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Crawl into my brain… bring something sharp, there’s beasties about!

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HUNTING SEASON

When Sam invites Claire to join him for an illicit camping trip in a restricted area of the Appalachian foothills, she jumps at the chance to spend a weekend alone with him.   What begins as a peaceful autumn adventure quickly becomes a fight for survival.  An unexplainable horror creeps out of the darkness, threatening to swallow them both.   Claire learns that the past never really dies, and she must find a way to break free from her self imposed chains in order to save them.  

There are ancient things that live in the hidden, undiscovered places of the world. And sometimes they have teeth.

CURRENT PROJECTS

WELCOME!

Helloooo!!!!! Welcome, don’t mind the dust, we’ve been renovating! I’ve got coffee, or tea if you prefer. Have a seat, just brush off the dog hair and move the pile of laundry first.

Let’s talk about writing. Actually, let’s talk about READING first. Because every halfway decent writer is also a reader. I began my reading journey at the tender age of two, when I’d crawl into the toy box, discarding the bright toys and then climb in, surrounded by my books. I love a good story. Hell, sometimes I love a bad story. As long as I can SEE, I’ll be reading. Everyone in my life knows, if my nose is in a book, you might as well be talking to a wall. That’s part of why I love this image so much, you can just feel the annoyance radiating from her. How dare he interrupt the story with his silly man thoughts?! That’s how I read too. At the beach, in waiting rooms, in bed, even while cooking dinner sometimes.

There are books that clawed their way into my soul, becoming a part of my very essence. Number the Stars, Bridge to Terabithia, The Prince of Tides, Insomnia. I have read and reread these books countless times. THAT’S how I know a good story. When it creeps up on you when you’re least expecting it.

I remember a book I read when I was in middle school probably, about a school bus full of children, a bridge, and some hijackers. The thing that stands out to me in that story is not which characters survived, or even what happened at the climax. What did those hijackers want? No idea. No, what sticks in the dusty corners of my brain is this: it was REAL. I don’t mean it was a story based on reality, I mean there is a very minor scene in which the teenage girl who is driving the bus wets herself. The writer describes the feeling of how the fabric dried to her skin, uncomfortable and chafing, the unpleasant, intrinsically shameful smell. No one ever writes about that stuff. Well, I should say there are very few who do. And it struck me at the age of 13 or whatever I was, that THIS, this was real.

If you found your way here because you are family or friend, thank you so much for caring enough to check this out. I will leave you with this warning however:

My work is uncomfortable. The topics are gross, scary, weird, supernatural, whatever. If that’s not for you, I understand. If it is, I’m so glad you’re here.

I hope my shit is real. If you read any of my work, be it the short stories you can find here, or the novels as they release, I hope it claws into you. I hope you can smell the piss, and blood, and fear. I hope it’s REAL.