I love my rural home, where the most frequent visitors are birds, squirrels, deer, and coyotes. When fresh snow blankets the world and I’m greeted by a parade of tracks crisscrossing the yard and driveway, I’m reminded that despite the quiet and solitude, we are never truly alone. Those delicate prints call to mind the yips of a coyote hunting party, the high‑pitched cry of owls tracking their prey, and the soft scrape of a porcupine’s quills as it waddles across the deck. Pe

Snow covered road on a bright winter day.

Long before I pieced together words to create my first story, I was absorbing them — quietly, hungrily, reverently, page after page, book after book. Reading taught me how to listen. Writing taught me how to speak. If reading is stillness, then writing is movement. It’s the act of reaching into the quiet contemplations and pulling something out — something raw, something true, something that might tremble in the light. Writing is how I make sense of what I’ve read, what I’ve

Long before I became a writer, I was a reader. These are the truths about reading I have experienced. In a world of constant bombardment that rarely slows down, reading offers something radical — stillness. By picking up a book, you immerse yourself in a different world filled with characters outlined by the author but brought to life by your imagination. You embark on a solo journey, taken at your own pace, at a time and place of your choosing. But reading is not just entert

I’m a nerd. My glory days were long days and nights spent in the soft glow of computer screens, eating greasy take out, rarely sleeping....

I pushed through the unlocked door shouting for my tween daughters. "Kerry, Christine!" Silence greeted me. Heart in my throat, I raced...

Walls of seawater swelled by the storm crashed. Floorboards creaked. Her skirt swept the worn floor as she roamed from window to window...

He was dragging a heavy load exposed for all to see. Its jagged edges had left scars across his body. Mike struggled to polish dull...

Wisssh-ahhh, wisssh-ahhh. The waves are a siren's song luring us to the beach. We strolled hand in hand; the ocean licking her...

Sarah wrapped her bleeding fingers in a rag. Torn between devotions, she had chewed them raw. Thumping her head in frustration she...

“We’re going to die.” Calvin stared at the aging Jeep’s rising temperature gauge as they snaked through the barren wasteland. “Quit being...

The familiar shush, shush of her slippers as Betty moved from one side of the kitchen to the other. The hiss of water running; the clang...