Share an excerpt that includes a vehicle or other means of transportation.

The Reaper's Curse

Slater approached the passenger side of the car, a twelve pack of beer tucked under his arm.

Louis looked at him from behind the glass. The reflection from one of the store’s windows was stamped across his face in a blurry neon advertisement. His forehead wrinkled beneath it. “What?”

Slater huffed and rolled his eyes. “Get out.”

The passenger door opened with a groan and Louis unfolded himself from the passenger seat. A trace of annoyance lined his handsome features. “What?” he asked again.

“I want to get into the car.”

“For what? You can’t drive from the passenger seat.”

“No shit.” Slater opened the cardboard box and pulled out a beer. He fumbled with it until it popped open with a hiss. He tipped his head back and drank it until it was gone. It tasted like piss, but pissy beer was better than no beer at all. He dragged his sleeve across his mouth and dropped the empty can. It clattered to the pavement and rolled beneath the car. “I’m not driving,” he clarified, “you are.”

Louis jerked back like he’d been struck. “Like hell!”

“You are.”

“Why? Why do I have to drive? You know I’ve only ever driven a bicycle.”

“Don’t you think it’s time to learn?”

Louis looked like he’d rather step on a rusty nail barefoot. “I think that out of all of the messes we’ve made, the stupidest reason to get sent to the big house is because I’ve never driven a car before and I don’t have a license.”

“You’ll be fine,” Slater assured him. “There’s not a cop around here for miles. I’ll talk you through it. Just calm down and get behind the wheel.”

Louis took off his stupid hat and combed his fingers through his hair. It was getting too long, the ends curling where they fell onto his forehead, almost like it had been the first time they’d met. He eyed the car dubiously. “I don’t know.”

Slater set the case of beer on the car’s sun-faded roof and turned to him. “You said you trusted me. Do you really?”

Louis looked back at him with certainty. It managed to feel comforting and daunting simultaneously. “You know I do.”

The corner of Slater’s mouth turned up. He cracked open another beer without looking away. “Good. Have a cigarette, settle your nerves, and get in the car.” He took a swig and sank into the passenger seat.

Louis did what he was told. He smoked half a cigarette, tossed what was left to his feet, and slid behind the wheel. He rubbed his hands together, as if warding off the cold. “If we get killed, I’m blaming you.”

Slater looked around the gas station parking lot. It shared a parking lot with a restaurant that was closed for the night. “Look, there’s nobody over here except for you, me, and that truck parked at the back of the lot.” He pointed to a semi sitting at the space at the end of the lot. “And if you go out of your way to hit it, I’m going to hit you."

“I won’t hit it, but you have to tell me what to do.”

Slater fished another beer from the box between his feet. He leaned toward the gearshift. “Okay, there are three pedals on the floor. They’re the gas, brake, and clutch. Push down on the clutch.”

Louis leaned back in the seat to look at the pedals between his feet. “Which one is that?”

“The one furthest to your left.”

He pressed it to the floor.

Slater moved the gear shift up and to the left. “First gear. To go to second pull it straight back. Up, to the right, and up is third. Straight back is fourth. Up, right, and up, is fifth. One is the slowest, fifth is the fastest. When the car gets loud, you hold the clutch, let off the gas, and shift. Got it?”

Louis stared at the gearshift, mouth parted in mild horror. He, apparently, did not get it.

“Louie?”

He looked at Slater like he’d asked him to rob a bank with a marshmallow shooter.

Slater sighed and dropped his beer in the cupholder. “Put your hand on the shifter.”

He did.

Slater rested his hand over Louis’s. It was warm. He could feel every knobby joint in his fine-boned fingers. It would be easy to get lost in tracing their shape. He wanted to memorize the ridges in his knuckles or feel the smoothness of his fingernails beneath his fingertips.

He realized Louis was watching him, waiting for further instruction.

Slater cleared his throat. “First,” he murmured, moving the shifter into position.

Louis didn’t look at the gearshift. He was too busy watching Slater.

Slater ignored the way that the dark made his eyes look darker. They were the same rich shade of green as oak leaves in the summer. It made the beer sit warmly in his stomach. “Second. Third.”

“Fourth,” Louis said, voice soft as he let Slater’s hand guide him into place.

Slater looked up from their hands.

Louis wasn’t looking at him anymore. He guided the shifter into place and stated, “Fifth.” He looked up and met Slater’s gaze.

Slater took advantage of the time to stare right back.

Louis swallowed and cleared his throat. He put the car back in neutral. “What now?”

“Hold in the clutch and the brake. Turn the key.”

The beater hummed to life.

Slater coached him through how to get the car to move forward. They made it a dozen feet before it gave two glorious bucks and lurched to a stop.

Louis didn’t take his hand from the wheel, they were frozen at ten and two. His fingers were wrapped around it with enough force to press coal into diamonds. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“It’s a standard,” Slater said. “Everyone stalls out at least once. Try again.”

He did. He stalled again.

And again.

By the fourth try they had managed to make one lap around the lot.

Slater grinned. “See, Louie, I knew you could do it. You’ll get us to New York in no time. Pull onto the road.”

Share an excerpt that includes a semicolon or em-dash.

Oh, Hell — Israfil

I’ll make amends another time.

The night has cooled rapidly. The woods are silent save for the patter of dewdrops falling from the canopy of leaves above my head. Each time one falls it sounds like a thunderous step. It never fails to amaze me how the smallest things can seem significant somehow.

I don’t want to be out in the middle of the woods. It’s a full moon, the forest is full of werewolves, and the possibility of whatever is going to happen tonight occuring while I’m alone in the middle of nowhere. I would rather be in my dorm reading for an upcoming Math exam, but I feel like I’m being pulled to the woods.

Whatever is leading me here is telling me to look, listen, wait, and watch.

Something is happening, something big, and I don’t know what it is.

There’s a rustle of leaves followed by dainty footsteps coming from behind me. They’re as staccato and cautious as a doe picking her way through the forest.

I reach behind my head and pull my sword from its sheath. I hold it up, prepared to fight whatever comes at me. It’s been a long time since I’ve stood shoulder-to-shoulder with my brothers in Heaven, learning how to fight, but that grip feels natural in my hand.

“Don’t!” The plea sounds like the creak of a tree swaying in the wind. The wood nymph throws up her arm to stop me. It’s grey-brown, as rough as oak bark, and dotted with patches of lichen.

I lower my sword, breath leaving me in a startled exhale that can be seen in the cool night air. “Oh, Father, you scared me! Are you okay?”

“Yes.” She comes closer. The moonlight filtering through the canopy shines on her face. She looks more tree than human, close to where her roots are. Her face doesn’t look like it’s carved into the tree, it’s more like the tree has grown oddly where her face is. There are two indents for her eyes, a knot for a nose, a crease of bark for her mouth and chin. Yet, the further she gets from her tree, the more human she appears.

I frown. Nymphs and fae are territorial, but I haven’t harmed their home. “Can I help you?”

“No.” She looks almost like a woman now, more flesh than bark. “I can help you.”

“You can?”

She nods, the leaves that make up her hair rustle at the motion. “I know all about you, angel.”

I eye her with caution. I don’t like it when strangers know me. It makes me uneasy. It makes me feel as though Michal will appear at any given moment and strike me down with his flaming sword.

“I can help you.”

“Help me?” I echo.

“We know why you’re out here.”

My fingers tighten around the grip of my sword. The leather creaks softly beneath my palm. “How?”

She leans close. She smells of wet bark and the crisp start of autumn. Her voice is a crinkle of leaves. “We talk. All we have to do is tell our secrets to our sisters — the trees —and they pass the message to us. You feel it, don’t you? Right,” she prods my chest, “here. You can taste it in the air.”

“What do you know?”

“Ah-ah,” she chides with a snicker. She steps behind me and trails her fingers across my back. They pause over the place where one of my wing scars is.

I tense, waiting for her to press down. It still hurts.

“A girl never gives up information for free.”

“What do you want?”

“A secret for a secret. I heard your wings are as black as coal. Will you show me?”

“Forget it,” I snap. I resheath my sword and start to traipse through the woods. I don’t know where I’m going, but I hope that if I follow my gut it’ll point me in the right direction.

She catches up to me with ease. “Do you smell it?”

I stop and smell the air. Earth, damp leaves, and moss. “No.”

“Are you sure.”

No, I’m not sure. What am I missing? I take another deep breath. Wet dirt, an animal carcass decaying somewhere, a possibility of rain in the atmosphere, and ….

Her green lips pull back into a smile, teeth as silvery and pale as birch bark.

“Sulfur.”

She nods. A leaf falls from her hair to her feet. “The others will say you know what that means.”

It could mean a lot of things, but the most sinister of them all is something I refuse to acknowledge. Not here, not in Wakefield. “I have to go.”

Share an excerpt that includes the words "light" or "shadow."

Oh, Hell — Tabbi

Upon hearing Nyssa’s voice my heart does an excited skip in my chest. I almost smash my thumb in the drawer. I look up and hope she didn’t notice my embarrassing fumble.

If had, she doesn’t show it. She looking at a crystal charm hanging in the window. The early evening sunlight shimmers off it. It casts a pastel rainbow across her cheekbone. Her brown hair gleams in the light. In that moment, she looks like she could be something else.

I try to commit the scene to memory. I want to draw it. To smear pastels or watercolors on paper to try to capture the moment, but I know nothing I do will ever capture the beauty in front of me. I also don’t want to get caught staring like a creep. My mind scrambles for something witty to say, but what comes out is, “That’s ten dollars.”

Nyssa turns to me and her smile widens. “Thanks. I saw it on the tag.”

I ignore the embarrassment that makes me want to disappear. “Are you looking for something special?”

She comes up to the counter and leans on it. She’s wearing a lilac and navy striped t-shirt that has a little smear of yellow paint by the collar. “Maybe.

I have a brief moment of panic, but remind myself that I am a confident and cute lesbian. I can’t tell if Nyssa likes me the way I like her, but the only way to figure it out is by flirting a little bit. Do I have a good track record at being flirtatious? Absolutely not. If I can drop a line without it sounding like word vomit I might be successful. “Well,” I gesture to myself, “looks like you found it.”

Nyssa laughs. It sounds the way dandelion seeds blow in the wind on a golden afternoon, timeless, light, transcendental. I want to bottle it in a jar so I can listen to it over and over. “I did.” She tucks a dark strand of hair behind her ear and looks up at me through her dark lashes. “I’m not disappointed by any means.”

An excited thrill shoots through my body from belly-button to chest. I had flirted with her and she flirted back. “I’m glad you found what you were looking for,” I tease.

“I did.” She shoves off the counter and turns toward the display of nick-nacks at the far side of the room. She turns over her shoulder to look at me. “I heard that you sell rocks here?”

I find myself trailing after her. “Rocks?”

“Well, okay, they aren’t just rocks. Crystals?”

I’m not sure if I want to be offended or if I think her take on crystals is funny. A wide variety of crystals are used for magic. There’s pretty much a stone for everything and anything. If you want extra money pyrite and citrine are perfect. If you need a little self love boost rose quartz or malachite is exactly what you need. Then again, I can’t really be upset with her for calling them “rocks”. I use my bookshelf to display my crystals and often refer to it as my “rock collection”.

Nyssa grins at me. “Do you sell crystals here?”

“Yeah, we do.” I lead her to a smaller room off to the side. It ho/lds all of the metaphysical and witchy items Aunt Maggie sells. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“Nothing in particular. I’m just curious.”

"is this too cliche?" who cares? bro, write what you have fun writing. stuff your manuscript full of your favourite tropes. the same themes you love. all inspired by things you grew up with. do it all. go off. load. it. up. be freeeee

btw. by the way. By The Way. BY THE WAY. if you gleefully boop you can also gleefully reblog edits. you can gleefully support content creators. you can gleefully leave compliments in the tags. i know you are all capable of pressing buttons now!!!!!!!!!!!!! REBLOG.

April Fool's! Instead of sharing an excerpt, share a meme or incorrect quote related to your WIP, OCs, or published work 😘

I KNEW I was holding onto these for a reason!

I probably put way too much thought into it but I do enjoy making a more in depth story rather than winging it. I like to actually think about the worldbuilding, make sure things actually connect and make sense. I am a big history nerd and I feel like it's the closest I can get to writing my own history.

Share an excerpt that includes an exclamation point!

Oh, Hell — Israfil

“Come out, you bastard. I know you can hear me.” 

I wait. Nothing

“I need to talk to you. Come up here.” My words echo down, down, down.

Still nothing. 

I give an exasperated sigh and kick a rock into the hole. I watch it tumble down until it vanishes in the blackness. I don’t ever hear it hit the bottom. “L—” 

I sense the demon an instant before he speaks. I whip around to see him. He looks like an elderly man with impeccable posture, stuffed in a finely tailored suit. He holds up the rock I kicked into the pit. It’s the size of a cantaloupe. “You dropped this?” 

I see through his old man facade. It’s merely an illusion. I can see the fire and brimstone shining in his eyes, the hulking smoke and ash being with horns made of bone, beneath it. I hold a hand up between us, palm facing him. I don’t know if I’ll have the energy to smite two demons less than twenty-four hours apart, but I’ll do what I have to in order to survive. “Where is —” 

“He says he’s not coming up here.” Maalik gives the rock in his hand a look and then tosses it over his shoulder. “He sent me to tell you that if you wish to speak with him, you must go to him directly.” 

My stomach drops. “I’m not going down there.” 

Maalik gives a dismissive shrug and heads toward the edge of the pit. “It must not be very important. You know where to find him.” With that he casually steps off the edge and disappears. 

I fold my arms and stare down the pit. I need answers. I can't go back to Magdalena with only partial answers. I don’t want to go into Hell, but I know I have to. With an annoyed sigh, I spread my wings and jump off the edge. 

When I land at the bottom, Maalik is waiting for me. He’s in his true form as Hell’s gatekeeper. He’s big, twice as tall as my mortal body. He’s not human shaped. Instead, he resembles the minotaurs in Greek mythology. He’s got a double-headed axe that’s blacker than the darkest shadows hefted over one shoulder. “I’m surprised you showed up. You’re not the bravest of the angels.” 

I give him an annoyed look. “And you’re not the smartest of demons, but it’s unkind to point out one’s flaws.” 

“Gentleman,” a female demon interrupts. She looks human, save for the needle-sharp teeth in her smile and the emptiness in her eye sockets. “Let’s pretend to be civil. Mr. Jones, you can follow me.” 

It’s been a millennia since I’ve been in Hell. The last time I’d been through, it had been with a platoon of my brethren in a minor dispute between Heaven and Hell. It had been what many modern depictions of Hell look like: fire, brimstone, chains, and cells. It looks nothing like that now. 

I stop at the entrance to the room. I turn around to look down the rocky tunnel we’d come through, but it’s gone. Behind me is a golden marble wall with no windows and heavy golden vault doors in the middle. Ahead of me is a massive casino floor. Marble pillars go up, up, up, and fade out of sight. Demons in suits deal cards at crowded tables, mortal souls play the slot machines, and take turns at massive roulette wheels. 

“Are you coming, Mr. Jones?” The demon asks. 

“Yeah, sorry.” 

We wade through a crowd standing at a table. A woman in a bloodstained dress lets out a despairing wail as the dealer hits her with another card. “Please, give me another chance!” She pleads. “I promise if you give me another chance I’ll do better!” 

“Sorry ma’am,” the dealer says. He doesn’t sound repentant. In fact, he seems like damning her is the best part of his day. “You knew the terms and conditions before we dealt the hand. You lost.” With a twitch of gloved fingers, he gestures to someone in the crowd. 

A bigger demon shoulders his way through and grabs the lady by the arms. 

“No!” She shrieks, trying to kick herself free as she’s dragged through the crowd, “Let me try again! Let me try again, please! I promise I’ll do better!” 

I watch as she disappears through the sea of souls crowding the casino floor. 

“Mr. Jones,” the demon says, turning around to look at me. Her forked tongue flicks impatiently. “The Boss is expecting you. He’ll be displeased if we keep him waiting.” 

I almost apologize again, but at the risk of sounding stupid, I don’t. I carefully maneuver around an intricately carved marble statue of a soul in anguish.“Right.” 

She leads me up a set of black iron stairs. The banister is serpent with golden scales and black embellishments. The jeweled eyes at the bottom of the stairs are ruby red, the fangs in its open mouth look dangerously sharp. I can’t deny that I’m impressed with the craftsmanship that it took to make it. 

At the top of the stairs, two suited demons stand guard at the door with their hands clasped loosely in front of them. 

“The angel Israfil is here to speak with The Boss,” my escort says. 

They stare at me for a long moment and then gesture for me to enter. 

I turn the diamond knob on the black door and step inside. All of the noise from the casino floor disappears instantly. It’s so quiet I become unsettled. 

There’s a large black leather wingback chair with its back to the door. It faces one of the walls of windows that look out over the casino floor. 

I hesitate to. I don’t know if my brother is going to beckon me forward or if I should approach him unprompted. 

I don’t have to wait long because the chair spins around. There’s a child lounging in it, legs over one arm of the chair, elbow propping his head up on the other. He doesn’t look to be any older than ten in mortal years. “How nice to see you again, little brother.” He gestures to the massive glass window in the adjacent wall. “Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” 

Many readers are writers and many writers are also readers. I’m no exception. With The Traveler’s Gift available for the rest of the world to read, I find myself often wondering, “How can I get people interested in a book about bisexual mobsters with superpowers?” 

I’ve had several books to hyperfixate on since 2018-2019 when the first draft of TTG came out and I drew inspiration from several authors, characters, stories, and themes to come up with something I could call my own. 

The All for the Game series by Nora Sakavic 

I love Neil and Andrew’s relationship and the way Sakavic doesn’t try to cover the trauma her characters go through.  

Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom by Leigh Bardguo 

Kaz Brekker is one of my favorite fictional characters of all time and the way he is a driving force in this duology is one of my biggest inspirations. Of course, I love Bardugo’s vivid descriptions and the world she’s created. 

The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater

Who doesn’t love a soft boy with a hard edge? Ronan Lynch is one of my favorite characters. We all know I’m weak for a Scorpio man, but aside from him, Stiefvater has a wonderful way of incorporating magic into the mundane. I can’t forget to mention her lyrical, but not overdone, prose. 

The Green Creek Series by TJ Klune

From the rampant LGBTQ+ representation, to the themes of found family, and magic with limits, everything about this series is perfect. I cannot wait to order a hardcover for my bookshelf! 

And the Villains series by V.E. Schwab

The funny part of this is I had never heard of Vicious or Vengeful until one of my beta readers sent it to me. She said, “Have you ever read Vicious by V.E. Schwab? Her writing style really reminds me of yours.” And obviously, I had to get my hands on these books. When I read them for the first time, the thought that somebody could compare my writing to these stories made me cry actual tears.

But that’s neither here, nor there. Vicious and Vengeful share the most similarities to The Traveler’s Gift than any other story in the list. It features characters with superpowers who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty for the sake of revenge. It’s dark, gritty, fast-paced, and I couldn’t put the series down until I finished. 

TLDR: 

If you like any of the books mentioned above, please check out The Traveler’s Gift on Amazon! It’s available in ebook and paperback! 

[ID: a video of The Spirit Well cover against a black marble background, with gold fountain and heart-shaped fireworks surrounding the cover. The text at the top reads "Happy Release Day!!" end ID.]

Happy Release Day to The Spirit Well!!

This one was a hard one to write- sequels are tough! But it’s out there now!! And I’m going to a release party later today, so expect photos to come!

(Sorry, no nice blurb or polished post because I’m on mobile and found this in my drafts. I’m doing great today.)

Daydreaming about my book:

Writing my book:

”oh so how did you get into writing?-“ no, writing got into me. Actually it infiltrated my brain, starting with the slow takeover of my room with books to the extremely fast claiming of my notes app and now there’s no way to stop it and no way for me to stop.