Last Rites in Beckham County by Stuart R. West

     Country living can be peculiar; dying is worse...

*** 

     The summer afternoon had been a bright one, hotter than a three-alarm fire. Hardly a proper send-off for Mrs. Sauers, town witch and killer of cats. At least those were the stories around these parts. And around these parts, the stories grew taller than well-tended stalks of corn, gossip fattening the tales until they were good and plump and ripe enough to scare.

     Pa made sure I didn’t buy into such nonsense. It was hard enough growing up in a funeral home without all the campfire tales burning a path into my nightmares.

     But the day Harry (“Harry’s Hearses: Going out in Style”) rolled Mrs. Sauers in through the back door proved to be anything but ordinary. The cluster of cats gathered at the back door should’ve been enough to tip me off. They mewed and hummed the way cats do, rubbin’ up against one another, their tails swattin’ at the flies that had gathered.

     A feline clowder of mourners; or maybe well-wishers.

     From my upstairs bedroom window, I watched. Pa’s red scalp peeked through the long spider legs of hair he combed over, fooling absolutely no one except maybe himself. He conferred with Harry, grown-up talk with down-turned faces. Harry helped usher Mrs. Sauers down through the cellar steps into Pa’s work area. An area Pa only let me visit if invited. Not that it was a nifty place to hang out, mind you (although I’ve had more than several passing acquaintances—around here, my friends don’t tend to last—beg me to take them down there), but sometimes I got the feeling Pa kept secrets from me. Even though as a man of mountain-tall pride, he claimed he was an open book, as honest as ol’ stovetop Abe.

     But Mrs. Sauers held a special fascination for me. In life, she was a peculiar person; death only cast more mystery upon her. The legacy she’d left behind had been built on stories most people only reckoned to be true. But true or not, the tales were enough to keep me out of her pasture, off her front porch at Halloween, and dodging her at the general store.

     Suzette (a rightly beast of a different kind, expensive braces hiding her fangs) swears to the fact that one night, while bicycling by Mrs. Sauers’ house, she saw the body of Tommy Talipin swinging from the ol’ elm tree in the front yard. Most folks say Tommy—a handsome teen of a movie star fashion, but troubled by wander-lust—just took off, tired of the country way. I might’ve believed it, too, if Tommy’s folks hadn’t done got Sherriff Landry involved, sniffing out the less-travelled woods. I can’t imagine a soul just up and leavin’ one night without letting his folks know his whereabouts.

     Other stories meandered on at great lengths about her practice of witchcraft, the details muddier than a country road after a rain. Take, for instance, the tale about ol’ Sy Norton. Everyone knew Sy liked to tip at the bottle, no secret there. But rumor had it he made the mistake of sayin’ some mighty disparaging words about Mrs. Sauers down at his favorite tipping hole. Once word got back to Mrs. Sauers (and ‘round here, word travels faster than electricity), ol’ Sy found his foot rotting away, the end shriveled up like a sun-baked walnut. Course, Pa brought me up to believe in science, explained Sy’s leg away with an educated diagnosis. It sounded good to me, science being much more preferable than witchcraft.

     It was hard to know what to believe.

     But the stories that remained constant about Mrs. Sauers, the ones that rarely changed, all had to do with the cats. Now, a missing cat in the country isn’t an unusual occurrence. Like Tommy, cats are prone to wander, following lust of a different sort. And in Beckham County, cats are mighty plentiful. You can’t swing a, well, a cat without hitting another. But story has it, every time Mrs. Sauers fancied dropping a spell on somebody, she’d sacrifice a cat to her god, who I assure you was a far cry from my God.

     Guess what I’m sayin’ is even Job himself would surely have his patience tested by having Beckham County’s biggest mystery lying flat on her back in his basement.

     So, that night, after Pa’d tucked himself in with a nightcap, I stole downstairs, quiet as a whisper. Two flights down and I entered Pa’s workshop. The cold air struck me first. Pa never said it, but I imagined he kept it that way to preserve the mortal remains for as long as possible. I flipped on the light switch, hoping to chase away a chill of a different sort.

     Clak, chak, chak…

     Like dominoes of lightning, the overhead fluorescents clacked on, one after the other, painting the room in a moon-glow of white.

     For what I imagined to be one of the messiest jobs in Beckham County, Pa always kept his work space cleaner than fresh laundry. His tools were lined up, biggest to smallest, orderly like soldiers, on his cart: all manners of scalpels, something he called a trocar, various ointments and disinfectants (both for him and his projects). Several tubes snaked from the great chugging, grey beast of an embalming machine. The sink, longer than the tallest fella Pa’d ever buried by a foot, remained sparkling, good-as-new looking. On my few visits down there, I’d never seen nary a drop of blood.

     But the body beneath the blue blanket drew me, surely as a magnet attracted metal shavings. Mrs. Sauers’ brillo-pad grey hair stuck out, wiry and mean. Her toes peeked out the bottom, tiny blue veins wrapping around them and exploding into corns the size of thumbs.

     I didn’t know what I expected to see but was pretty dang sure what I didn’t want to see. Sometimes you don’t get what you want.

     Slowly, I tugged the blanket down. Her eyes stood open, milky and nobody home. Peculiar. Pa always closed the project’s eyes first thing. He said he did it out of respect for the deceased. But after seeing Mrs. Sauers’ open eyes, I suspect he did it to keep the dead from watching him.

     I wanted to stop, I really did. But I’d come this far, and if nothing else, I wanted to prove to the nay-saying voice in my head that I could do it, wasn’t a chicken at all.

     The blanket rode the ridge of Mrs. Sauers’ nose, a crooked blue snow jump, until her nose popped out. Little tiny hairs drooped from her nostrils. And I swear what I saw next was only a trick of the bad blinking overhead light. One hair pulled inside a nostril, blew out again.

     That’s what I thought I saw, at least. That’s what I didn’t want to believe I saw. My brain told me to run, go crawl into bed. But my feet didn’t listen, holding to the old adage, “In for a dime, in for a dollar.”

     As I pulled the blanket down below her chin, my hand shook worse than ol’ Sy’s three day tremors. I withdrew my hand fast as a jackrabbit, afraid of things that might bite.

     Her mouth opened. Not an involuntary movement caused by gas either, the way Pa explained sometimes happened. She gasped. No, that wasn’t quite right. More like a hissing radiator.

     Shhhhhhhssssssss…

     Spit gathered at the corner of her mouth like condensation. It ran down her pale chin in teary streaks.

     I slapped my hand over my mouth and turned tail outta’ there, forcing my legs to cooperate.

Behind me, the gurney rattled. A rustling of cloth. I didn’t want to look, but…

     Now, she was sitting up. Head turned at a sharp, unnatural angle. Chin cocked. Looking at me. The milk had siphoned out of her eyes, now fully clear. And full of anger.

     “I…didn’t do this.” That was all I said. All my addled brain could muster, a weak apology so I could stay out of Hell, for surely that’s where she intended on sending me.

     Varicose veined legs swung over the side. Meaty toes dangled above the linoleum. I was doomed, damned for messing with things beyond my ken. Had I not been so terrified, I would’ve dropped to my knees right then and there, and prayed loud enough to wake even the snooziest of angels.

     My heart jumped. Something scattered across the room. Soft pitter pats of hesitant rain. No, not rain. A golden cat, walking toward Mrs. Sauers, white paws prancing about like horseshoes. Striding toward her, more determined than Mr. Jones and his prized pig at the fair.

     Mrs. Sauers framed an ugly oval with her mouth and hissed between gaudy red lips, part feline herself. The cat took no heed. Jumped right on top of her, claws digging into the blanket. Mrs. Sauers gasped again, then lay back down where she belonged. The cat strolled up to her face, lowered its head, a strange mouth to mouth resuscitation ritual. Only it had the opposite effect. Mrs. Sauers’ eyes closed. Her chest rose once more, dropped and stayed that way.

     The cat looked at me. Licked its chops like it’d just eaten the plumpest mouse in the county.

     As soon as the cat hopped down, I bolted like lightning out of there. Straight up to my room. Blankets over my head. I don’t recall (as you may well imagine, there were quite a few other things to recall) sleeping, either.

     I never told Pa what happened that night down in the cellar. Not only did I not want to get punished, but I reckon I wasn’t rightly sure what did happen.

     It’s hard enough being young, deliberating between science and religion, navigating the rough and turbulent waters of school, without having something new introduced. Something no one could explain, something horrible.

     They say that life in the country is different, I reckon so is death.

***

 Here I am, talking about myself, pretending not to. Ah, I'm probably not fooling anyone, but play along anyway, 'kay? Just imagine Morgan Freeman narrating and we'll all get through this just fine.

For more of Stuart R. West's adult and young adult suspense tales filled with light heart and dark humor, check out his Amazon page.

And please do check out Stuart's blog featuring weekly rants, failed stand-up comedy routines and incisive author interviews: Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley

Brand spankin' new and creeptacular trailer for Ghosts of Gannaway:

Tales from the Field: Haley’s Unbelievable Save by Katie L. Carroll

In matters of life and death, it’s hard to believe that sports matter.

“Haley, pay attention!” Megan, the team captain, shouts. The sound echoes in the small utility room the Central High women’s soccer team uses for our meetings. “It’s important you know where to be when we’re defending a corner kick.”

I try to—really I do—but the X’s and O’s blur on the whiteboard as unshed tears hang in the corner of my eyes. The thought comes, the one I’ve had over and over since my mom died last winter: Why do I bother playing? Sports seem so…unimportant, trivial, pointless. Shouldn’t I be doing something more worthwhile with my precious time on Earth?

When I told my dad I was considering not going out for soccer this year, my senior year, he gave me the old “That’s not what your mother would have wanted” speech. So I tried out and made varsity again.

For the most part, I manage to put aside my ambivalence and give my all during the games, but practices and meetings are tougher. At least no one’s complained about my performance, and I’m leading the team in assists, so there’s that. But that’s just it: I don’t really care if we win or lose.

It’s my commitment to the team that’s gotten me through the season so far…and my dad. He shows up for every game, cheering and smiling from the sidelines. It’s one of the only times I see him smile.

I heave a sigh and rest my head on my hand. Megan’s pre-game strategy session drags on, her voice and the tick of the clock not enough to keep thoughts of my mother at bay. How I would visit her in the hospital when she was in for chemotherapy, reading to her until she fell asleep. The silence in the room when the doctor said the cancer was terminal and recommended stopping treatment. The feel of her limp hand in mine when she took her last breaths. At least she was home with me and my father when she died, like she had wanted.

I look around and no one else seems to notice how warm the room has become. Brooke and Sadie both sit upright, raptly paying attention to Megan. Denise picks her nails and exchanges a look of boredom with Mac, both of them probably figuring they can get away with not paying attention because they’re seniors.

And I’m remembering my mom, not the pink hue of her cheeks when she would come back in from her early morning runs. Nope, all I can picture is the sallow, sunken look of her face right before she died. My chest tightens and it’s hard to breathe, like my insides are filling with molten lead. It’s like this at school, too. I can’t focus in class and my grades have slipped, but the teachers are all cutting me some slack, given my “situation.”

The meeting ends and we head to the locker rooms to change into our uniforms. As I lace up my cleats, I try to force the heaviness from my chest. Pretty soon the noise of the game will drown out my sorrow and I’ll be able to focus on playing.

Once warm-ups are done, I take my place at center midfield and wait for the whistle to blow. I catch my dad’s eye and wave. A wide grin spreads across his face and he waves at me with one hand. His other holds a mini school flag, which is red with a white bulldog on it.

“Go dogs!” he shouts. I can’t help but smile back. His enthusiasm is catching and helps me focus on the game.

The tough match demands all of my attention. The bliss of being lost in the moment overtakes me. We’re locked up 0-0 at half, neither team able to put one into the net. The second half is just as brutal as the first.

Megan is a tornado on the field, screaming directions to the team and doing some of the best defending of her life. Olivia, the goalie, makes a spectacular save to keep the game scoreless. By the 85^th minutes, my body is heavy, but not because of grief; it’s simply the fatigue of a hard fought game.

One of the opposing team’s forwards bends a nasty shot toward Olivia, who just manages to swat it away. The ball bounces off Denise on defense and out of bounds. It’s a corner kick for the other team.

Megan screams, “Remember your positions!”

My heart drops as I think about the strategy session…and my mom. I try to push those thoughts away, but my vision blurs. The aching heaviness of mourning compounds the fatigue of playing. I have no idea where I’m supposed to be, so I stand next to a random opponent and hope the ball doesn’t come my way.

The ball thumps across the field from the corner and soars into the box in front of the goal. I can barely see it though my tears. The player I’m supposed to be covering is several feet away, and I’m dumbly standing on the goal line. She volleys it right for the net. Olivia is too far right to make the save.

Of its own accord, my body dives feet first to the left. I have no recollection of doing it myself, like someone else has taken over my faculties. The ball hits my shin and bounces away before being cleared by Megan.

The referee blows three long toots on the whistle, signaling the end of the game. My teammates crowd around me, while I remain on the ground, stunned over what has just happened. They help me stand and despite the fatigue, a lightness has taken over my body.

Megan squeals in delight, “We’re still undefeated!” Mac, Denise, and Olivia surround me. Brooke pats me on the back and says, “Nice save, Haley.”

I glance into the stands. My dad is hugging the other parents. Then he’s bounding down the stairs and onto the field. He rushes over and wraps me in a hug.

“I think mom was watching,” he whispers into my ear. “She would be so proud.”

I nod into his shoulder and burst into tears. I don’t stay it to my dad, but I think my mom was more than watching. As unbelievable as sounds, I think she helped me make that save.

I watch my dad cheer and celebrate with my teammates and realize that although sports may not cure cancer or stop wars, they are healing in their own way. Like a good book or movie, they let us forget our troubles for a little while and revel in the moment. I guess my mom wanted to remind me of that.

For the first time in a long time, I consider the idea of playing in college…as long as it doesn’t interfere with my studies to become a doctor.

***

Want more from the young women on the Central High School varsity team? Check out these other Tales from the Field: "Captain Megan", "Addison in Love?", and "Lucky Brooke".

Katie L. Carroll is a mother, writer, editor, and soccer player. She began writing at a very sad time in her life after her 16-year-old sister, Kylene, unexpectedly passed away. Since then writing has taken her to many wonderful places, real and imagined. She wrote her YA fantasy ELIXIR BOUND so Kylene could live on in the pages of a book. Katie is also the author of the picture app THE BEDTIME KNIGHT and a contributor to THE GREAT CT CAPER, a serialized mystery for young readers. She lives not too far from the beach in a small Connecticut city with her husband and sons. For more about Katie, visit her website at www.katielcarroll.com.

Vegetables Are Bad For You by Stuart R. West

Kyle will never forgive his parents for telling him vegetables are good for you. They lied.

* * *

Eleven years old, Kyle considered himself too mature to believe in ghosts or any of that silly supernatural nonsense. Just the stuff of spooky movies, nothing more. But regardless of his age, he couldn’t deny the sounds he heard coming from the cellar. Actually, more like felt the noise as weird as that seemed. High-pitched humming echoed in his mind, circling round and round in his skull’s cavern.     

Drawing him down the steps. 

He couldn’t decipher what the voices were saying, not really. Just sort of a sad song, a desire, a longing for companionship. 

Something Kyle missed as well.

With his parents still at work, Kyle had no reason not to investigate. They weren’t here to tell him to stay out of the cellar. Not that that would stop him. In fact, every adventurous kid worth his salt usually took such orders as a challenge. 

His family hadn’t lived in the old house for too long. One day, out of the blue, Kyle’s dad had come up with a stupid idea about country living. Cleaner air, better values, living off the land, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Kyle’d been against the move, recognized it for nonsense. But his voice never carried any weight in family decisions, the curse of being eleven. So when they packed up, Kyle had no choice but to man up and say goodbye to his friends. The friends he thought he’d have forever. But when you’re a kid, things change. And you’re powerless to do anything about it. 

The steep and narrow stairs slanted, dirt-covered piano keys groaning out percussive notes with each footstep. Kyle’d been in the cellar before, not his first rodeo. But earlier when he’d gone down with his mother, he shamefully snatched onto her apron the entire time. For good reason. Shadows danced and swooped, threatening to snatch him up and whisk him away to a dark world. Rusty and sharp-looking tools lined up along a stone wall, a Grim Reaper’s one-stop shop.  Bottles flanked another wall, sitting on shelves and lined up perfectly like at attention soldiers. In the bottles, bulky yellow globs swam in even murkier water. Kyle’s mom warned him not to come down here alone. At the time, he’d silently agreed, thankful for his mother’s wisdom. Even though it seemed embarrassing now.

But he had to know about the sounds. The noise drew him down like metal shavings attracted to an unseen, but definitely heard, magnet. Simply, he had no choice. Just like so much of his life.

The light bulb at the bottom of the stairs provided very little coverage, a small oval of light. Once he pulled the string, the bulb swayed. So did everything else. Shadows darted to even blacker places. Eyes and grins seemed to form in the jars’ gelatinous masses. The light continued swinging, a pendulum chop-chop-chopping light across the dirt-covered floor. Like a metronome, it counted out the beats of Kyle’s hammering heart.

And the strange humming intensified. One voice, two voices, a disembodied chorus singing in Kyle’s ears.

At the foot of the stairs, Kyle grasped the flashlight his mother had placed there on their last visit. Flicking it on, he swiveled the beam, familiarizing himself with the creepy cellar, a far cry from their refinished basement in the Kansas City house. Green strips of algae—or something else entirely—painted the stone walls. Spider webs hung like forgotten cotton candy. Leaves crunched beneath Kyle’s feet as he shuffled across the dirt floor. With no windows or doors in the cellar, how in the world had the leaves gained entrance? A chill roller-coastered down his spine. But he couldn’t turn back now, no way. That’s not how a man would act.

A mummy of a bookshelf leaned against a back corner, the bottom warped and aging into dust. And Kyle knew—absolutely so—the sound came from behind it. After tucking the flashlight beneath his arm, he planted his feet solidly and yanked the bookshelf. He watched as it toppled backward. When it landed in the dirt, a cloud of dust rose. So did a rotten scent, so strong Kyle’s eyes watered. Bent over, he coughed until the fumes passed. Then he aimed the light toward the uncovered corner.

Glistening stalks of varying sizes grew out of the dirt, not unlike the asparagus Kyle loathed. Except these were slug-colored, pink, white and grotesque. Black rings circled small nubs, almost limbs. Kyle rubbed his eyes, swung the flashlight away, then looked again. No illusion, the stalks moved, actually moved! They twisted and bent as if uprooting unseen legs from the ground. As Kyle dropped to his knees for a closer examination, warning sirens bellowed in his head. Some of the strange growths attempted to dodge the flashlight’s beam, but the dirt cemented them firmly. Little holes opened at the top of each stalk, mouths silently gasping for air. Whispering. Small hairs (teeth?) waved out with each puff of breath. 

Kyle yelped when the flashlight landed on the tallest stalk. A smaller stalk branched out of it, an eyeball dangling at the end. Milky and wide-eyed and horrible. The branch extended, rigid as if held up by a hidden string, a gross one-eyed mannequin. It darted toward Kyle, snapping at him.

Kyle fell back in the dirt. He scrabbled back, leaving a trail of dust behind as if his sneakers had caught fire.

Suddenly the sounds in his head clarified. Voices from somewhere else. Comforting and warm, almost hypnotic.

Yet, even though the voices made Kyle feel as if he were lounging in front of a cozy fireplace, the messages were anything but soothing.

Something needs to be done.

The older people are not your friends.

They’re holding you back.

They must die.

“No!” Kyle locked his eyes shut. He slapped his temples, hoping to stop the voices, the awful messages, praying to awake from this nightmare. Daring a peek, though, confirmed his worst fear. He wasn’t dreaming. The stalks continued to stir, shifting in unison like a mass wave at a sporting event.

Kyle…

Listen…

Cut them, make them bleed.

A blade across their throats.

The old people have to die.

How easy it would have been to give in. Kyle relaxed, propping up on his elbows. Warmth filled him, sunshine on an August day. He floated in an invisible raft, bouncing and bobbing on tranquil waters, nature taking him where it may. When he breathed, the cellar’s rank odor had vanished. Now the smell of flowers and cinnamon and freshly cut grass in the summer and everything fine and wonderful he’d associated with growing up filled his nose, his thoughts.

That’s good, Kyle.

Don’t fight us.

Let us take over.

Destroy the older ones.

But as Kyle basked in golden memories—everything good about his childhood zipping by in a hurried slide-show—one image burned stronger than the others. His parents. 

Clearly, these creatures—aliens, monsters, mutants?—wanted him to kill his parents. His parents who sometimes sucked and made him move and leave his friends behind and punish him and…

The parents he loves.

With a small battle-cry, Kyle climbed to his feet. “Not gonna’ listen!” Holding one hand over an ear (even though the sounds came from within), he shot the flashlight around the cellar. Shadows played hide-and-seek, zipping up the walls like bats skittering away in a cave. Then he found something. A fairly ancient looking gas can, rusted and crumbling at the top.

What are you doing, Kyle?

Stop.

Listen to us.

We wouldn’t lie.

“Shut up. Just…shut up.” The can weighed heavy in Kyle’s hand. Giving it a good shake, liquid sloshed up, spilling out a hole at the top. Orange and brown rust flakes coated his hand. The pungent aroma of gasoline swept all other smells away. Using a heave-ho motion, he spilled the gas onto the stalks. “Eat it.”

No.

Don’t do this.

You’re killing us.

Killing us….killing….

The hellish stalks wilted, then sprang up like air dancers at a car dealer, their lives contingent upon the wind’s whim. Kyle tossed another round, giving the eyeball stalk an extra dose. The voices died down to a hiss, air deflating from balloons. The stalks shriveled and collapsed on themselves, their dried husks curling up into nothing but small kernels. And the voices stopped.

Kyle dropped the can, wiped the sweat from his forehead. And listened. Nothing. Just the plinks and tinks of rafters wheezing under the weight of the house. One last touch, Kyle buried the hideous garden beneath the bookshelf, a gravestone of sorts.

He clapped dirt from his hands, a job well done. Then raced up the stairs like the devil himself had pitched a fork in his bottom.

At the top of the stairway, he slammed the door shut. Leaning against it—keeping monsters at bay—he thought about the new role forced upon him, a very responsible, adult role. Caretaker, gardener, year round de-weeding.

* * *

Here I am, talking about myself, pretending not to. Ah, I'm probably not fooling anyone, but play along anyway, 'kay? Just imagine James Earl Jones narrating and we'll all get through this just fine.

For more of Stuart R. West's adult and young adult suspense tales filled with light heart and dark humor, check out his Amazon page.

And please do check out Stuart's blog featuring weekly rants, failed stand-up comedy routines and incisive author interviews: Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley

Spotlight on Young Adult Author, Crystal Collier

Today we're spending a little extra time getting to know Lightning Quick Reads author, Crystal Collier.

First let’s take a gander at Crystal’s bio:

Crystal Collier is a young adult author who pens dark fantasy, historical, and romance hybrids. She can be found practicing her brother-induced ninja skills while teaching children or madly typing about fantastic and impossible creatures. She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home with her creative husband, three (soon to be four) littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese.

LQR: Thanks for joining us today! What else can you tell our readers about you?

Crystal: The first girl after 4 boys, I was always a bit of a tomboy. (I still blush while reading romance.) Ask me about real ninja techniques, and I’ll give you an ear-full. Want to go spelunking? Scuba-diving? Backpacking? I may as well be an honorary boy scout. But I veered away from my brothers through the arts: sketch art/cartooning, vocal performance, orchestral composition, vocal coaching, choir directing, acting, teaching, authoring books and reading avidly. My first love has always been telling stories—in any medium.

LQR: If you had to pick only one moment that spurred you to write professionally, what moment is the most inciting?

Crystal: While living in NYC, I queried a single agent. Just one, and GOT A REQUEST!

LQR: Sheesh – how awesome is that?! Now tell us, does the majority of your work focus around or within a single theme?

Crystal: We live in an age of entitlement and a growing self-interest. My themes typically revolve around self-sacrifice (based on love, plutonic or romantic) and thinking of others first—a huge part of coming of age if you ask me.

LQR: Tell us about your newest release.

Jane Eyre meets Supernatural.

Alexia’s world consisted of waiting for Father to bargain her off as some nobleman’s wife, until her nightmares became reality. Now people who can heal with a touch, kill with a scream, and rob a person of their memories are her everyday companions and friends: the Passionate.

But the Soulless—red-eyed wraiths that feed on her kind—are hunting her. Only the man she loves stands in their way, until he is robbed of the power to protect her. If Alexia can’t master her own gifts, she will doom not only herself, but all of the Passionate.

The Soulless are coming.

(MOONLESS released October 2013, and the sequel, SOULLESS, released October 2014.)

LQR: What is one of your favorite authorial moments from your career so far?

Crystal: When I got cornered and asked point blank when the next book is coming out, or when a fan stopped me and raved about her favorite scenes. It’s amazing to share the stories in my head, and mind-blowing to have readers excited to see the conclusion. Readers rock!

LQR: Share with us a five year and ten year goal for your writing career.

Crystal: I have about thirty stories screaming to see the light of day (simultaneously, so you know it’s noisy in my head), and I hope to see at least half of those out in the world within the next ten years.

LQR: Do you write what you read? Watch? What are your favorite television shows and movies?

Crystal: I’ve dabbled in so many genres... If I’ve read it, I’ve probably tried writing it. Favorite movies: Princess Bride and Serenity. Favorite TV shows: Falling Skies, Firefly, Supernatural, Burn Notice, and the Matt Smith years of Doctor Who. 

LQR: If you had one week away from any and all responsibility what would you want to spend your time doing?

Crystal: Reading. Writing. Playing with my hubby and kids. Enjoying nature—beach or mountains. And singing my guts out for absolutely no one.

LQR: Anything else you’d like to add?

Crystal: I completely ADORE flash fiction and am stoked to have a reason to write/share it once a month!

LQR: Where can readers find you online?

Blog | Twitter | Goodreads | Facebook