"I seem to have loved in numberless forms, numberless times,
in
life after life, in age after age, forever."
~ Rabindranath
Tagore
Grave Robber for Hire (Currently submitting)
On a hunt for a lost Rembrandt, a Psychic and her partner fight their mutual attraction while battling demons and serial killers who also want the painting.
First Page: Chapter 1
The coffee machine spurted black sludge into my mug then promptly exploded into a ball of blue fire and black smoke. In a theatrical statement the smoke wafted upwards bearing the smirking face of Satan.
Holy frigging shit.
My heart jammed in my throat. I gaped like a moron for a few eye blinks before I hit the off switch. I grabbed my oven mitts and used them to frantically beat the flames. Times like this, I wished I’d bought the extinguisher the hunky
fireman recommended last blaze. Stupid mid-fire epiphanies.
The last spark thrashed to a death, I tossed the smoldering mitts into the sink. Satan needed a cheaper way to taunt me. He’d blown up too many of my appliances lately and I wanted to tell him to back the hell off. No pun intended. We’d never met in person. This lack of an introduction is a plus. I doubt I’d find being on the Dark Lord’s social calendar desirable.
Charred cotton and plastic fumes choked the air in a toxic brew. I staggered outside for fresh air, tripped down the veranda step, and skated in some fresh fertilizer my elderly horse Tina left as a gift.
“Eew eew eww.” I squealed like a girl, because I am one, and slid my Tweety slippers across the grass like a dog drags its butt for worms. Tina whickered and pulled her lips back from her teeth. Dang horse better not be laughing.
First Page: Chapter 1
The coffee machine spurted black sludge into my mug then promptly exploded into a ball of blue fire and black smoke. In a theatrical statement the smoke wafted upwards bearing the smirking face of Satan.
Holy frigging shit.
My heart jammed in my throat. I gaped like a moron for a few eye blinks before I hit the off switch. I grabbed my oven mitts and used them to frantically beat the flames. Times like this, I wished I’d bought the extinguisher the hunky
fireman recommended last blaze. Stupid mid-fire epiphanies.
The last spark thrashed to a death, I tossed the smoldering mitts into the sink. Satan needed a cheaper way to taunt me. He’d blown up too many of my appliances lately and I wanted to tell him to back the hell off. No pun intended. We’d never met in person. This lack of an introduction is a plus. I doubt I’d find being on the Dark Lord’s social calendar desirable.
Charred cotton and plastic fumes choked the air in a toxic brew. I staggered outside for fresh air, tripped down the veranda step, and skated in some fresh fertilizer my elderly horse Tina left as a gift.
“Eew eew eww.” I squealed like a girl, because I am one, and slid my Tweety slippers across the grass like a dog drags its butt for worms. Tina whickered and pulled her lips back from her teeth. Dang horse better not be laughing.
