Writes
The Collective Grace turned off the ignition and the hum of the engine died, swallowed by the dense hush of Salt Row. Gravel crunched under her boots as she stepped out. The warehouse loomed, massive and rust creased. Its corrugated walls are the color of old blood and wet bone. Above, the faded sign blinked in the dark like a… Continue reading Chapter 7: Almost Renovated
Day 12: Creating Through a Knee Replacement Vextrel (noun): A singular form of art born at the crossroads of vexation and verse. Where frustration tangles with precision and chaos finds its rhythm. Vextrel is the restless minstrel of creativity, weaving tight patterns of tension and release, meditative yet electric, like a dance between the mind’s sharp edges and its search… Continue reading Writing on One Leg
The Collective The bedroom door locked with a click that could have doubled as punctuation. “Detective Knight, my ass,” Grace muttered, too loud to be accidental. “Storming in here like some self-righteous banshee in a discount trench coat.” She yanked Nicola’s leather jacket from her shoulders and let it collapse to the floor like it had insulted her integrity. “Accusing… Continue reading Chapter 5: The Last Knight
The Collective The kitchen smelled wrong. Not rot, not yet. But something sharper. Disinfectant, maybe. Citrus and bleach layered over something coppery and faintly sweet. Like the air had been scrubbed too hard to hide what wouldn’t wash away. Nicola stepped inside, bootprints joining the muddy constellation already tracked across the tile. She noted the evidence markers. One perched near… Continue reading Chapter 4: Memory in the Walls
Day 8: A Old Knee, a Migraine, and a Murder Mystery walk into a bar Ah, the joys of bodily betrayal. My knee has decided to audition for the role of “Most Dramatic Joint,” and it’s giving a performance worthy of a daytime Emmy. Meanwhile, my mind is off to the races, crafting tales of vampires, witches, and werewolves. It’s… Continue reading Writing Through Changes
The Collective The road bent like a question mark through cane fields and waterlogged earth, and Nicola let the silence settle heavy across her shoulders. She kept the windows down. The Honda’s engine hummed low, a background drone beneath the rasp of tires on broken asphalt and the insect chorus sawing at the dusk. Her fingers drummed once against the… Continue reading Chapter 3: To Grandmother’s House
Writing haunted places, accidental mornings, and uncanny connections Behind the Pages: Chapters 3–5 These chapters were where the story stopped whispering and started breathing. By Chapter 3, Nicola’s no longer just coming home. She’s walking into something that remembers her too well. Her grandparents’ house greets her with a flicker of porch light after a drop of blood hits the… Continue reading Day 6: The House Remembers Blood
Day 5: Writing through pain, finding rhythm, and why geese make better therapists than cats. Whinge Warning & Mini Family History: Go straight to the writing stuff below if you’re here for the craft talk, research tips, and creative inspiration. I won’t be offended. Much. This morning started with my usual coffee klatch with my cat on the back porch…… Continue reading Coffee Klatch Confessions
The Collective Salt Row had always been more ghost town than neighborhood. A stretch of old shrimping warehouses slouched along the bayou, rusting into the landscape, their broken windows staring blankly at the water. Most had been picked clean for copper and left to rot. Nicola and her wife Morgan had been the only ones foolish or hopeful enough to… Continue reading Chapter 2: Ghosts in the Floorboards
