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Monday, October 5, 2015


This week we have a picture prompt and a limit of 300 words. Here's another installment in my new book, Unpredictable Love, co coming out soon.
Thanks for stopping by. Click the link below to return to the talented authors of Tuesday Tales.


Jory lifted her fork, ready to dig into her Aunt’s beef stew pie, but stopped short.
“I wonder what Trent gets to eat?”  She dug her fork into the savory food.
“Probably shit on a shingle,” Tiffany said, taking a forkful of the heart meal.
“Meaning?” Jory cocked an eyebrow.
“Crappy stuff. Yucky, smelly, disgusting.” Tiffany made a face and shivered.
“You don’t know. Can’t feed them garbage if they have to fight.”
Later that night, driven by curiosity, the older sister wrote to her military friend. In two weeks, she had a reply.

On base we get hot meals. Not like home, but okay.
Even fast food sometimes. In the field, we get MRE’s.
Meals, ready to eat. They’re pretty bad. Some parts,
like the bread and peanut butter and cookies are okay.
But the main course stuff is brutal. I got hungry
visualizing your aunt’s meat pie. Would you make one
for me when I get home?

“Aunt Nan,” Jory called from her attic room. They met up in the kitchen.
“Can you teach me how to make beef stew pie?”
When her aunt stared at her with narrowed eyes, the young woman explained.
“Sure. I can teach you. But when he returns stateside, how are you going to explain to him that you’re not Tiffany? Or rather, Tiffany isn’t you?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet. Maybe we’d better forget it. I mean, when he returns, this charade’ll be over, right? He probably won’t speak to me again, so I don’t need to learn.”
Nan grabbed her niece’s elbow and steered her back into the room.
“If it’s not this man you’ll be cooking for, there’ll be another.”
“I don’t think so. But what the heck.” Jory donned an apron.
“You give up too easy.”

Monday, September 28, 2015


Welcome! Tuesday Tales is back with the word prompt "glass" this week. We're back with Jory and "Unpredictable Love." Thank you so much for coming. Click on the link below to return to the fabulous writers of Tuesday Tales.

Jory was home first. She poured a vodka and tonic, added cubes and swirled the liquid to mix it, listening to the clink of  the ice against the glass. Her sister and her aunt were out living their lives. Both had dates. It was eight o’clock, Jory had just left the newspaper office. 
She stretched out on the sectional sofa and put her feet up. After a big swig, she plucked the skinny envelope out of her purse and eyed it with suspicion.  You’re still writing to me? Why? There must be a thousand women who’d write you sexier letters than mine.
She slipped her finger under the flap and tore it open. She extracted a thin piece of paper with scrawl on both sides. Another gulp of her drink gave her courage. She unfolded the paper.

                   Dear Jory,
     I shouldn’t be surprised to find there aren’t many birds here. Guess with all the shooting, they got scared away. But there’s one persistent one. I think he’s a hawk of some kind. Binocs here aren’t used for bird watching. You know what I mean. He’s not huge, but definitely a raptor. I watch him scan for rodents.
     Seems like we’re both doing the same thing. I don’t eat mine, though. I’ve seen him on and off for the past few days. I call him "Rocky”, cause he’s gotta swoop down pretty low to
see between the rocks sometimes. Anyway, he’s tough and Rocky is a tough name. I miss the birds at home. The little  finches. They’re tiny compared to Rocky and he’s not even big. But they are pretty. They come to my feeder and don’t mind if I watch them.
Wish I could be there with you on a stormy night. I’m not afraid of storms. Never have been. Here there’s too much else to scare the shit out of you. A little thunder would be a relief.
               Had a few other things in mind to do with you on a rainy night, but I’d better keep this clean. You know where my head’s at. Hope you don’t meet some normal guy who isn’t sleeping with a gun and naming birds.                   
               Please keep your letters coming. They give me hope.

          Jory put her drink down long enough to wipe her eyes. Then she chugged the rest, tucked his letter away, sliding it under a red ribbon. She pulled out fresh paper and pen. 

Monday, September 21, 2015


Welcome! The word prompt today is "grim". We're back with PREDICTABLE LOVE, an evolving story. Return to the glorious Tuesday Tales writers with the link below. Thank you for stopping by. 


   Archie Baldwin strolled by Jory’s desk at the newspaper and stopped. He leaned on the corner.
   “After that piece on the soldier, I suppose you don’t want to go out with tame old me anymore,” he said, making eye contact for a few seconds before lowering his gaze.
   “I’m simply writing him letters, Archie. I wouldn’t know him if I fell over him.” She turned her attention back to her computer and continued typing.
   “Does that mean you’ll go to the concert with me?”
She looked up, her lips compressed into a grim frown, and nodded.
Archie leaned over to whisper in her ear. “And spend the night?”
   “Nope,” she replied, turning her attention back to her work.
“What’s the point?” He face flushed. “I spend all this money on you and you won’t sleep with me.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“It’s the truth. I’m the one who should be ashamed, not you.”
“So it’s about money? Doesn’t that make me a hooker if I sleep with you?” She drew her gaze from the keyboard to meet his and cocked and eyebrow.
“You twist everything I say. Forget the concert. I’m done, Jory. I like you well enough, but this celibacy thing. It’s not for me.”
   Wounded by his words, she sat back. “Just out for sex, eh? Forget it, Archie. Goodbye.” She made a shooing gesture with her hand.
   “You don’t get it. Fine. We’re done.” He stormed off in a huff.
   Gladys in the advertising department peered over the smoky glass partition at Jory. A sharp glance from the journalist sent the nosy older woman back to her computer.
   Jory sat back and sighed. Thanks for breaking up Archie and me, Trent. Now I’ll have to spend every night alone. She pulled her pen from its perch, shoved into the bun on the top of her head. She gnawed on the end, then threw it on the desk.
   She chuckled to herself. “Actually a night spent with Archie is the same as being alone,” she mumbled.
   He walked by, stopped and retraced his steps. “I can’t fire you. Sexual harassment and all. Besides, you’re good. But watch your step.  You give me one good reason and you’re outta here.”
He sported a smug grin she’d never seen before as he headed for the front door.
   Can he fire me? Maybe. Screw him. Her brow furrowed as she returned to typing. 

Friday, September 18, 2015


Two winners have been drawn! Congratulations, Theresa Fischer and Amanda Siegrist!!
Welcome to the Bad Boy Blog Hop! I'm awarding a $10.00 Amazon Gift Card to 1 person, selected at random, who leaves their email address, and a comment. Here's my favorite bad boy -- Gunther Quill, the hero of Lovers & Liars.

Alone in the world, Erica Wheeler needed a job or face eviction. The aspiring actress harbored a lifelong dream of movie stardom. She knew she had the talent, all she needed was a chance. Her roommate, Amy, plotted revenge on her former boss, sexy, bad-boy producer, Gunther Quill, for firing her. Together she and Erica bent the truth like a pretzel to get her a job working for Quill. He surprised her. Was he the same meanie Amy described or was he simply a smart, ambitious man on his way to the top?

One thing Gunther Quill hated was a liar. Tough, seductive and brilliant, he prided himself on being truthful. With his sharp, new assistant, Erica Wheeler, he’d soon be the most powerful producer of musicals in Hollywood and on Broadway. Nothing could get in his way, except maybe, falling in love. 
Buy the book here:
Barnes & Noble

Tuesday, September 8, 2015


Welcome! Skipping the Tuesday Tales logo this week because it's picture prompt week. I'm continuing with Jory's story, Unpredictable Love. Don't forget to go back and read all the fabulous stories by the TT authors. Link is below.


At midnight, Jory sat cross-legged on her bed, holding her pen in her teeth. She looked out her window, pondering what to write to SSGT Trent Stevens. A storm was coming, clouds curled around the moon.
She gave a short laugh.
“A romantic setting and the closest thing to a man for me is at the other end of this paper.” She took a deep breath and let it out, taking the ballpoint in her right hand, then returning it to her mouth. Words didn’t come.
“Write about what you know. That’s what they say.”
Dear Trent,
I love scary storms. Spooky nights with clouds rolling in make me want to curl up with a bottle of wine, a fire and a good man. Am I crazy? What floats your boat?
What are the storms like in Afghanistan? I’m sorry if that’s a stupid question. I guess all storms are the same. I’m staring at the moon and
feeling sorry for myself that the only man here with me is you, on paper.
Sorry again! I’m a downer tonight. I hope you’re not down. But you
probably are. None of this is coming out right. Wish you were here
with me. Then you’d be safe and I wouldn’t be alone.
                                      Wishing you a safe journey,

I shouldn’t send this. But she signed it, folded it and put it in the pink envelope. She addressed it by heart, this being her seventh letter to Trent.

She slid between the sheets and turned on her side. Closing her eyes, she imagined what it would feel like if Trent was in the bed, right behind her.  He was much taller than her, making it hard to visualize. How can I imagine a man I’ve never met?