TWISTED Anthology: Day 4 of Blog Tour!

Hey all,

Not going to lie, I almost forgot to post the excerpt of my own story! In my defense, I was up all night last night with food poisoning, and I am crazy tired right now.

Still, just as the show must go one, the book must be read! (That was so lame, I apologize. I’m not-so-secretly 100 years old.)

Once again, here is all of the information on the Chapter One Young Writers Conference’s newest anthology, entitled Twisted:


From dueling families to an insane asylum, these short stories are… twisted.

During the autumn of 2016, the team behind the Chapter One Young Writers Conference mentored two talented young writers through the publishing process, giving them a head start on becoming the successful authors of tomorrow. Now, read the stories on which these up-and-coming writers worked, along with four by the Ch1Con mentors themselves.

Each of these stories comes with a twist. You’ll never see what’s coming next.

The paperback and e-book editions of Twisted are available now for order on, and the e-book will be available soon on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iBooks.

And, in honor of this new release, check out our blog tour schedule. We will be sharing excerpts from the stories, interviews with the authors, and even a chance at winning a copy of the anthology!


Now, depending on how long you have been following me on this blog, this flash fiction excerpt may seem a bit familiar to you. I have previously shared an unedited version of this story on my website, but I am super excited to see what you lovely readers think about the changes I have made to it.

I feel like a bio isn’t necessary here. If you are curious about me, feel free to check out my About page above 🙂

Okay then, no need to prolong the suspense.

May I introduce a (very short) excerpt of my flash fiction piece, “Celebration at Holly Lake” from the new anthology, Twisted.



Tic-tic-plume. Tic-tic-tic-plume.

Skipping rocks dive underwater, upsetting thick layers of fleshy moss as they sink past. He fondles a stone between his fingers and some of the cruor brushes onto the slick gray surface. Except for the ripples left in the wake of the stones, the lake does not move. Nothing breathes.

He turns the blemished rock over in his palm and squeezes it, enclosing it in his fist. Skin stretches white over his knuckles. ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones—’ the singsong reverberates through the aspens, needles shivering. He coughs, digging a nail into the crusted red on his sleeve. Chips of dirt flake off with the blood. He is tempted to remove the jacket—faded tweed and threadbare edges—to fill the pockets with rocks and sink it into the depths.    

Sticks and stones. Broken bones.

He grinds his teeth.


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