A Tiny And Colorful Literary Journal

October, 2017

Seven pieces by Vallie Lynn Watson

Starter Wife

I called her Dialtone. I felt no jealousy, nor guilt. Pity. And anger once, when she said she hated music though she’d married a drummer.

 

Fishnet Stockings

When he photographed me, I snuck one of him, promising deletion. I instead printed then hid it, deep in my lingerie drawer, visible through sheerness.

 

Using My Maiden Name

The bellhop addressed us as Mr. and Mrs., using my surname. From then on H. called me “Mrs.,” except in bed, where I was “Dr.”

 

Topless and Barefoot

Once in our room I removed all my clothes, then most of his. We didn’t dress for forty-eight hours, though he never removed his socks.

 

Two Hour Lunch

The last time I saw him I had the flu. He visited at noon, made breakfast in bed. We didn’t know we should say goodbye.

 

Broke by Noon

We crossed paths once, a few months later. I almost raised my hand as our cars passed, but then saw she was in the backseat.

 

No Room for the Blues

He circled the deflated hot air balloon, leaned down, rubbed the blue velvet-like material, and knew she’d be okay. He left the woods quietly, alone.

Vallie Lynn Watson‘s debut novel, A River So Long, was published by Luminis Books in 2012. Her Pushcart-nominated work appears in PANK, Frigg, Gargoyle, and other magazines. Watson received a PhD from the Center for Writers and teaches at UNC Wilmington.

 

Three pieces by Lori Cramer

Jaded

Spotting my ex at a ballgame, I’m catapulted into the past: youth, revelry, indiscretion. Older and wiser now, I hurry away before he can see.

 

Pearls of Wisdom

He’d claimed to be at a baseball game with his buddies, but she suspected infidelity. The proof came later: a receipt from a jewelry store.

 

Something Blue

When we met, your mood matched your uniform, blue as a Picasso, but by evening’s end I’d transformed it into a lighter and brighter hue.

 

Lori Cramer’s short prose has appeared in Blink-Ink, Boston Literary Magazine, 50-Word Stories, Ink In Thirds, andWhale Road Review, among others. https://loricramerfiction.wordpress.com. Twitter: @LCramer29.

 

Eight pieces by Annmarie Lockhart

closing night

I warned you.

But you preferred

benefits without

friendship.

He holds my hand,

brings me flowers.

It’s curtain time.

Take a bow.

Exit stage right.

 

At the Barre

Stretch away the hangovers

plié, relevé

trade fifths for eight counts

plié, relevé

forget why you wanted to forget

plié, relevé

pirouette, dizzy, but sober

 

bubbles only

lip-bruised blood blister

collarbone-grazing fingerprints

leftover from a new-moon night

fade before we remember

where we misplaced

the bouquet and the garter

 

Make the Cut

First, finger the margin,

find the edge, then slice,

clean, take some extra.

Leave nothing behind.

Stitch the incision.

Then the scar will guide you.

 

Find Me a Mannequin

I’m not asking for much:

dance partner     hot pocket     sous chef     yes man     open hand

good habit    strong jaw     teddy bear     gold locket     heart throb

 

Mooning

My skin turned green in the shade

of the blocked sun, invisible ink

spilled secrets, told the tale

of how much

I want

to

eat.

 

Skinny Dip

A minute before his head hit the rock

he told her he didn’t love her and

dove, deaf to her curses, streaking

the lake bloodshot.

 

Baguette Me Not

Bring me cream puffs, lobster tails,

cannoli. Spin me sugar that tastes like love.

Pull me passion fruit taffy. Frost my skin.

Or kiss me.

Annmarie Lockhart is the founding editor of vox poetica, an online literary salon dedicated to bringing poetry into the everyday, and Unbound Content, an independent press devoted to poetry. A lifelong resident of Englewood, NJ, she writes two miles east of the hospital where she was born. You can find her words at fine places in print and online.

 

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July, 2017

Precious Pink by Dave Harper

He waited, breath ragged, unblinking eyes, moaning. Sticky, pink froth bubbled from a chest wound.

Pistol cocked, Sanchez, always humane, administered the coup de grâce.

Dave’s hobbies are writing and watching paint dry. He’s uncertain which is more frustrating.

 

 

Nirvana by Arlene Antoinette

I curl my body around your lascivious words. Each
taking root in my womb like a growing infant,
waiting to be released by your kiss.

 

Arlene Antoinette is a novice writer who enjoys trying her hand at poetry and flash fiction. More of her work may be found at 50 Word Stories and Postcard Shorts.

 

 

Two pieces by Elizabeth Konkel

Fairytale Ivory

Hooves over sand, the gallant knight races toward a looming tower ahead. Armor and a sword is no match for a dragon’s breath of fire.

Cotton Candy

Chocolate shutters and licorice for tile. The gum drop hearth never melt from the fire. Cotton candy roof. A house of sweets beckons you close.

 

Elizabeth Konkel grew up on a farm, finding inspiration there for her writing and photography. She has written articles for Crixeo, Blasting News, and Am Reading. She’s inspired by myths, fairytales, and legends, weaving these tales into her writing.

 

Seven pieces by Len Kuntz

In Stitches

Her breasts lay in the trash somewhere.  He didn’t care.  It was her heart he wanted.  To prove it, he kissed each stitch with tenderness.

Skirting the Issue

The scratch marks resembled a polygraph test and she smelled of her lover again.  In bed she yawned, said, “Love you,” nodding off at once.

Play Date

After the divorce, their sex is better than ever.  The bedroom rumbles.  His Ex showers quickly, says, “I’m so glad we’re not in love anymore.”

Off the Wall

She said, “It’s me, not you.  Besides, we were too young.”  The last photograph you burn is a honeymoon shot, bride and groom on fire.

With the Band

They call her Penny Lane, take turns.  One throws up on a guitar, another breaks a snare.  She’s meat but she’s also their biggest fan.

Carnival

His dad is The Strong Man, shocking spectators with his might, having bills tossed his way.  At home, he sharpens his knuckles on each kid.

Sure Shot

The house sits empty now, so he fondles the pistol the way he once did his Ex, the searing bullet hot as her last kiss.

Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State and an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans.  His latest story collection AT THE DEEP END is forthcoming from Ravenna Press in June of 2018.  You can also find him at lenkuntz.blogspot.com

 

 

 

April, 2017

Two pieces by Madeline Mora-Summonte

 

Pillow Talk

 

Tonight, the voices slither, settle inside her with a sigh.

She shuffles from room to room, knife in hand.

Blood patters her feet like rain.

 

Pink Ponies Dancing

 

Lipstick. Glitter. Heels.

Jenna plays dress-up, giggles, twirls. Her dolls look on, approve.

Lipstick. Glitter. Heels.

Jenna plays dress-up, shimmies, strips. Men look on, approve.

Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer, a reader, a beach-comber, and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections The People We Used to Be and Garden of Lost Souls.

 

Five pieces by Suzanne Cottrell

 

 

Garden Variety 

Seeking self-reliance,

Laboring daily,

Battling aphids and Japanese beetles,

Watering to overcome drought conditions,

Nightly arthritic aches,

She hopes for a harvest of fresh vegetables

 

Guilty Pleasures 

Cosmetic surgery promising eternal beauty,

At what cost?

Exquisite black dress, garnet adorned neck

Romantic rendezvous,

Misunderstanding, spilled wine, hurt feelings,

Cursed necklace of Harmonia.

 

Under the Twilight  

 

Strolling hand in hand on Waikiki Beach

Crimson sunset, gentle sea breeze

Waves massaging our feet, footprints marking time

Wishing the night would never end

 

Minimalistic  

 

Cleaning, de-cluttering, organizing,

Never enough time or space.

Cinderella escapes taking only essentials.

Her new domain, four hundred square feet,

Enter at your own risk!

 

In Stitches  

Office breakroom gathering

Have you heard the one about—–?

Uproarious, gut wrenching, knee slapping,

Simultaneous chortles, coffee spewed all directions

Hey, tell it again!

 

 

 

Suzanne Cottrell lives in rural, Piedmont North Carolina.  An outdoor enthusiast and retired teacher, she now has time to pursue other interests and projects.  She is a fledgling writer, working to spread her wings and ride the thermals. She particularly enjoys writing poetry, flash fiction, and creative non-fiction. Her writing has been published in Nailpolish Stories, A Tiny and Colorful Literary Journal; The Weekly Avocet; The Fall Avocet; and The Plum Tree Tavern.

 

 

 

 

Four pieces by Tyrean Martinson

 

Fangirl

Dear Mr. Fantasy,

I want …

everything.

Heart, mind, body, soul.

I have a basement waiting.

Love,

Jane Stalker

 

Don’t Sweater It

You know, he gave me the sweater because he loves me. I’m not making it up. I’ll wear it forever or until we break up.

 

Don’t Let the Dead Bite

The sign annoys me although it’s a stupid kiddie haunted house. We all know zombies don’t bite. They suck like mosquitoes and breed like rabbits.

 

For Audrey,

We wear blue dresses and wave as cars pass by.

We know we can’t say goodbye.

You’re gone.

We’re here.

We miss you.

 

Shattered Souls

My fingers bleed as I try to pick up the fragments on the floor. I can’t find them all before the nurses come for me.

Tyrean Martinson daydreams, writes, and reads in the Pacific Northwest. She can be found online at: http://tyreanswritingspot.blogspot.com/

 

January, 2017

Five pieces by Krystyna Fedosejevs
Plum Wine

Cherries, apples and pears harvested. Eaten fresh or turned into jam. On windowsills, plums ferment in jars. Later, appreciated with you, my love, over candlelight.

Ski Slope Sweetie

We met on a chairlift. Skied beginner runs together; admitted angst in trying intermediate. Under sunshine’s sparkle we fell in love. Switched to skiing cross-country.

Snow Angel

“No such thing as angels,” Dad blurted. We went outside. I stretched my arms out and landed in the snow backwards. “Look, I’m an angel.”

Parka Perfect

Our walking trail enters a forest. Frost coats pines. Chickadees chirp. Distant deer stand still watching us move. Snowflakes twirl. Bulky jackets keep us warm.

Merry Berry

Uncle pours sparkling raspberry punch into glasses. Auntie stirs strawberry sauce for ice cream sundaes. Magpies peck cranberries strung outdoors. I decorate home with holly.

 

Krystyna Fedosejevs writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published online and in a number of magazines, including:  Nailpolish Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

 

Three pieces by Linda Imbler

 

Blackest Fears

I’m hearing echoing footfalls,

Experiencing fear laced fantasy.

I stop, turn, and realize there’s no one to see,

Only my empty dreams are following me.

 

 

Green Be My Body

Upon my death, bury me without the box.

Absorbed by worms in lilac gardens,

Will worms then travel to other gardens?

Leave my traces there?

 

 

The Golden Age of Information

 

To find answers to every question posed to you,

The world should then make sense.

Yet should this happen, all facts will be born anew.

 

Linda Imbler is the author of the chapbook “Lost and Found.”  She is most recently the author of “New Lives” forthcoming in Ascent Aspirations: Friday’s Poems. Other poems were published by deadsnakes.blogspot.combehappyzone.combluepepper.blogspot.combuckoffmag.com,  Broad River Review Literary Magazine, Fine Flu Journal, Blognostics,  and  Bunbury Magazine .

Three short stories have been published at Fear of Monkeys and Danse Macabre. This writer, yoga practitioner, and classical guitar player resides in Wichita, Kansas.

 

Trophy Wife by Rosemary Jane

 

They said I was only arm candy. But fifteen years after the accident, still he carries me from bed to chair, my carer, my love.

 

Rosemary Jane is a fledgling invalid and writer. Her daemon is a green-eyed black cat.

 

 

 

Two pieces by E.J. Hagadorn

 

High Class Affair

His wife knew he was in disguise, and he her, but neither said anything.  The false strangers continued betraying each other, driving the passion high.

 

Naughty Nautical

I roll up my sleeve and reach beneath the waves.  Scars open, and the mermaid drinks her full moon tribute.  Love is a funny thing.

 

E.J. Hagadorn’s published works can be found at www.ejhagadorn.com

Best of 2016

“Best of 2016” stories were selected for their use of unique language, breadth of story in so few words, emotional impact, and the complex and original relationship of the titles to their stories.

Congratulations to the contributors for spinning these powerful pieces that made 2016 sparkle here at Nailpolish Stories. To NS readers and contributors alike, enjoy, be inspired, and thank you for supporting the journal.

 

from January

Two pieces by Mureall Hébert

 

Rich In Heart

$4,500—an honest accounting error

$45,000—intention

Franny lined her mattress

too jittery to spend a dime

and spent her nights

sleeping like a queen

 

 

Folly

He groped me during our second date. Bamboo’s Circus. Threadbare lions, two drunk clowns, and a half-naked lady riding bareback. Gold paint can’t change anything.

 

Mureall Hébert lives near Seattle. Her writing has appeared in Lunch Ticket, Crack the Spine, and Bartleby Snopes, among others. She’s co-editor at Whidbey Writes. You can find her online at http://www.mureallhebert.com and @mureallhebert

 

 

 

from April

Yukon Gold by Krystyna Fedosejevs

Family stories of a rush for vanity abound. His uncle panhandled waters for Yukon gold. All he can afford are potatoes of the same name.

 

Krystyna Fedosejevs writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published online and in a number of magazines, including:  Nailpolish Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

 

Need Sunglasses? by Tyrean Martinson

Promenade vendors pushed dark, plastic lenses. I chose a ladybug pair, covered my eyes, and waited for the end flash, a future that blinded us.

 

Tyrean Martinson, everyday writer, has three story collections out, some experimental fiction, and three novels. She’s a believer and a daydreamer. Find her online at http://tyreanswritingspot.blogspot.com/

 

 

 

from July

Two pieces by Madeline Mora-Summonte

 Dark Anemone

Headstones jut, teeth to snap her back. The open grave, a dark maw eager to gulp, to swallow. But still she drifts, rootless yet trapped.

 

Red Heels

Jenny lost a shoe, but she is no Cinderella. She shucks her prom dress, weaves into the water. On the sand, her broken tiara glitters.

Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer, a reader, a beach-comber, and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections, The People We Used to Be and Garden of Lost Souls.

 

 

 

from October

Two pieces by Gemma Bristow

I’m Not Really a Waitress

Perform perfectly, and I’m invisible. Circulate canapés. Rescue empty glasses. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘Goodnight, my lord.’ They won’t remember me from the evidence tapes.

 

Artificial Sweetener

Our last meeting. She made the usual charges: emotional distance, narcissism. ‘You never knew me,’ she said. Untrue. I knew how she liked her coffee.

 

Gemma Bristow is a technical writer and writer-writer. She survives on a diet of fingernails while submitting her first YA novel.

 

October, 2016

Three pieces by Joanna M. Weston

 

Alpine Snow

schuss me down frozen gullies
let me leap moguls higher than myself
powder me with glittering crystals
pour iced wine in tall glasses
every evening

Sweet Memories

éclair au chocolate with latte
tiramisu with white wine
crème brûlée and champagne
Greek almond torte and ouzo
how could I forget
your candlelit eyes?

Pretty in Papaya

she can dance, she can sing
her ankle bells can ring
she can sway, she can spring
she can do anything
for she is ravishing

JOANNA M. WESTON. Married; has two cats, multiple spiders,
a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader,
‘Frame and The McGuire’, published by Tradewind Books; and poetry,
‘A Bedroom of Searchlights’, published by Inanna Publications.
Her eBooks found at her blog:  http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/

 

 

 

Two pieces by Gemma Bristow

I’m Not Really a Waitress

Perform perfectly, and I’m invisible. Circulate canapés. Rescue empty glasses. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘Goodnight, my lord.’ They won’t remember me from the evidence tapes.

 

 

 

Artificial Sweetener

Our last meeting. She made the usual charges: emotional distance, narcissism. ‘You never knew me,’ she said. Untrue. I knew how she liked her coffee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gemma Bristow is a technical writer and writer-writer. She survives on a diet of fingernails while submitting her first YA novel.

 

 

Three pieces by Evert Asberg

 

Essence

 

She managed to get divorced just before he was executed. Despite all the misery, she wanted to live, to save money for a separate grave.

 

Match Maker

 

The ground hostess found a lost boarding pass. “I’ll take it to him,” she said, hurrying to the gate. “Otherwise, Mr. Atta won’t get far.”

 

Moonlight

 

Metaphorically, he lived in the West, but physically he was still in Syria, underground, with only his head six feet up, frozen, for propaganda purposes.

 

Evert Asberg (@EvertAsberg) lives and works in Europe.

 

 

Four pieces by Hilde Kiernan

 

No stopping me now

 

I became too old for dreams.  So I adorned my crepe paper neck with strings of pearls,

 

the armour of middle age.

 

And I awoke.

 

 

 

BFFs

 

The smug madness never came between me and my mirror-self.

 

Instead, it wrapped us in a shimmering velvet cloak. Sometimes its tendrils hurt my wrists.

 

 

 

Darkness Seeps

 

My hands claw onto the cliff-face, fingertips raw. I envisage the yellow lights of home.

 

Self.

 

Tormented.

 

Hush, the sea whispers.  Join me.

 

I surrender.

 

 

 

Hide and Seek

 

Liam hides under water.

 

A single bubble leaks from his mouth and pops on the surface.

 

Soon he will run out of air. And lose.

 

 

 

 

Hilde Kiernan is Norwegian, and came to Ireland 1200 years after the first Vikings made landfall.  Like a lot of them, she stayed.

 

 

Three pieces by Megha Bajaj

 

Muave Musings

 

She desired only him.

And he, her.

If only this was a story

of two,

not three,

How perfectly coloured,

lust would be.

 

Drake’s Neck

 

And who would have

thought

the colour of betrayal

was bluish green.

Note to self:

Ask him her lipstick shade,

before it burns.

The white shirt.

 

 

Sang-De-Boeuf (oxblood)

 

For you, my darling

He said;

I would write love letters in blood.

I looked at him,

with eyes that kill.

For now,

credit card would do.

 

 

Show Me the Ring by Tyrean Martinson

At age seven, he put a quarter in the vending machine.

After three tries, he had the heart ring.

Then, he went looking for love.

 

Three pieces by L.L. Madrid

Lacey Lilac

 

Lotion. Casseroles. Slippers.

The fruit basket, I left rotting on the porch.

Gifts for a former mother to be.

In lieu of flowers, send vodka.

 

One Time Lime

 

Saliva, salt, shot, lime.

Repeat.

I warned him. Told him tequila makes me crazy.

He said I was cute.

Cute just stole your car, honey.

 

Bewitched

 

We worked at opposite drive-thru windows.

I could’ve gotten a job without fries.

But didn’t, because sometimes she’d wave.

Enchanted, I stayed. She didn’t.

 

 

L.L. Madrid lives in Tucson where she can smell the rain before it falls. She resides with her four-year-old daughter, an antisocial cat, and on occasion, a scorpion or two. Her work can be found lurking in various internet crannies and at clippings.me/llmad.

 

 

Don’t Make Me Wine by Sean Daly

 

I didn’t mean to profile you.

Ain’t that what salesman do?

Don’t we all?

I suppose.

Then lets start over.

Ha! Wouldn’t that be nice.

 

 

 

Sean Daly lives in Ojai California with his wife and children. His work has appeared in several literary journals and newspapers. When he’s not writing fiction, He tutors at Todd Road Jail in Ventura CA.

July, 2016

Three pieces by Barry Gross

Sipping Bourbon

A/C groans through 80 percent humidity.
Playing solitaire, naked, baroque radio.
She exits shower, enters bedroom, says,
“You’re a real class act.”
Drops towel.

 

Christmas Trimmings

She points, “This one.”
A wreath is a wreath.
Criteria? I don’t know.
“It’ll green the door.
Make merry.”
Come March,
a great fire starter.

 

Fall Colors

Heart in gutter. Sponge drunk.
Cracked shot glass, leaking liquor, bleeding lips, numb smile.
Beer soaked money sticks to bar.
Leaves discolored after summer life.

Barry Gross is a poet and substitute teacher who lives in Bucks County, Pa. He’s moved to write by the every day; observe and record. He listens to all kinds of music and is currently enjoying Miles Davis and band playing “Jean Pierre.”

 

Rubbernecker Red by Paul Beckman

I hung back from the police barricade transfixed with the cops and crowd when a woman noticed my blood red nails dripping and screamed.

Paul was one of the winners in the Queen’s Ferry 2016 Best of the Small Fictions. His latest collection, “Peek”, weighed in at 65 stories and 120 pages. His website www.paulbeckmanstories.com

 

Three pieces by Michelle Wallace

Fuchsia Fantasy

He’d been attracted to her potential.

She’d been enchanted by his fading glory.

Two rebels.

One extraordinary love.

Perfect combination.

Reality bites.

Who’s fooling who?

 

Ghostly Green

“Lucky plants showered with attention, if only…”

His wife sifts the potted compost, tenderly.

Be careful what you wish for.

You just might get it.

 

Wildlife Expedition

Hipsters, leather jackets and motorbikes

Bonnie and Clyde reinvented.

Volatile liaison.

Cocktail of anger, sadness and revenge

Hurtling along life’s highway.

Fast forward.

Self-destruction…

Inevitable!

 

Michelle Wallace is a writer-in-the-making, on a never-ending journey…a flash fiction junkie!

She blogs at http://writer-in-transit.co.za/

 

 

 

 

Sole Mate by Suzanne Cottrell

 

Frayed strap, broken heel, scuffed leather; worn beyond repair.

Replicating life.

Slumped in her chair, enveloped by her robe, clinging to memories.

One more dance.

 

 

Suzanne Cottrell lives in central, rural North Carolina.  An outdoor enthusiast and retired teacher, she now has time to pursue other interests and projects.   She is a fledgling writer, working to spread her wings and ride the thermals.

 

 

Two pieces by Tobi Pledger

Steel Waters Run Deep

The swimmer broke the surface, ripples in molten steel, and swam to shore. He walked toward the horizon dripping ball bearings onto the glassy beach.

 

To Be Continued…

I feel great. Lithe, pliable, pain-free, months of physical therapy worth every minute. I raise my arm to high-five the world. Pain seizes my shoulder.

 

Tobi Pledger is new to creative writing and has previously only written continuing education and scientific articles. This is way more fun.

 

Russian Roulette by Marla Dunham

 

In Hollywood films,

the game seems exciting

no one really dies

 

Orlando, Sandy Hook, Virginia Tech

they did

white roses by Caitlin’s stone bare witness.

 

Marla Dunham lives in Chapel Hill, NC.  She retired from college English teaching after four decades.  She is currently enjoying her family, including her wonderful granddaughter, her poetry writing group, exercise, reading, and registering people to vote.

 

 

Two pieces by Lisa Nielsen

Bitter Buddhist

My breath is monotonous and
as soothing as
sirens and barking dogs.  I’m
tired of ignoring smirks and
misconceptions just
so I can say ohm.

 

Just Nothing

That shrug says enough. Take her high maintenance hand of frost and gold and give it a squeeze.  My cuticles taste better when they’re bitter.

Lisa Nielsen is a single mom adjusting to life in Staten Island by taking photographs of the hilly and bountiful everchanging landscape for inspiration, doing her best to curtail her tendency to lollygag.

 

Two pieces by Madeline Mora-Summonte

Dark Anemone

Headstones jut, teeth to snap her back. The open grave, a dark maw eager to gulp, to swallow. But still she drifts, rootless yet trapped.

Red Heels

Jenny lost a shoe, but she is no Cinderella. She shucks her prom dress, weaves into the water. On the sand, her broken tiara glitters.

Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer, a reader, a beach-comber, and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections, The People We Used to Be and Garden of Lost Souls.

 

 

Watch Me Go by Elizabeth Konkel

 

She clutches the bouquet, blue and flecked with snow. She places it deep into the ground. Before she leaves, she brushes snow off the tombstone.

 

 

Elizabeth Konkel has a BFA in Creative Writing, a special interest in photography, and a love of stories. She grew up in a rural community on a farm where she learned about animals, family, and folklore. Her passion is Screen Writing, fantasy, science fiction, and nature photography.

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