Category Archives: Writing

The Drowning Game Cover Reveal

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Today’s the day! Check out the cover of THE DROWNING GAME:

DrowningGameB (1)

 

They said she was armed.

They said she was dangerous.

They were right.

Petty Moshen spent eighteen years of her life as a prisoner in her own home, training with military precision for everything, ready for anything. She can disarm, dismember, and kill—and now, for the first time ever, she is free.

Her paranoid father is dead, his extreme dominance and rules a thing of the past, but his influence remains as strong as ever. When his final will reveals a future more terrible than her captive past, Petty knows she must escape—by whatever means necessary.

But when Petty learns the truth behind her father’s madness—and her own family—the reality is worse than anything she could have imagined. On the road and in over her head, the fight for Petty’s life has just begun.

Fans of female-powered thrillers will love debut author LS Hawker and her suspenseful tale of a young woman on the run for her future…and from the nightmares of her past.

Pre-order from HarperCollins or these fine retailers

HarperCollins

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Release date: September 22, 2015

Print books available mid-October


 

Excerpt

Since he’d died on his stomach, the EMTs had turned Dad onto his back. He was in full rigor mortis, so his upper lip was mashed into his gums and curled into a sneer, exposing his khaki-colored teeth. His hands were spread in front of his face, palms out. Dad’s eyes stared up and to the left and his entire face was grape-pop purple.

What struck me when I first saw him—after I inhaled my gum—was that he appeared to be warding off a demon. I should have waited until the mortician was done with him, because I knew I’d never get that image out of my mind.

I walked out of Dad’s room on unsteady feet, determined not to cry in front of these strangers. The deputy and the sheriff stood outside my bedroom, examining the door to it. Both of them looked confused.

“Petty,” Sheriff Bloch said.

I stopped in the hall, feeling even more violated with them so close to my personal items and underwear.

“Yes?”

“Is this your bedroom?”

I nodded.

Sheriff and deputy made eye contact. The coroner paused at the top of the stairs to listen in. This was what my dad had always talked about—the judgment of busybody outsiders, their belief that somehow they needed to have a say in the lives of people they’d never even met and knew nothing about.

The three men seemed to expect me to say something, but I was tired of talking. Since I’d never done much of it, I’d had no idea how exhausting it was.

The deputy said, “Why are there six deadbolts on the outside of your door?”

It was none of his business, but I had nothing to be ashamed of.

“So Dad could lock me in, of course.”


 

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Cemetary

Inheritance

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My mother gave me her love of cemeteries
And words—those carved into stone monoliths
As well as those scrawled across the back of
Receipt paper and notepads stained with old
Coffee drippings. She gave me skinned knees
From kneeling in front of gravestones taking
Rubbings of the names and strange symbols,
Of the stories clawing out of the stale, dead
Earth or bursting through the broken door of the
Old mausoleum. She gave me lips
Stained with letters and ears eager to
Eavesdrop on the melodic conversations of
Eccentric strangers. She showed me the mist that only
Gathers at 4:07 in the morning in late October
When the leaves crisscross the tops of graves
Yet to be dug. She taught me to hear the
Murmurs in the ground around coffee shops
And subway stations and dark clearings when the
Moon hits just right. We are words, stone, mist,
And eyes, with dirt on our knees and callouses
On our fingers from gripping the pen so
Tight we felt we might break right through
The thin veil that covers the
Graves and syllables, ghosts and symbols.
In my open palms lies my inheritance:
Death, shrouded dreams, and creation.

RIP, Cort McMeel

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“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” ― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Friend, mentor, cheerleader, philosopher, hand-holder, WRITER…Cort McMeel opened a big unfillable hole in the world by leaving it on Friday, April 19. Instructor at Denver’s Lighthouse Writers Workshop, Cort was the very definition of Jack Kerouac’s fabulous yellow Roman candle. Help support his widow Sharon and their two kids by buying his novel Short.

Until we meet again, friend.

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