So, our final guest writer is a widely published author under both her real name, Theresa Weir, and her thriller/horror/mystery pen name, Anne Frasier. When I was new to blogging back in 2005, I happened upon Anne's blog, Monkey with a Pen. That day, she happened to be featuring some spooky old medical equipment on a post, and I thought, damn, there's a kindred spirit (I'm fascinated, in a creeped out way, by old medical equipment).
I feel like we shared some of the glory days of blogging and have maintained a friendship ever since. I'll let her say something about her current projects, but I have to say, as if being a best selling author wasn't enough, her upcoming memoir, The Orchard, has stirred up a ton of excitement in the publishing industry. It's going to be a major release, my friends.
Jason, does time ever fly! I still remember what a blast it was to co-host one of your contests back in (oh Jesus) 2006. That featured my novel Pale Immortal. You had a cool picture of a moonlight sky.
Blogs were the cool place to be in those days, and I remember the contest was (and still is) an exciting place to be. Fast forward to now, and I have two books coming out in September. Of course, the first, Deadly Treats involves you! It was really a blast to put together a Halloween anthology. The guest list includes so many fantastic writers (Jason Evans!). The Orchard is also being released at the same time. I'm going to have a busy fall!
Thanks so much for letting me guest write again. I know I was drawn into the contest fun on more than one occassion. ;)
by Anne Frasier/Theresa Weir
I was born under a blood moon. At least that’s what my grammie always tells me.
“Girl, you came shootin’ out like you couldn’t wait to start raisin’ hell,” is what she says. And then her face darkens and she reaches for the bottle.
It ain’t easy knowing your birth killed your own ma. And not a day goes by but Gram doesn’t remind me that I’m a murderer. And not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could turn back the clock and be unborn. But it don’t work that way, and when the townspeople come to the swamp to have their fortunes told, I cling to their soft, perfumed hands longer than I should because I want to feel something besides my life with Gram. And even if I sense bad things, I don’t tell the customers. I look for the positive and happy. I want to see their shoulders relax in relief. I want to see them smile. And it don’t hurt that they tip more for good news.
Once they leave, I take the money to Gram and she puts it in a jar and we sit down by the bed, one on each side. And just like we’ve done for the past sixteen years, Gram rubs olive oil on my mother’s leathery arms and legs while I brush our dead darling’s hair, lightly, barely touching so I won’t do any more damage.