I’m an international, multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in my head. As a singer, songwriter, independent filmmaker and improv teacher and performer, my life has always been about creating and sharing what I create with others. Now that my dream to write for a living is a reality, with over a hundred titles in happy publication and no end in sight, I live in beautiful Prince Edward Island, Canada, with my giant cats, pug overlord and overlady and my Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn.

Début

The world struggles around It, a back and forth seesaw of demand and denial. It flops inside its box as the world spins, turned upside down. One of the shining, pearl-topped pins jabs Its leg. The pain is a shock. But It is unable to do anything about the agony. Gravity lets go and It floats for what seems an eternity before crashing into something hard.

The box remains intact, at least. Its home, Its safe haven.

Still, It has no fear, only confusion and need. Where is the girl in whose image It was created?

Silence. Darkness. Waiting.

All the while, the pin. And the pain. On and on forever.

Alice isn't popular. Alice isn't pretty. Alice isn't likable--at least, that's what she's been told most of her life. Moving to a new town hasn't helped any, not with her nasty brother torturing her almost daily and her too-cool, uber-popular cousin making her life miserable. When Alice finds an old doll in her grandmother's attic, she feels an unusual connection to it. She just can't bring herself to feel bad when horrible things start happening to the people who are cruel to her...

Pins and Needles

Alice hunched over her little desk, the voodoo doll laid out before her. She'd not examined it closely before, not really. Her first look had been a little rushed, up in the attic. And since then, she'd been distracted every time she pulled it out. This was the first instance she really had a close look without emotions clouding her mind.


   It really was an ugly little thing, with a patch of brown hair, what felt like real human hair, sewn into the top of the head, forming a stiff crest, rising to sag to one side. The button eyes were the prettiest part, one shiny, the other run through with marbling. Alice lifted the little dress, looked at the tiny, neat stitches, all done by hand, but almost as precise as a sewing machine.


Interesting. And made Alice wonder again about the maker, but told her nothing new.


Chapter 22: Grace