in. It was the town everyone vied to get out of once they graduated. It was the town that offered nothing and had nothing. That is why I am just as shocked as you are that I wound up here.  At twenty-five being the youngest in my precinct to make detective. I had been assigned a missing person case (my first case) that led me here. Where all hopes and dreams come to die. While I pushed and broke rules, even crossed state lines to find the young girl that had been abducted from her very own home. I wasn’t paying attention when my partner was killed while questioning some of the town’s people after accidentally stumbling upon a drug smuggling operation. Guilt-ridden and full of anger I took down this operation all by myself. The men responsible for Glen’s death are now serving a life sentence and yet I’m still here.

My precinct didn’t look too kindly on me getting involved with something in another jurisdiction and so I was put on probation, permanently! However, the local town’s people decided I was a hero and swiftly offered me the job of chief of police, and now it is ten years later. I still haven’t found the girl. The whole reason I came here and had my life turned upside down in the first place. I became obsessed with finding her, her vibrant emerald eyes still haunt me in the faded photograph that hangs on my wall. I am a disgraced cop with nothing to show for my years of service but a faded picture and a silent partner. Why not leave you, ask? Well, it’s simple I will not rest until I find out what happened to sweet Isabella. Yes, the likelihood that I will ever find her or her body is next to none as her trail ran cold shortly after I arrived in Mystic Red but she has become my reason to get up in the morning. The reason I put on my uniform and drive the three miles to town every day. My reason to live.

Upon my arrival in this town, I felt a sense of purpose, belonging even as if the town had been waiting for me all along.  Shrouded in mountains and trees bigger than my house I was intrigued by its beauty. Coming from “the big city” this was totally different territory for me. Even though only tragedy has befallen me since my arrival I still fell in love with this sleepy little town. I love my log cabin in the woods. My nearest neighbor miles away. It is so quiet I can actually hear myself think. Yet, I am surrounded by the demons of my past it is a double edged sword, this town. When I arrived it was as if I was suddenly under a spell. The spell of a town too mysterious to let me go. I watch the fog roll off the river every morning the reason the town got its name. The only place that I know of that has a red fog. It first appears suddenly over the lake then slowly makes its way inland as it pours over the town a thick ruby jeweled fog. It washes over the land and hovers off the ground like a bloodied blanket before finally dissipating into the atmosphere. No one can explain this non-toxic phenomenon and yet, no one believes it until they actually see it with their own two eyes. Some say it is the blood of all the soldiers that died in battle long ago, some say it is a reminder of the ancient Indian’s that once lived here peacefully before the white man came and wiped them out. All I know is it is beautiful and mystical, hence the town name Mystic Red.

There hasn’t been a crime here, ever! Other than the drug ring that I busted there has never been a reported crime on record. I mean there is the occasional dispute between neighbor’s and their fence lines, or the occasional dog terrorizing the town, and let’s not forget the town drunk Amos, that is drunk and disorderly all the time. He even has his own cell at the jail to sleep it off in, but a true crime, never. A town of only 500 people I sometimes wonder why we have police at all, and yet, I am grateful for the paycheck. The house is free from the town, the set up I have is pretty sweet. Somedays I go all day without actually getting up from my chair at the office, except to pee, of course. However, my life is dull. At thirty -five I have never been married never had kids and at this point in my life, I see none of that in my future.I mean I am the only man in town under sixty and the women Yikes! Yes, there is a few my age some younger, however, none of them appeal to me. The only woman in town that was slightly attractive to me was Sara.She was sweet enough but I ruined that relationship with my constant obsession with a certain green-eyed girl. She now lives in Shreveport with Hank her high school boyfriend, they married just after our split nine years ago and now have three of the most annoying but cute kids I have ever seen.The rest of the women here well if you like buck teeth and uncombed hair, dirty tank tops with no bra, and too much make-up and not enough poise, then there are lots of options.  Here lately, I have been getting complacent in my everyday mundane life. What I wouldn’t give for a real-life homicide or at least a grand theft situation. The only bright spot in my day is my morning routine. I get up, jack off to my favorite porn, shower, brush my teeth, get dressed and head to work.

Some say I have become that man. The hard man, that is handsome with an unapproachable edge. The son of a bitch that is dark and brooding. “If only he could find a good woman”, I hear them whisper behind my back. Some say I have become so obsessed with that green-eyed girl that I have somehow fallen in love with her and no one else is good enough to tame this grouchy bear. I do look at her and wonder. What if? Did I become obsessed because I had somehow fallen for the girl in the photo with her haunting eyes? Or did my obsession grow into something else entirely? I look at her now and I can almost hear her whispering “why haven’t you found me yet?” I used to dream of her nightly. I would find her body in a different state of death. Each and every time she seemed to pierce me with her cold lifeless eyes judging me for not finding her sooner. I would wake soaked in sweat gulping in lungfuls of air. Trying to breathe through the guilt that rode me. After finally forcing myself to go to therapy in the next county so as not to let anyone here know just how insane I had become. The dreams stopped. After ten years I am finally in a good place mentally and emotionally. My obsession now at a dull throb instead of a lancing pain. Some would say I have given up the search, but I know in my heart of hearts that will never happen.

Today, however, today would be the day my life changed forever.  It would be the day this sleepy little town began to wake up and realize the horror that awaits it.  I arrived at work without incident of course, because nothing ever happens here! I say hi to Shelly my assistant and grab my coffee and donuts she always has waiting for me on my desk. Something tells me to go outside and for some reason sitting at my desk all day didn’t hold the same appeal it once had. “Shelly I am going outside to for a while call me if you need me”, I say as I walk out the door shoveling one of the sweet pastries in my mouth as I go. I climb back in my jeep and head toward the edge of town. The town line is my favorite spot it overlooks the lake that wraps itself almost all the way around the small community, and the mountains rise high in the back ground it is as if I am at the end of the world. This is the most peaceful spot in the area and for some unknown reason the place that takes the red fog longest to clear. It is beautiful in its magic and I am loathed to leave this place.

I quietly contemplate the rest of my day as I polish off the last doughnut and sip my now cooling coffee. When the fog begins to lift, I almost drop my coffee at the sight of what is on the other side. I slowly get out of the jeep hand automatically going to the but of my gun in the holster. It is nice to know you can take the cop out of the city but you can’t take the cop out of the man. “Excuse me miss are you okay?” I say as I continue to walk cautiously toward the young girl ahead of me in, the road. The gravel crunched underneath her bare dirt-encrusted feet. Which I suspect was once mud now dried, causing her feet to be encased in a block of filth. The contact with the loose gravel sounds like bones being ground into dust. The night gown she wore was faded and torn At a new length you could see the ruffle that once edged the bottom was now missing. Almost shredded in places, it too was splattered in a hard dirt. Her hair was something straight out of a horror movie with its dark tendrils falling in disarray covering her face and filthy. She had twigs and leaves in it as if she had been attacked by a tree. She walked along like a Zombie slow and shuffling with no apparent purpose in mind. Rail thin she looked as if she hadn’t eaten in a year. Her right breast exposed to the elements. I could see her bones through the skin that was not covered in dirt. I paused for a moment not knowing what to do, yet something was oddly familiar here. I didn’t know if it was the way she carried herself or if it was just the same feeling I felt all those years ago, the knight in shining armor raising his head, but I felt as if I knew her. If that was possible, I hadn’t even seen her face and yet, the feeling of recognition overwhelming me. I stumbled toward her like a blind man, as she came closer and closer still.

She began to sway and I caught her in my arms just as she began to fall. She fell into my arms as if she belonged there and I could now hear that her breathing was labored. I could feel her wheezing through the paper thin gown.A painful shock went through me as she reached out a skeletal finger to caress my face. I moved her hair away from her face and her eyes shot open, exhilaration coursed through me as I saw those familiar emerald eyes gazing back at me. “Isabella”, I whispered. “How? What? Where did you come from? I have been looking for you for ten years”, I rushed out panic setting in. I could see now that her eyes were more of a jade green and blazing with fever. She was hot to the touch and I knew she needed a doctor now. She began to speak just above a whisper, inaudible sounds another language perhaps. I didn’t know. All I knew is that if she didn’t get help, she may very well die right here in my arms.Her whispers became louder until I could finally hear her. “Isabella, can you hear me what happened to you?” I asked again voice almost panicking. “I, I, ” she said in an exhausted tone. I rubbed her head and cleared my throat to an encouraging tone  It’s okay, you’re safe now I will take care of you” I whispered with more strength than I felt. “I, I came from the mist… she pointed my eyes followed in confusion afraid the mist was still there.I looked back at her but she had passed out. The words seemed to have taken the last out of her.

She came from the mist. What was that supposed to mean?  She must be more delirious than I thought. I buckled her in safely and shut the door and called Shelly as I jumped into the driver’s side and turned the key. The engine roared to life as I did a u-turn in the middle of the road and headed back to town and the hospital. She was still breathing but the heat radiating off of her was worrying me something awful. I barked orders into the phone to Shelly telling her to get a bed ready at the hospital for the missing girl and dropped the call as she began to bombard me with questions. As I hit the road to the hospital I looked over to see that Isabella was awake again and staring at me and scared speechless.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you I am taking you to the hospital now!” I said in my most soothing tone. Ever the detective I began asking questions again. Terrified she may die before I could finally get some answers. “I told you I came from the mist”, she said with such annoyance in her voice I was momentarily speechless. “The, mist?” I said looking at her as if she had in fact, lost her mind. She rolled her eyes and said, “Yes, the red mist. It is a portal to another world. I was kidnapped, ten years ago and taken to this place by the king. I was only able to escape because I fucking killed him!” She said the last with a venom in her tone so strong I was visibly shaken. “I,I am sorry for what happened to you,” I whispered. Not knowing how to proceed as she was clearly insane. “What is your name,” she whispered still eyeing me cautiously. “I am Nick Sullivan. I have been looking for you for ten long years,” I whispered back. “Well, you didn’t do a very good job,” she said shooting daggers at me. “Besides, it is not your fault. You would have never found me. The red mist swallowed me whole.” she said so matter of factly that Nick got chills. They pulled up to the hospital without a word. I ushered her in and got her situated. I couldn’t believe she had shown up here after ten years. She was here back in the town where her trail had gone cold so long ago. She was getting checked out by a psychiatrist too, clearly, she had been through something awful and yet, I felt as if she really thought she was telling the truth. I could sense it on my tongue. Maybe she had had some kind of a break with reality. Either way, I  knew the case had just been reopened, and Nick Sullivan detective was back in business. Mystic Red was about to get its very first case.






My friends and I are slowly making our way through the throng of people in one of the many tiny corridors at the house party. With such dim lighting,  it feels as if I have traveled back in time to the days of mascarade balls and corsets, save for the red solo cup in my hand filled with Vodka.

We make our way throughout the house searching each and every room for that room. That room that everyone winds up in. The magical room of what I don’t know, but for the first time in my life I am part of the cool crowd and I am just going with the flow. Somehow we wind up outside almost at a loss as to where in the hell this “room’ is, if it even exists at all.

It is dark and has begun to rain yet the contrasting street lights make it much brighter outside than it was just moments go in the old Victorian with its secret passageways and haunted past. The modern cars lining the street are out of place in front of the home as it sits there shrouded in darkness beckoning me to discover its secrets.

Then out of nowhere, I see a light shining from underneath a hidden door around the side of the house. Must be some sort of eighteenth-century maids service entrance. As I get closer my reality begins to shift and I can faintly make out the lilting sultry sounds of a piano. I gather up what friends I had left that hadn’t gotten lost in the maze of the house and I show them the door. Someone produces a light from their cell phone and we all inspect the door closer. It is just a door. A weathered beaten down door that looks even older than the house if that is possible. Not even painted, the ugly brown wood seems to be warped in places and the only evidence that it has even been used is the single bolt lock on the outside. Now turned to bronze I am assuming from the same weather that has taken the doors youth. Nothing special this door, but the sounds coming from the other side is literally music to my ears.

I touch the door tentatively and it shows me just how old it is because pieces of it begin to disintegrate right before my eyes. What’s left of the door simply opens with one final creek before it hits the wall inside and splinters into a thousand tiny little pieces. I look at my friends and plaster on a bravery I know I don’t feel I step over the threshold and into the darkened room.

As if a thousand candles were lit suddenly there is light, even though it is still dim, dimmer in fact than when we were in the front part of the house I feel a chill wash over me. The room smells of tobacco and gin. Heavily laden with clouds of smoke and a perfume I didn’t know still existed. As I move through the room I know somehow “we are not in Kansas anymore Dorothy” I think to myself. I see thick crimson brocade drapes hanging on the walls from a time forgotten covering the walls. French furniture with rich and vibrant colors all appearing as if they belong in a museum. Leather couches the size of my car.  Crystal decanters filled with Port so fragrant you could almost smell the grapes from which they derived. It was beautiful in all its history.

Yet that is not what had me gaping in mock horror. It was the bodies. The bodies lying, sitting, and standing everywhere. Writhing on top of one another moaning in…exstasy!  There were countless men and women all in what I can only discern was period costume. Groups of them scattered about the room making love with an abandon so wild and free I was almost jealous of their obvious lust. Buxom plus sized women with their breasts hanging out. Nipples engorged from their suitor’s playful slap, fondle and suckle. The men all looked like maitre d’s  with their tux pressed just so, now wrinkled from their vigorous activities. Thier handlebar mustache’s slick with sweat and covered in toxic red rouge. I can smell the tonic they used as an after shave. Mingled in with the other scents in the room. The thrashing and screaming in pure unadulterated lust was almost overwhelming.

Their teeth clinking together like wine glasses as they kiss. Devouring one another mouths with a sickening pop, as they come up for air. I try to wrap my head around the scene playing out before me. I almost feel like a voyeur watching as the merriment continues without a hitch. As if I hadn’t just intruded in this live time capsule. The laughter rises to an unforgiving decibel as I watch. These women from a different time their hair now falling out of their makeshift buns. The tendrils that have escaped now curling in the wet heat of the room. Their rouge-stained lips now smeared, and in most cases, completely gone. Their cheeks now a rosy pink from being taken to the heights of passion. I spot the piano and notice for the first time the man is playing Beethoven’s fifth! Oh wait, is that actually Beethoven himself!

I can feel the passion in the room and I begin to sway to the hypnotic rhythm with a heated desire. I want to join in but I know somewhere in the back of my mind. I don’t belong here. I am too afraid to show my passion. I am not brave like these women. To let it all hang out so to speak and dive into the deep end, and this, this is the deep end. I look around the dark sultry room filled with the smell of sex and power and I know deep down inside if they notice me. I am in trouble. Then as if they read my mind one by one each head turned toward me and my friends. The intruders. A gleam in their eyes as if to say come, sit, join.

The music has stopped and I begin to back away. As if someone switched on a heavenly lightbulb the room is flooded with a blinding white light. I can see the look on their faces. Now contorted and almost, evil. They start to rise and as they reach out to me I can sense they are grasping for my soul. The room now stinks of foulness and stale alcohol. I can feel the drain on my body as I head for the door. I am in the den of iniquity and I know there will be a price to pay. I can feel their malicious intentions. I can feel their acid dripping off of me. A wickedness I have never known before. A bony finger rakes my arm and I scream a silent scream at the pain, that is the moment my alarm chose to cut through the dream and I shot out of bed with a “Thank God it was only a dream!”


My husband asked me last night to write about the life of an Ironworker. I laughed and shrugged him off because I know nothing about being an Ironworker. Yet, later when I thought about it, it dawned on me that the only thing I really know how to write is about pain. Correction the only thing I am passionate about writing is my past pains. I mean I am capable of writing other things but that is not my milieu. I love to write and I guess that is my true passion but when I write it tends to be of the darkest nature. The struggles of the past meet the serenity of my present.

I know he was just throwing ideas out there, as he is in fact, an Ironworker. Yet, it stuck in my head like a rat gnawing on my brain. Yeah, I could write about the life of an Ironworker I have lived with one long enough to know about it and yet my mind instantly laughed it off as not tragic enough to write about. I mean what does he have to do. Get hurt on the job, oh wait he’s done that, or how about have to have surgery because of the wear and tear the job has done to his body, oh wait he’s done that too. He is a story unto himself and yet I balked at the idea because there wasn’t enough horror in it.What is wrong with me?

My writing seems to shine the most when there is talk, of abuse or neglect or just plain old psychological warfare going on.Maybe it is just a simple case of write what you know and trust me I know from which I speak. Yet is this all there will ever seem to be about me. The writer that can only write about the horrors of her past. Am I nothing more than a painful ball of more pain and sadness?  I was so busy trying not to fit into any genre, did I really just fall into one anyway? Maybe only time will tell, but for now, STEPHEN KING better look out there is another twisted writer in our midst.


Yesterday I watched a movie where the “prodigal” son came home after being kicked out of the house by his father six years earlier. He was a good boy with a rotten father who had never told the son he loved him. In fact at one point earlier in the movie when the son asked him if he liked him. The father stated that by law he was not required to like him. By law, he had to clothe, feed, and house the boy but that was it. He didn’t have to like his son, legally he was just his responsibility. Now the father could have thrown him a bone and at least told him he loved him. That is what I was hoping for as I waited with bated breath, except it never happened. He left it at that and you could actually see the devastation on the boys face at this revelation.

Being that the father had never been shown love by his own father. It boggled my mind that he wasn’t more sensitive to his own child. That he didn’t show him every single day that his son was worthy of his love. It hit me hard as I too have the same kind of relationship with my mother.

When the son returns six years later it was for his father’s funeral. He had joined the Navy and had actually made something of himself, unlike his father. At first, he refused to go due to his history with his father. Then his mother said something that actually shook me to my core.She began to cry and tell him that not going to his father’s funeral was unacceptable. She said she knew he and his father had not got along in the past but HIS DAD LOVED HIM THE ONLY WAY HE KNEW HOW. I was so stunned that I was speechless.

It got me thinking about my relationship with my mother. We no longer speak and in her mind, she has never done anything to me. I cut her out of my life for my own sanity. I was forced to cut ties because of our past. However, I pose this question to all my readers. Did I do the right thing? Is it better to have cut ties with someone that clearly can show no love or do I try to continue a relationship because she may love me but she only shows it in the only way she knows how?

Am I getting softer here that I may be now changing my thinking or was I correct in cutting out the bad apple from my bushel before it ruined me too?  I am confused because I whole-heartedly believe that if she wanted to change she could. I am a prime example that you don’t have to be like your parents. I made the concentrated effort to change. I lavish my kids with love and light. I try daily to show them I love them as well as tell them. So the question remains Was I right? Or is there some wiggle room to this movie revelation?

In the end, the son agreed to go to the funeral. I don’t want to be that person. That person that doesn’t see their parent until they are burying them and yet, I can’t help but think she deserves what she gets. She created the world where neither of her children speak, to her. Maybe this movie revelation was my heart’s way of saying it has healed enough that I can even contemplate forgiveness, but the stubbornness I inherited from my mother still prevents me from picking up the phone. What do you think?



The day was like all the others. I woke up to the sun blazing through my windows and the singing birds my alarm clock. I stagger half-asleep to the bathroom to relieve myself. Then stumble down the stairs toward the kitchen for some much-needed coffee. I hit the bottom step and a surge of excitement washes through me as the scent of my preset coffee hits me letting me know it is ready. I pour myself a leisurely cup and snag the paper from the back door before sitting down to enjoy that first intoxicating sip.

I take an extra long sip clearing the dreamy cobwebs from my head enjoying the moment before I delve into my morning paper and just relax for the moment.  Finally, I pull the rubber band off the paper and flip it open to see the headlines.There in bold black print is yet another gruesome murder that has taken place in my once quite town. The death toll has gone up significantly in my little town and I begin to wonder if it is worth buying a paper anymore as it is ruining my coffee high.

I unfold the paper all the way and see with a startling sort of nausea that the local paper has decided to post a grizzly photo of the victim as well. How tacky is that, no one wants to see this kind of gruesomeness first thing in the morning. Then a chill sweeps up my spine and I swear if I hadn’t been sitting down I would have fallen down. My eyes fixate on the familiar hazel eyes of the victim.

Upon closer inspection, I see the victim is ME! Unease creeps through me asI look around half expecting someone to jump out of the corner with a machete or to scream gotcha! I race to the phone on the wall spilling my sweet coffee in the process and immediately begin to call the paper obviously this was some kind of mistake. I’m not dead! I’m sitting drinking coffee in my home how in the hell am I at the same time bludgeoned to death on the front page of the morning gazette? The phone rings and rings no one picks up and I slam it back into the receiver and head for the stairs mind whirling. If they won’t answer the phone I will just show up there blowing their front page news to smithereens!

I quickly dress, lock the door and head for the car. Unlocking it as I go. I jump in rev the engine and take off like a shot as the last remnants of sleep fade completely. I get to the office in record time and as I go through the glass doors I see myself reflected there. I had forgotten to comb my hair, or even put on matching shoes. I looked a mess they will probably think I am a psychopath.

I don’t care I trudge on looking for the editor of the paper ignoring the odd looks from everyone around me. I round the corner and there he is. The editor of this so-called paper just talking to a couple of colleagues in the hallway as if he hadn’t just printed my death scene across the front page of his paper. “Excuse me, Clint, I need to talk to you. Now!” I say. He looks up with a smile which instantly fades the recognition seeping into his face. “Bu. but you’re dead!” he stammers. I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of that statement and see he has gone paper white. As if he has seen a ghost.

I roll my eyes and explain with a hint of annoyance in my voice “I am standing here in front of you Clint. I am in fact not a ghost! This is what we need to talk about. Why am I on the front page brutally murdered when I am clearly not dead!”  I cross my arms over my chest and begin tapping my foot impatiently waiting for an answer. “I. I’m sorry Kate I don’t know how this happened. I am confused though because I. I saw your body myself at the morgue early this morning!”

A new wave of shock courses through me as the warning bells in my head begin to clang together. “Well clearly that is not me in the morgue now is it!” I state with such a false bravado that even I am impressed with myself. “Why don’t we head down there together and see this me that’s not me!” I rush out before he can speak again.

I grab him by the arm and haul him down the stairs and out to my car. I can hear him mumbling incoherently until he finally gave up and whispers “Uh. Okay!” We race to the morgue without a word and head into the place where so many dead have been brought. I am so full of anger and confusion I once again do not notice the mortician or anyone else as I am steered toward a steel box in the wall. I hear them talking but it is just white noise as the number two looms in front of me and that box gets closer and closer. It is opened and the bag the body is encased in slowly unzips everything slows down I feel as if I am in a tub of molasses while the bag is pulled back and the face revealed.

I hear nothing but the beat of my own heart and a dizziness overtakes me as I stare down at my own familiar face. She was, is me! A cold lifeless version of me “What the hell is this? Is this some kind of joke?” I scream as inky black dots begin to appear before my eyes and the dizziness becomes a full blown tornado in my head. I begin to fall back and the last thing before everything went dark was Clint racing to catch me before my head hit the cold concrete.

I came too, to the sound of voices arguing and the coldness of the damp room seeped into my bones.It is a creepy feeling waking up in a morgue, but at least I woke up. Clint notices me rousing and comes to my side. “Are, are you alright Kate.” He says.” Yeah, I guess it was just a shock to my system seeing myself dead and all.” “Well, you have been out for a few hours and while you were out the ME ran some tests your blood against the victims. It is the same which means only one thing. Kate, you have a twin an identical twin to be exact.” “I look at him as if he has lost his mind and yet, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Kate was adopted from birth and new nothing about her birth parents. She had never bothered to track them down because her parents had been so wonderful.

The mortician came over and said.” Well, I guess this explains the letter we found.” “What letter?” I whisper as he hands me a manila envelope with the word Kate scrawled across the front. I tear it open and find that this is in fact, my long lost twin. She had written a letter to me explaining that she had recently found out she had a twin and came to town to find me. The second she arrived a man began to follow her and harass her. He was creepy and would call her Kate. “Kate if anything happens to me just know I think I was murdered by that man and he was not after me he was after You!”

The word you was not in caps but in Kate’s mind the word seemed to enlarge on the page. This crazy psycho murderer was after her and had killed her twin her unknown twin by accident. This was crazy! “He got the wrong twin!” she shouted as she jumped up from her chair and headed out the door. “Where are you going now!” Clint shouted clearly exasperated. “I am headed to the police station. I just figured out how to catch this son of a bitch! I am going to use myself as bait!” A slow malicious smile invaded her face. This was gonna work. She would catch her sister’s killer and in the process find out who the hell wanted her dead…


I have been reading the very first series of books that I have read after seeing the movie. It has been an arduous journey as I kept loosing interest because some of which I thought I already knew what was going to happen. However, when it did surprise me and change I was elated. Keeping the audience on their toes is the goal here, right?

Yet, I read things in this series that just cannot be conveyed on the big screen. It takes the written word to feel that surprising sunset streaked with hues of blue, purple and pink. It takes the written word to feel that monster’s sadness at the thought of being killed by the town’s people carrying pitchforks up the hill to his doom. At least for me, it takes more than to see it on the screen, the book makes me feel it as well. Knowing what a true sunset is, is to not only see it but to feel the heat of its last rays as it sets over the causing the sea to be as liquid fire for just a breath before darkness inevitably takes over.

I don’t know if I have become more mature as a writer, or I just pay more attention to the words on the page because I am a writer but I just wanted to share some of the things that stuck out to me that made this series so wonderful. Let me know if you figure out what series I am talking about in the comment section.

A chill scraped up her spine

“Sometimes the marks can give you screaming nightmares. If you get them when your to young”

Lupine gaze. Teeth dripping scarlet

feel its hot breath on the backs of her bare legs

Her teeth burst out of her gums and rattled to the floor like spilled chicklets.

White buds plied the water their sails drifting by like dandelion clocks tossed on the wind.

The sky was licked with the last tongues of a fading fire. The water had turned to iron.

The sky outside was the color of charcoal half sunk into ruby ashes

The sun was burning down beyond the horizon now flooding the sky were blood and roses turning the edge of the river to liquid gold.Softening the ugliness of the urban waste all around them.

Thickly leaved branches breathed out cool green-scented air.

“It smells like springtime”, she thought before the heat comes and crushes the leaves into a pulp and withers the petals off the flowers.

That is all I have for now but reading these parts gave me goosebumps as I could actually feel, smell, and see what this writer was talking about. These are the lines between the action that kept me interest in this series. I just wanted to share it with all of you.




I dreamed that dream again last night! It always begins the same and yet, each time it’s different. Is it, in fact, the same dream? It smells, tastes, and feels like the same dream. Just when I think the past is forgotten this dream creeps in reminding me it’s not. I know by now having dreamt this particular dream once every two to three years for the past twenty-plus years it is in fact, the same dream. The same feelings of hurt and regret fill me to the brim and every time it begins with me standing at that damned door above the bar we used to frequent. It fills me with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

The head scratcher is, I can’t remember a time in reality that we ever went to this place. I don’t know if it is a place I have actually been to or is it something my dream filled mind has made up? Either way, it is where this familiar dream ALWAYS begins. I haven’t seen this man in over twenty years he could be dead for all I know and yet, it always puzzles me that I know with a certain certainty that he lives just on the other side of that door.

I have dreamed this dream so many times that I immediately know it is the beginning of the same damned dream and I think to myself “here we go again!” As I climb those worn haggard steps preparing to knock on that ugly red door above the now condemned bar. It amazes me the complete decaying of those stairs with the white paint peeling off of them and the crimson door in the same disarray.The suspense of seeing what awaits me on the other side of that door terrifies me.

However, I am not the same person I was over twenty years ago and so the fear is overridden by the sense that no matter how afraid I am to go there, I must face it. I face it with a bravery that even now shocks me. I am stronger than the last time we met. It is a bitter pill I must swallow but my curious nature gets the best of me. By the time the emotions ripping through me subside I want, no need to know what is on the other side of that door. Did I mention this is only about the first five seconds of my dream?

I don’t even knock which is weird but  I feel a sense of entitlement with our rocky history that encourages me to just open the door, and usually there he is as if he had been waiting for me the whole time. Looking exactly the same as he did the day I threatened to call the cops if he didn’t vacate my life a lifetime ago. Most of the time I am chasing him through the streets of Boston trying to kill him as a sense of satisfaction that he has gone nowhere in life makes me giggle. He is alone and the same bitter man he was so long ago.

His tiny one bedroom apartment looking like a slop house from a real world episode I am pleased that his life has not gone anywhere and he seems to be miserable. I always find the courage in this dream to say the things I never said, be the bigger person Hah! I finally after twenty years get to say and do exactly what I want in regards to this man, this creature, my demon! I am a literary genius in this dream I spout words I can’t even pronounce in my waking hours and some of them I have had to look up just to find out what they mean! All terrible! Is it bad that after I wake I am overwhelmed with a sense of elation and satisfaction?

Yet, this dream was different after the door was opened instead of seeing the bane of my existence I see an old friend lying on the couch sleeping among the filth. she rises and immediately recognizes me. She whispers my name and has a look on her face as if she was just caught with her hand in my cookie jar. She tells me that they are a couple and have been so for some time and as he quietly emerges from the bedroom, of course, still looking as he did all those years ago I am filled with confusion and shock.

Again, I blame the dream as these two have never met in real life, in fact, they live in completely different states and I met them in completely different times in my life. Yet here they are together in my dream the bane of my existence and my once BFF turned bitch! Looking as happy as any two people have the right to be. I reserve my emotions and show nothing but indifference at this new information and as the dream changes I get a glimpse into the life they now share together.

I see her teaching yoga in a studio while he does the books and brings out tea for everyone. WHAT THE HELL! They are happy and smiling and beckoning me to join them in their little world. That is when the emotional dam I had kept in check releases and a white hot rage pours through me. How dare they be happy! How dare he go on and find a life and a woman that changed him!  Changed the monster I couldn’t tame. As if the torture he put me through, the abuse, the neglect, the rejection of our child doesn’t matter! And her with her smiling bouncing attitude try to befriend me again when she almost destroyed the life I had built for myself after the fallout from that horrible relationship with him just a few short years before, knowing full well what I had been through! She still had the audacity to call me friend!

Before the homicidal tendencies that usually come up surface a fog rolls in and the dream begins to lift. I awake with a blinding anger that hopefully will not carry me through the day. I am still shaking my head over how happy they were! I don’t think anyone that has cut you to the bone should ever find happiness, they should be alone and miserable a punishment of sorts for what they’ve done. Maybe that is just the bitter pill talking from having gone through that damned door once again.Why should these two find such contentment all but forgetting what they’ve done to me! I guess happiness does find a way! I know I did!

Yet, I recognize that I must finally be letting go of those past pains because I  didn’t immediately try to kill either of them. Maybe that is why I have been dreaming a different version of the same dream for so long. My subconscious has been trying to free me of these particular demons through my dreams. Sometimes I hate my dreams. I dream in color. Loud obnoxious colors. Vast arrays of color that can cut you with a knife or simply nick you and watch you bleed. The emotions I feel, I feel all of them even after waking! Maybe it is just a dream filled reminder that no matter how the past got me here I am now happy with the life I live.  Maybe now I can finally lay this dream to rest. Thanks for letting me purge it…