Fiction
Excerpts: books, short stories, and non-N.D.A. commissioned work
Books & Ghostwriting
Selected examples of ghostwriting, E-Books, and series outlines.
note: all writings with quotes are my own (not written for clients or abandoned projects). I strictly adhere to NDA agreements. 
I have ghostwritten numerous novels, short stories, and e-books. Collaborating with clients is not only enjoyable but also a valuable learning experience. My commissioned works span a variety of genres, from romantic tales and rock-star celebrity stories to dark and erotic narratives.
Brandi sat at her desk, eyes locked on the page, heart steady with quiet determination. She’d memorized the chapter — every line, every footnote — but now, under the weight of her teacher’s gaze over the cubicle wall, her mind felt suddenly… porous.
A tap at her shoulder.
She turned. Empty air.
When she looked back, words flooded her thoughts — not hers.
Joshua.
A young man, eyes heavy with sorrow, stepped into her mind’s eye. Without speaking, he unfolded a story. A single, chilling moment, a flicker of horror that stretched into eternity.
Brandi blinked.
Too much studying? Too little sleep?
She sat frozen, wondering if she’d cracked under pressure, until she felt it again - the weight of her teacher’s stare, unblinking, waiting.
NOTE: ExampleOld Tom sat at the end of the bar, a glass of whiskey resting heavy in his hand, his thoughts fixed on the land. Earlier that evening, his eastern neighbor, John Parson, had spoken of rumors drifting through Long Creek; wealthy strangers with a talent for circling struggling ranchers and prying land from their grip. Men who knew how to wait for drought, debt, or desperation.
The idea settled uneasily in Tom’s chest. That land was more than acreage; it was the sum of a lifetime’s labor. Abby and the children depended on it. He’d be damned before he let a pack of city speculators carve it away from him.
With a low sigh, Tom rose, laid coins on the counter, and stepped out of the Lady Bird saloon into the night.
Rose slipped through the front door and eased it shut behind her. If her father discovered she’d been to see that “Daws boy,” he hatefully called him, he would surely follow through on his threat to send her north to live with Aunt Dottie.
The thought chilled her.
Dottie was a hard woman, sharp-tongued and colder still. Once, in a fit of anger, she’d broken her own dog’s neck for soiling an Oriental rug. Rose had never forgotten it.
She moved quietly toward her bedroom, careful to avoid the creak in the third floorboard, praying her father would not look up as she passed[…]”
Note: example
Hazir Asmai was looking forward to the UN gala. Staring at his computer, he quietly typed words that appeared upon his screen, illuminating what he felt was important to peace in the Middle East. His haggard features changed with his words, some happy and some not so. Laughing aloud at his humor, he sat back in his leather chair, going over the words that would ultimately and hopefully, put him in place to win the Nobel Peace Prize. He carefully picked his Patel cigar from its ashtray, and continued to express his emotions.
Hannah also sat in her office chair, listening to chatter on her radio; feeling the excitement that she always felt throughout her body before a kill. Hazir was to be targeted, yet this involved his children; all boys. With the swiftness of a rattlesnake upon hearing of the hit, she spoke into the mic, “I have this, no problem.” She shook her long blonde hair back from her face and sighed with satisfaction and mentally began preparing her trip.[…]”
NOTE: commissioned for specific assassin-style story.We reconnected at our twentieth high school reunion. I had known him since childhood, though our paths hadn't crossed since graduation day.
If I could go back and change things, I'm not sure I would - or even could. But either way, people would talk. Growing up in a small town meant everyone knew your business before you did. When Edith Watson gives you a knowing wink in the Piggly Wiggly checkout line, consider yourself warned. And so goes the rest of my story.
The reunion was lovely, chaotic, and everything I'd hoped for, classmates gravitating toward their old cliques like moths to a familiar flame. I'd made my way to the bar for another drink when I noticed him standing beside me. "Kendra. You look amazing." Billy pulled me into a brief hug, and I felt the back of my neck ignite. He looked remarkably the same, only more so. A goatee, glasses, and something quietly confident that hadn't been there at eighteen. I hugged him back as I had with every other classmate that evening, but his touch was different. There was a charge to it: electric, unexpected, and entirely unwelcome given the circumstances. I gulped silently and ordered a martini, willing myself to look composed.
We chatted while we waited for our drinks, or rather, he talked and I nodded, too rattled to string more than two words together. Kids. Jobs. Marriage. The usual reunion small talk. Then our drinks arrived, and so did she. Georgia materialized behind Billy, sliding her arms around him with the easy confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she had. Blonde, blue-eyed, and effortlessly radiant, she was the kind of person who lit up a room without trying. We toasted to a wonderful evening, and I smiled until my face hurt. Then, feeling like a complete fraud, I slipped away to find my own husband, who had, as always, quietly vanished into the crowd.
NOTE: commissioned project abandoned by clientShort Stories & Other FIction
Shorts and other fun things written on the fly and for contests.
He sat at the kitchen table, staring into the hollow space between his hands. The heat inside him was need, not hunger, and it was quiet burn; slow, coiling fire in his gut, rising like a serpent, tightening around his ribs, squeezing until his breath came shallow. His yearnings hissed, curling around his stomach like a constrictor, patient, inevitable. The portraits of his parents watched from the walls with accusation, no warmth . Their eyes followed him, silent, unblinking. “They made me this way.” That woman, the one he despised with every fiber of his being, still lived in his mind like a badger in its den, gnawing, relentless.
Memories flooded back, sharp and sickening: “Yum, yum, little Brandon, here comes the airplane! Open wide!”, she would exclaim. His father sat beside him, fork in hand, chewing with calm indifference. As if the scrambled eggs weren’t made from a child’s brain. As if the steak on his plate wasn’t carved from a child’s thigh. As if the suit he’d button up after dinner wasn’t stained with the same blood he’d just swallowed. Business always came first.
Brandon shoved back from the table, chair scraping like a scream. Was this his destiny? The sinners deserved it, didn’t they? Single mothers working double shifts. Women selling themselves to strangers. Preachers who railed against sin in the pulpit, then slipped into park restrooms to take it up the ass. They all deserved punishment. And he? He deserved them. The craving never slept. It demanded. Like a child screaming for cookies and ice cream, but with teeth.
Short stories and short fiction are mediums I gravitate to as they allow me to stretch my imagination. I have ghostwritten, written, and collaborated on many short stories, heavily weighted with erotica and horror.
Note: flash-fiction for contestNote: for three paragraph short contest“Jennifer laced up her running shoes and breathed a sigh of resignation. She knew she needed to lose a few pounds and Chris didn’t help her self-esteem by pointing out how big her ass had become. “Jen, I’m not saying you’re fat it’s just that, maybe, you should consider giving the baguettes a workout”, he had stated before slapping her butt and walking out of the room. His words rang in her head as she stepped out into the dark evening for a jog, walk, or something.
She started out with a brisk walk but picked up her pace as she rounded the block, passing her neighbor’s homes while noticing that Tonya’s roses looked nicer than her own. “What is she using for rose food?” she wondered as she jogged by. Trying to concentrate on the melting of fat cells in her thighs, Jen noticed a figure just to the side of John Jenson’s red-bricked home. It seemed to move slowly yet surely. Adrenaline kicked in and her underarms became even more slippery with sweat. “There’s no one there.” she told herself as she quietly jogged past the house.[…]”
As soon as she got home, she slipped them on; pink laces, carefully tied, double-knotted just like Mom had taught her. It was time. “Mom! Come watch me try out my new fast shoes!” Alice called, already skipping toward the back door, her feet light as air.
She stepped onto the concrete patio, glanced down to check her knots, yep, still secure, and took a breath. Mrs. Asbury had drilled it into them all week: “The Power of Preparation.” Alice didn’t know what that meant exactly, but she knew it meant jumping jacks. And stretches. She stretched one leg out, then the other, feeling the familiar pull in her calves. Arms high overhead, she bounced into five quick jumping jacks; arms slapping, knees lifting, heart already racing.
Yep. Ready. Mom was already settled in her patio chair, iced tea in hand, watching with that soft, patient smile. “I’m ready when you are, Alice,” she said. “Let’s see how fast those shoes really are.” And then, with a whoosh, she was gone; feet pounding the pavement, pink laces flying, the wind tugging at her hair like it was cheering her on.
Note: story I wrote for my daughter