Works in Progress

Stories in the final stages of being written, to be put out to the market soon:


‘Not Yet Dark’

When his four-year-old daughter is brutally slain before him, a father goes to extreme lengths for vengeance.

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     When I found my daughter in the still-smoking rubble, her left leg was missing. Nothing but shredded ribbons of bloodied flesh and a shattered stump of bone remained.
Agonized screams pierced the air all around me, but I barely heard them. Dust and smoke stole the air from my lungs, but I hardly noticed. All my attention was on her; nothing else mattered. I lifted her with care, brushed her silky black hair behind an ear, and kissed her forehead.
“You’re fine, it’s going to be okay,” I lied, trying my best to smile.


‘Waves’

When Pearl Harbor was bombed, Marcia lost her father. She spent the next four years trying to honor his memory.

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She heard the booms before she crested the hill and witnessed hell in paradise – the harbor was burning. The great battleships were aflame; holes ripped in their sides, like gaping wounds of giant sea beasts after a long, bloody battle. Black columns of smoke pierced the sky. Sailors scrambled around the docks, like frenzied ants whose hill has been kicked. Distant cries of anguish and anger swirled together and washed up the hill.
Her hope receded as the certainty of Jack’s death seeped into her heart. Her knees buckled and she collapsed in a sobbing heap.


‘The Californian’

A bomb scare at LAX during her layover unexpectedly puts Cecile in an overnight stay at the run-down The Californian hotel. Unfortunately, her room is already occupied…

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A soft thud from the bathroom banished all thoughts from her head. She was on her feet almost immediately, ears straining. A nearly inaudible hiss of something sliding along the bathroom floor raised goose bumps on her arms and hairs on the back of her neck. Her bladder threatened to release the pressure that had been building since the flight.
Cecile grabbed a lamp from the bedside table and crept to the bathroom door. Her wobbly knees threatened to buckle. She pressed her lips tight to smother the chattering of her teeth. As she was almost upon it, she heard the shower curtain being pulled open. Her insides filled with ice water, and she yelped in fright before she could stop herself.


‘Phil’

Melissa Brown’s struggling Beauty Salon has a change of fortune once a fate-changing rhododendron is given to her by a mysterious man.

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     “I’m sorry, you sell philodendrons? I don’t see any plants here except that.” she said, pointing behind him to a small bamboo plant that shared a folding table with a waving cat figurine, an open box of cigarettes, and a single business card.
     The elderly man shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Bamboo not for sale. ‘Dendron for sale, fifty dollar. I deliver to you. Very special deal for you today. Very special ‘dendron. It what you need.” he winked.


‘Letters’

An antique file cabinet purchased from an estate sale contains a series of letters detailing a tragic WWII-era love story.

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I’ve written you more times than I can count, every letter crumpled and tossed in the general direction of the wastebasket in the corner. There’s no point in sending them when they all boil down to “I’m sorry, I miss you.” If reading those words gouged holes in your heart anywhere near as deep as the wounds writing them ripped into mine, sending these letters would be just another selfish act on my part. I think you’ve had enough of those.

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