Better Cover = Better Sales

A few years back, after years of working and reworking a novel, I decided to publish. I had big plans for the cover. I’d use my model friend and her husband, the photographer. They lived out of state, but agreed to the plan I’d sent them—without pay! My excitement was short lived as weeks passed before I received any photos. Excuses were made and in the end, I had to come up with something on my own. At the time, I didn’t know about sites like PicMonkey or Imagur, etc. I used what I had and came up with something like this:

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FLASH.FICTION: Therapy for Serial Killers by Jada Trainor

The killer stared at the knife in her hand, and wondered how this could ever have happened. How could he have been bested… by a girl?

“Wow, you really came prepared, bucko. So bloodthirsty. I’m impressed. Definitely the guy for the job.” The young woman strolled the length of the wooden table, studying the various array of weapons and torture devices–knives, rope, cat-o’-nine tails, a metal bucket filled with water, a dirty towel draped across its handle. But the power drill with a box of six-inch screws–that was her favorite. She picked up the drill, weighing it in her hand like Shylock’s gold. “This seems fun. And all these plastic sheets–really shows your dedication. When you have a job to do, you’re committed. I like that about you.”   Continue reading

FLASH.FICTION: Vocal by Nina Brandon

No one said a word.

Not a single person would tell Emily what happened to her daughter, Aubree, the night of the twelfth. Like any other weekend, she’d dropped the girl off at her grandparent’s ranch so she could work double shifts.

Like all the other times, she spoke with them during her midday breaks. In the background, she heard her daughter laughing while holding side conversations with her cousins and other visiting friends.

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FLASH.FICTION: In the Name of Love by Valeri Beatrix


Pock marks covered the ceiling like festering boils. Megan tried not to stare long at any of them, less they burst and leave her covered in some foreign substance. She moved to sit on the bed, but a glimpse of the stained duvet sent her to the nearest window.

She surveyed the room. Years ago, the fleur de lis border was probably considered chic. Now, it hung like a birthday sign no one cared to take down. The paint peeled as if recovering from sunburn and left leaden flakes in odd places: atop the dusty headboard, clinging to a lampshade, and swimming in a vase of half-dead flowers.

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