Fiction with Kay

Welcome to Fiction with Kay! This website is created to share my love for fiction with you, my fellow bookworms! Here, you can dive into the world of storytelling, gain inspiration for your own writing dream, and I will even include some tips I've learned on my creative journey! I may even surprise you with some of my own works, so keep your eyes peeled!

Welcome back everyone! I hope you all enjoyed your weekend, and I want to give a huge thank-you to everyone who joined me in my Horror Weekend!

I’ve been looking forward to working another book review into my schedule, and today is that day! If you haven’t read my first book review on Stephen King’s The Dead Zone, it is on my blog page, and I encourage you to check it out!

Now, let’s dive in!

Today, I am reviewing Amanda Hocking’s novel Freeks. First, I would like to say that this was a pretty good read; probably the best teen paranormal fiction story I’ve ever read.

Freeks is about an eighteen-year-old girl who is part of a traveling carnival whose members all possess supernatural powers from necromancy, to pyrokinesis, to flying, to incredible strength. When the group arrives in the town, Caudry, an eerie wave takes over the air around them, and the main character, Mara, experiences a mysterious romance, the heartache of a missing friend, a tragedy amongst the carnival’s members, and a horrific battle between them and an evil force that terrorizes the carnival at night.

I appreciate the engaging mystery of the story the most. We are immediately introduced to an unsettling conflict when the carnival’s owner Gideon swerves his mobile home off the road after having an unexplained premonition, followed by Mara’s mother, Lyanka, saying, “There’s something off here. I felt it as soon as we got on the bridge. I knew we should turn back, but I hoped that maybe I was imagining things. Now that I look at you, I know.” Hocking wastes no time with her story’s beginning, and she proves very well that she knows how to captivate her readers.

Hocking adds to they mystery when a sixteen-year-old member of the carnival, Blossom, goes missing the next day, after the start of Mara’s new romance. Mara had met a strange, handsome young man named Gabe at a house party the night they arrived in Caudry, and she wound up spending the night there, and when she returned to the site of the carnival, she is informed that Blossom had not returned. They assume that she is most likely attending a music festival in a neighboring city. However, throughout the story, Hocking cleverly gives eerie, eldritch clues that Blossom is in fact not at a music festival. One example of these clues is when Mara vividly hears Blossom’s voice saying, “’Will you walk into my parlor?’ Said the Spider to the Fly.”

The underlying romance in this story is sweet, emotional, and suspenseful. After meeting Gabe, Mara describes him as mysterious with a “darkness to him”. She constantly mentions the unusual heat he radiates, and the unsettling feeling he gave her, but at the same time, she is absolutely in love with him. Gabe is the first person to ever have such strong feelings for Mara instead of hating or judging her. Although his emotions are genuine, Mara keeps her job with the carnival a secret, desperate to hold onto him.

As the carnival continues, everyone involved begins to complain about either not feeling well or that something is wrong with their powers. Lyanka has constant migraines, Mara’s best friend, Roxy, cannot use her pyrokinesis, and even a pair of tiger sisters are distraught. The air seems to have some sort of paranormal plague. One result of this is Mara’s recurring nightmare of an old woman screaming something at her in another language. Mara fears that the dream has some dark meaning, but she is too afraid to ask her mother, being that she is already stressed out. However, we do learn that these grim nightmares do carry a sinister warning.

I admire Hocking’s idea of the dreams. I’ve always believed that dreams act as spiritual messages. Hocking actually uses a tremendous amount of spirituality throughout the novel. Tarot cards are illustrated throughout the book, and Mara’s mother reads tarot cards to her customers, and as I mentioned before, Lyanka possesses the gift of necromancy. Spells are even cast toward the end of the novel.

The chilling horror of the story continues when a monstrous creature begins to terrorize the carnival grounds afterhours. The creature even manages to nearly kill two members of the group, only worsening the dilemma. However, despite this, we learn that there is far much more opposing Mara and her loved ones as we learn the relation between Caudry, Gabe, everyone’s paranormal powers, a missing teenager, nightmares, and the being that lurks around the carnival.

Freeks truly is a spine-chilling story that kept me on the edge of my seat. Amanda Hocking has such an amazing talent, and she shows it off with this great novel. If you enjoy mystery, suspense, monsters, spirituality, or even witchcraft, I highly recommend this one!

There are SEVERAL different exercises to practice your writing skills. Some writers like to try thoughtless writing, which is just typing away nonsense words and connecting them into a story. Some just pull up their chair and write a scene that pops into their mind out of the blue. But today, I’m going to share with you something a bit more off the wall.

I’ve found that movies help me a lot with my writing.

What? Movies!? You mean the things you watch as oppose to reading?

Yes, I mean just that.

As a reader, there is nothing wrong with enjoying movies as much as reading those precious books on your shelf. Movies can inspire a writer as easily as a story full of crafty vocabulary and clever storytelling. Of course, I’m not saying that you should turn whatever movie you’ve just watched into a book. First of all, that’s kinda stealing, and it’s just lazy and dishonest. I’m talking about just seeing one thing in the movie that sticks with you and sparks your creativity. Maybe you’ve just watched Spielburg’s E.T., and Elliott’s sister, Gertie, helped you cook up a character who is big-mouthed and whiney. Boom. You now have a character.

Or perhaps you’ve finished watching Coraline, and you’re inspired to write about a magic portal. That’s perfectly okay! Ya know, as long as you don’t write about a little girl with blue hair that found a portal in a huge house that leads to her dream world with a crazy spider-lady who wants to sew buttons into her eyes… That, my friend, would be stealing.

Movies are great for inspiration, as I said. But my the biggest, most helpful tip I want to give you is my personal advice for using movies to improve your writing, and not as a source of inspiration.

Watch the movie as if you would want to write about it. Pay attention to every detail. Maybe you’ve just gone through your favorite scene. Pause the movie and grab your laptop or a piece of paper, and write the scene in your own words.

DO NOT TRY TO MAKE IT YOUR OWN STORY!!! IT’S NOT!!!

Write the scene as if you were writing it for a story. What creative words can you use to describe the scene? At what pace can you tell that part of the story? How can you describe the surroundings? How would you describe the character’s feelings by watching his body language on the screen?

Like I said, this is not a way to get an idea for a story (again, it’s not your story. It’s already been told!), but this is a great way for learning to expand your storytelling talent, and it can help you learn a better way to describe a scene in your story.

For example, I am going to share with you a scene from a movie I watched and put into my own words. Since I am still engaging in my Horror Weekend project, I am going to write the nightmare scene from the 1985 film Silver Bullet, based on the novel Cycle of the Werewolf by Stephen King. (If you haven’t concluded it by now, I may be a little obsessed with Stephen King.)

“The sanctuary fell silent as the congregation finished singing ‘Amazing Grace’, and everyone slowly sat back down into their pews. The room was sorrowful as a few of the church members released occasional mournful sobs, paying their attention to the row of caskets displayed before them.

“It’s hard,” Reverend Lowe began, choking on his own anxiety as every eye was now upon him, “at a time like this to find the words… to offer you any comfort.”

“There is no comfort!” a grieving father cried from the congregation, mocking Reverend Lowe, laughing hysterically. “There is only private justice,” he continued.

Lowe paused, swallowing an awkward lump within the back of his throat. “Mmm…” he uttered, staring down at his podium. With heavy breaths, he continued, “The Bible… t-tells us not to fear the, the terror that creepeth by night or that which flyeth by noonday…” His unsettling breathing continued between his sermon. “A-and yet, we do… We do. Because there’s so much we don’t know. And we feel very small-”

“Reverend!” the voice of the mocker returned with a growl. “He was torn apart!” A sinister growl escaped the man’s mouth as fangs began to grow inside his snarling mouth.

Lowe gasped, his eyes widened with terror as he witnessed the people surrounding him all beginning to change… to transform into hairy, ferocious monsters, ironicizing his own secret. The sound of skin stretching and tearing pierced his ears, and he began to tremble with despair as they all continued to evolve into werewolves. “No!” he shouted, his chest heaving with every breath. Cries and howls of pain filled the room, echoing throughout the sanctuary. Clothes began to rip at their seams, and fur protruded beyond the torn material.

Suddenly, all the light escaped the room, and only lightning and flickering candle flames prevented the church from becoming pitch-black. The bloodcurdling growls grew louder, and adjacent to Lowe’s podium, the woman who had been the pianist was now a horrific monster slamming her claws onto the ivory keys of the piano, slashing and demolishing them in off-key notes. Furry limbs burst abruptly through the closed coffins mere feet away from Lowe, and in seconds, every werewolf within the walls of the church was now surrounding Reverend Lowe and closing in on him, reaching out to him with exposed claws. “No!” he shouted. “No!”…

Lowe arose from the nightmare, gasping for air, his forehead moist from a terrified sweat. After realizing that the previous event was only a dream, he closed his eyes and fell back onto his pillow. “Let it end, dear God, let it end,” he prayed, steadily panting.”

To be honest, I have a lot of fun challenging myself with this exercise. Some may find this a little pointless, but I think it’s a great way to learn how to describe scenes thoroughly in your writing.

I hope you found this idea helpful. I will say it again: I do not encourage you to use this to steal scenes from a movie, but only to better your method of storytelling. Tell me what you think in the comments, and I hope you guys have a great weekend!

Remember to keep your eyes peeled for more of my short horror stories. If you haven’t checked out my own works “Claire” and “7:13 A.M.”, you can find them here on my blog, or if you’re on Facebook, you can find them on my page Fiction with Kay.

Be safe, and keep reading!

She sat upright in her wooden chair. Black curls rested flawlessly over her shoulders, contrasting picture-perfectly against the cream-colored dress and her porcelain skin. Her blue glass eyes were two glossy globes staring into an oblivion. They didn’t look at me; they looked past me. Sometimes I felt as though she were looking through me…

Mom always loved Claire. The moment she spotted the doll at a yard sell a year ago, she fell absolutely in love with her. “Oh, Jan, isn’t she gorgeous?” she had exclaimed, picking it up as if it were a newborn infant. My only response was a dry shrug. It was just a doll. A creepy, antique, morbid doll.

I vividly remember the seller practically giving Mom the doll when she had inquired a price. “I’ll take whatever ya got,” the old man had said, spitting a chunk of chewed tobacco into a Coke bottle. “She’s old, and frankly, I’m sick o’ lookin’ at her. Hell, I’ll even take a quarter.” After exchanging 25 cents for the porcelain thing, Mom happily took her home.

Between Mom and Claire, I couldn’t decide who had freaked me out the most. Mom treated her like a spoiled toddler. She constantly brushed her hair and cuddled with her. Hell, she even talked to the damn doll.

I hated Claire. And it took Mom a whole year to understand just why. Within two weeks of the doll being in our home, I began having nightmares. Not of the doll, but of someone – something – chasing me. I had mentioned them to Mom, but she thought I was overreacting. “Jan, it’s just a doll.” Just a doll, I had thought. Oh, the irony…

Following the nightmares, I constantly felt like I was being watched. Of course, I tried convincing myself that maybe I was just paranoid. But every time I would pass by Claire, I could feel her cold, lifeless stare following every step.

“You’ve got to stop worrying about Claire so much, Jan. Afterall, we’re both witches, for crying out loud! If something were wrong with Claire, don’t you think I could sense it?”

She’d had a point. As witches, we had a sixth sense. But I was not letting my guard down. No sir.

After a year, Mom started acting differently. She had been very irritable and very hostile. One afternoon, I came home from school to find Mom searching the house, cursing under her breath. When I asked her what was wrong, she spun around, and the face I looked at was not her. Her skin was pale, her eyes had dark circles underneath, and her voice carried a sinister growl. “Where is she, Jan?” she shouted.

“Where is who, Mom?” I asked, frightened at whatever was taking over my mother.

“My damn doll, Jan. Where is Claire? I know you’ve done something with her, now tell me, you little monster! Where is Claire!?”

“I haven’t touched your doll, Mom.”

Infuriated, she clutched my shoulders, maniacally shaking me. “Tell me where she is, dammit!” Her breath hit me with a sour odor with every jolt, and I could feel her nails digging painfully into my skin. Knocking her back, I fought back a scream, but tears managed to escape my eyes. For the first time in my seventeen years of life, I was terrified of my mother.

Assuming she saw the fear in my eyes, she collected herself, cupping her mouth with a gasp. “Jan, honey, I’m so sorry.” Unsure what to say next, I abruptly ran into the “safety” of my bedroom. When I opened my bedroom door, there she was. Claire was sitting in her wooden chair – the chair I had not taken to my room. I could’ve sworn I saw the damn thing smirking at me, as if to say, she’s our mom now. I plucked Claire from her seat by the back of her dress and carried her into the living room, where Mom was still scavenging.

“Here’s your damn doll!” I said, tossing it onto the couch with a thud. Like a mother rushing to her crying baby, Mom rushed to the doll, scooping it up and cradling it like a dying kitten.

“Mommy’s here, Claire. It’s okay. Don’t scare me like that!”

I could see nothing but madness on her face. I wasn’t only scared of her. I was scared for her. Whatever entity was dwelling inside this porcelain freak was taking over my mom. There was nothing logical I could do about this. I knew the only answer was magic.

That night, I waited until Mom was asleep before I began my ritual. I tiptoed into her bedroom and cut a small lock of her black hair, and I did the same to Claire, who had been enveloped by Mom’s arms like a small child with her teddy bear. Glaring at the doll, I whispered, “Enjoy your last night with her, you little bitch.” I could feel a wave of anger from the glass stare as I left the room.

I sat cross-legged on the beige carpet of my bedroom and lit a black candle. Opening my book of shadows, I flipped the pages to a bond-breaking spell. As I began to throw the doll’s hair into the flame, it wouldn’t burn. Why in the hell wouldn’t it burn? I waited, but it remained intact. I could smell the hair burning, but that was all. Goosebumps arose over my arms, and I could feel Claire’s eyes on me. Looking over my shoulder, I watched my closed door, expecting the doll to burst it open… But the door remained shut. I even listened for footsteps, but there was nothing. She knew what I was doing… And she was not going to let me carry through. I knew what I had to do at this point. My only option was to call Grandma. She was the oldest witch alive in our family, and she’d had experiences with dark entities before. I grabbed my cell phone off the cherrywood nightstand and dialed her number. I listened for the chimes indicating my call was going through, but all I heard was static. I hung up and dialed the number again, and this time, I heard Grandma’s voice, but it was fading in and out. “Grandma?” I said, but I only heard every other word.

“Jan? Is…you?… Jan…what’s go…on?…Can…hear…e…?…lo…”

I kept calling out to her, but she could not hear me. Static overtook Grandma’s voice, and suddenly, I heard something that sounded like a child’s laughter. The damn thing had gotten into my phone somehow. Frightened, I threw the phone across the room, and it collided against the wall. I didn’t even care if my screen was potentially cracked, or even shattered. I had no hope at all inside this house…

The next day, I skipped school to visit Grandma myself. On the walk, I could feel Claire watching me. Although Mom thought I would be sitting in Mr. Brown’s history class, Claire knew exactly where I was. Her eldritch presence followed me. But I knew I would be safe as soon as I made it to Grandma’s.

A chilly wind crept up my spine, and leaves began to fall at once from their overhanging branches. I tightened my purple jacket about myself and tugged at the shoulder straps of my backpack, whispering an incantation under my breath. Darkness that follows, return to your hollows. You will not take me, for I forsake thee. I repeated the incantation over and over. Turning onto Sparrow Street, I began to run, impatient to reach Grandma’s door that was merely three more houses away. I began to see red eyes lurking from within the windows of the houses I was passing by. Demonic whispers rang in my ears, taunting me with each step. The whole world seemed to be spinning.

The driveway appeared to be ten miles long as I darted toward the red door of 215 Sparrow Street. Once I finally reached it, I ran inside, neglecting to knock. “Grandma!”

“Jan, honey, is that you?” I heard Grandma’s voice calling from the kitchen. She emerged from the doorway, still drying a plate with a dish towel. Her sweet vanilla perfume reached me, and I felt safer than I had in what seemed like an eternity. A lump formed in my throat, and tears streamed down my cheeks. I rushed to her, throwing my arms around her, allowing myself to sink into her loving, maternal embrace. “Jan, sweetie, what’s the matter? Was that you that called me last night?”

“Grandma, it’s Mom,” I began, fighting through jerking sobs.

“What’s wrong with your mother? Is she all right?”

I wiped my moist eyes against her pink sleeve and began to tell her about Claire and my mother’s crazed obsession with the doll. Then, I explained to her my failed attempt to break their bond the night before. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Grandma. It’s like she’s being possessed by the doll.”

“Dolls can’t possess people, Jan. But something may be bound to the doll, or even trapped within it.” She led me into her kitchen and directed me to take a seat at the small table. She brewed us a pot of tea, and she took her place across the table from me, setting my teacup in front of me on the lacy tablecloth. I had no interest in the tea at all. While she sipped on her beverage, I chewed on my thumbnail. “When did all this begin, honey?”

“Mom bought the doll a year ago at some yard sale. It wasn’t long before she started affecting me. I was having nightmares, and then soon, I could feel her watching me.”

“Whatever is in that doll, it’s dwelling on magic. That’s why it tried to attach itself to you first, but your mother seems to be more vulnerable since she took such a liking to the doll.”

“Why couldn’t I break their bond last night?”

“Seems to me like she’s absorbed so much of your mother’s magic that she’s able to fight off yours.” Pushing up her thinly rimmed glasses, she took another sip of her tea. “It’s been years since I’ve dealt with something like this…” she said, staring at the rim of her teacup. I could see her memories haunting her like a swarm of invisible ghosts swirling about her head. She pressed her red-stained lips into a thin line.

“Grandma?” I asked, drawing her back from her own mind.

“It’s not going to be easy. We have to get, uh…”

“Claire.”

“Yeah. That thing away from your mother. We could either burn her or bind her to something else. Then burn whatever she’s bound to.”

I was completely dumbfounded by her solution. How could that do any good? “Burning certainly didn’t work last night.”

“Maybe not with your efforts alone. But if we both perform the ritual, our magic may be strong enough to separate her from your mother.”

Finally, Grandma’s words were making sense. Grandma rose from the table and disappeared down the hallway. A few seconds later, she returned with a wooden spoon with some sigil engraved into it.

“It’s simple, but it won’t be easy, Jan. That’s why you will not be doing this alone.”

“A spoon, Grandma? All this time, I could’ve just used a spoon?”

She laughed. “This is not just a spoon, sweetheart. This has been blessed with my own magic. This sigil represents purity and protection.” She offered me the utensil with an outstretched arm, and I took it into my own hand, examining the engraving: a symbol that looked like a drop of water. “When the spirit is bound to this, any evil it has accumulated overtime will be cleansed, and it can move on. But as I said before, it won’t be easy. You must understand this. In order to begin the ritual, we have to break the bond between the doll and your mother.”

My stomach sank.

We waisted no time leaving her house to return to my own home. The walk home felt much more secure with Grandma to protect me. However, she could feel the same evil that had followed me before. We both muttered incantations to ward off whatever was traveling with us. Eventually, we made it home in one piece.

Grandma followed me into the house while I searched for Mom. I found her in her bedroom rocking back and forth in her rocking chair with Claire in her lap, watching me with those damn eyes. Mom looked deathly-ill. Her face had lost almost all of its pigment, and her cheekbones were protruding through her now thin flesh. Her teeth were coated with brown plaque, and her eyes were stained yellow. “Hello, Mother. Jan,” she greeted hoarsely, her glare stabbing through my soul.

“Hi, Norma. Jan tells me there’s a problem with that, uh, doll you have there.”

“Oh, does she, now?” she growled. “Does she tell you that she wants me to get rid of Claire? My baby?”

“Norma, that thing is not your baby,” Grandma said calmly. “This is your baby,” she continued, gesturing to me, concealing her spoon within her dress.

“That little bitch is just jealous. Claire is innocent. She loves me.” Although I knew that wasn’t really my mom shouting those harsh words, they still stung me, and tears burned in the back of my eyes.

Grandma took a diagonal step forward, holding her arm protectively in front of me, as if shielding me. “Norma, this is your daughter!

“That thing is not my daughter. Claire is.” Then, Mom leaned her ear to the doll’s mouth. “Huh? What’s that?” A lump of anxiety formed in the depths of my throat, and I swallowed hard. Mom ran her fingers through Claire’s hair, nodding with each whisper that only she could hear. “If you say so, sweetheart…” She wrapped her arm tightly around the doll and retrieved a kitchen knife that had been tucked between the cushion and the wooden frame of the rocking chair. Her lips curled into an eerie, haunting smile, and her eyes seemed to glow. She arose slowly, her eyes fixed on me. It felt as though I were shrinking, and she was growing larger even faster. She gently placed Claire on the bottom cushion of the rocking chair, and stood still, as if she were waiting for me to make my first move. The smile grew wider, and her eyes were now piercing through my very flesh, and my heart pounded.

“Norma-”

“Shut up, you old hag!” Mom shouted in an otherworldly voice. It sounded like a deep growl had been blended with a screech from a banshee. Then, Grandma took a step forward, and within the blink of an eye, Mom had crossed the room with quick, inhumanly quick, steps. Her hands reached out like claws, and they clutched Grandma’s arms, yanking her onto the ground.

I darted from the doorway and tumbled onto her bed, rolling over to the other side, mere feet away from the doll. Suddenly, I heard a monstrous hiss, and I felt her razor-sharp fingernails digging into the exposed skin of my ankles under my jeans. With all my might, I tugged on the bedpost, fighting as best I could to escape her grasp. Then the worst pain I had ever felt in my life stabbed throughout my leg as Mom sank the kitchen knife into the side of my thigh. All I could do was scream. I squirmed and kicked and pleaded, but this only earned a roaring laugh from her. My strength abandoned me for a brief moment, then she had me. Mom flipped me over and straddled my waist, raising the knife above her head, preparing to plunge the weapon into my chest. I closed my eyes and winced. I knew it was over.

“Norma!” Grandma shouted from the rocking chair, holding Claire by her black curls. Mom turned around, and her jaw dropped. She dropped the knife onto the bed and released me, going for the doll. Before she made it to the rocking chair, Grandma pounded the doll’s porcelain face against the arm of the chair, shattering that precious face into pieces.

“No!!!” Mom screamed, dropping to her knees and picking up each piece of the doll’s face. With the broken pieces still in her hand, she clenched her fists, cutting her own flesh, and tiny shards of the porcelain and blood fell from her hands. After only a few seconds of sobbing, Mom silenced her grief, and her sinister eyes met mine. She arose and reached for the knife that was beside me. Before her clawed fingers could reach it, I snatched it away. I was not yet successful, though. After I managed to get the knife away from her, her alternative move was wrapping her hand tightly around my neck. Fighting through coughs and desperate gasps for air, I saw no escape. The room began to grow dark, and I could feel myself losing consciousness.

Suddenly, my neck was released after a loud shatter. Grandma had broken a lamp over Mom’s head, knocking her out. Mom was laid still on the floor, the doll’s broken face was all over the carpet, and blood continued to drain from the open would on my leg, staining Mom’s bed covers.

“Jan, we don’t have much time. Grab a sheet and follow me to your room.” As I ripped the sheet off Mom’s bed, Grandma collected the remains of the doll, and I limped as quickly as I could behind her across the hall into my bedroom. “Wrap that around your leg snugly,” she said, motioning to the sheet. I followed her directions, then I grabbed my book of shadows and my black candle. Grandma used an incense stick to cleanse a piece of the doll’s hair, and she threw it into the flame. I still had Mom’s hair from the night before, and I handed it to Grandma. She continued the spell, burning both locks of hair. She began to rotate her spoon around the flame counterclockwise demanding that their bond be broken.

Our next step was to bind the spirit within the doll to the spoon. Grandma took one of the doll’s eyes and tied it to the scoop end of the utensil with a black ribbon. She had been explaining to me that black was the best choice since that color corresponded with banishing negative energies. Once the knot was tied, she began chanting.

“Spirit who dwells within this eye, you must now say goodbye. Out of this realm you will be soon. Out of the doll, and into this spoon!”

Grandma and I repeated the spell three times, both our hands around the spoon and eye. I followed her lead as she began shaking them rhythmically. We closed our eyes, focusing on our intention, and I could feel the spirit’s rage as it tried to fight us. I heard the sound of my books falling from my shelf, crashing onto the floor, and I could feel the floor trembling beneath me. Grandma could sense my tension, and she reminded me to be strong and concentrate.

Suddenly, my mom’s face appeared in my mind’s eye. Not the deranged monster who had just attempted to kill me. Mom. The woman who loved me unconditionally. The woman who was always there for me. The woman who loved me more than this demonic doll. Her bright green eyes and her rosy-pink cheeks that radiated a motherly glow from her sweet, warm smile. I found peace with the image, and I held on to it. I was going to save my mother, and I was going to get rid of this spirit once and for all.

I chanted Grandma’s spell one last time at the top of my lungs, squeezing my eyelids together so tightly, they hurt.  

“Spirit who dwells within this eye, you must now say goodbye! Out of this realm you will be soon! Out of the doll, and into this spoon!”

A loud thud echoed throughout the room, and a calmness followed. I could still feel its presence, but it was very faint. Placing my palm over the spoon, I could feel the spirit’s energy vibrating through the wood. “It worked,” Grandma said, half smiling. I winced as I scooted across the carpet, and I threw my arms around her, crying with relief. “Oh, we’re not finished quite yet.”

“I know. Now we burn this damn thing!”

Grandma helped me to my feet, and I shifted my weight onto my good leg, and we progressed to the living room. We approached the brick fireplace, and I threw the spoon into its pit. With a strike of a match, Grandma nodded. She added the lighted match to the pit, setting the spoon into a burst of flames. At first, the fire was a normal red-orange color, but after a moment, the flame burned green and blue. This only lasted about two minutes. After the fire returned to its original color, it quickly went out, leaving nothing but a pile of ash.

I stared at the remains, satisfied. I no longer felt the haunting presence. I felt no eyes watching me anymore. I was fearless and at peace once more. Most of all, I felt safe.

Footsteps joined us in the living room, followed by, “Jan? Mom?” I spun around and saw the image I had seen in my bedroom. Only this time, it was more than just a picture from my memory. It was Mom. My mom.

So, why should you write?

If you’re not new to writing, then you already know the answer. However, if you’ve recently begun writing – be it writing in a journal, on a blog, on a Facebook page, or simply on a word document – then here are a few reasons why you should engage in, and enjoy, your writing!

I think the most obvious reason you might consider writing is simply to express yourself. Life is NOT easy, and EVERYONE struggles. We all occasionally crawl into our deepest pits of despair, swimming around in our own emotions. And I’m pretty sure you know it’s NOT safe to keep it all bottled up. This is one of the leading causes of depression, and we all want to get these things off our chests.

As a teenager, I was EXTREMELY emotional. I suffered the loss of my father, I endured bullying, I cried my way through the death of one of my best friends, and I experienced minor trauma that NO teenager should have to know, and how did I get through this? Listening to music and WRITING!

Writing is a gateway to your innermost feelings, and until you put the pen to the paper, or your fingers to the keyboard, you may have suppressed feelings that you never knew existed. Therefore, it is a 100% healthy way of expressing this!

Sliding away from the feels, another reason you may consider writing is to put that wild imagination of yours to some good use! We all daydream, but do you have those same ideas that never seem to go away? DON’T LET THEM! Although you may think that some of your ideas are silly, someone out there will definitely enjoy them! These silly ideas are the door to your chance to be the next J.K. Rowling or Neil Gaiman or Stephen King!

Okay, maybe that’s a bit extreme, but you never know. If you entertain yourself with that “nonsense”, imagine the hundreds, maybe thousands, maybe MILLIONS who may find it appealing!

On another note, you know that one story you want to be written? That one thing you desperately want to read about, but nobody has written it? Guess what? That’s your opportunity! You would never believe how many people could be searching for that same story, but have yet to stumble across it.

Perhaps you don’t want to write fiction? There are NUMEROUS non-fiction topics that you can write about in order to help people like yourself: Cooking, sports, motherhood, gaming, travelling, finance… The list goes on and on… and on… and- Oh, you get the idea!

Not only is writing helpful, healthy, and just plain fun, but it is also an excellent career opportunity! Maybe you don’t want to be the next huge author- fine. Maybe you do want to be the next huge author- even better! But you can write as a day job! The internet is FULL of these opportunities! Although you may start out small as a one-time blogger for a magazine, your foot is IN THE DOOR! From that small, teeny-tiny step you’ve just taken can potentially bloom into a long-term career if you either reach out to or are discovered by that one person or business!

“But my writing isn’t good enough!”

Well, join the club! I still consider myself as an amateur, but the web has SO MANY sources where you can learn more, and some of them are FREE! There are some low-cost classes on the internet that you can take to expand your knowledge in writing, be it blogging or literature. Another good source? YouTube! Several authors have their own channels (Like Jenna Moreci and Alexa Donne), and they create and post vlogs specifically to help and inspire people like us! (Seriously, guys! Check them out!)

Whether you decide to write for your own entertainment, or you actually want to aspire to be the next big author, I hope this has given you some inspiration!

What are your writing goals? Share them in the comments!

Introduction

Storytelling is a truly fun and exciting form of art. We all love to read about a school of witchcraft and wizardry, a fellowship out to destroy a ring, vampire romances, a clown terrorizing children all the way into their adult life.

Sure, all of these are intriguing, and they keep the pages flipping. But what is the real back-bone of a story? Characters, of course! Without Harry, we would never have known the legend of the Philosopher’s Stone. Had Frodo not taken the ring from his uncle, how would we learn how true of a friend Samwise was, and who else would’ve had the will power to destroy the One Ring? Without Edward, Bella would have remained a depressed, average teenager. Without Bill, Richie, Mike, Ben, Eddie, Stan, and Beverly, would Pennywise still be terrorizing Derry?

The Main Five

Not only does a story require strong characters, but it needs specific characters. Most stories demand at least five characters: the antagonist, the protagonist, the mentor, the skeptic, and the sidekick.

J.R.R. Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings is the perfect example for this. Frodo Baggins is obviously the heroic protagonist since he is the ultimate leader of the story, and he brings on the resolution. Samwise Gamgee is the sidekick. He is Frodo’s loyal, supportive best friend who follows him throughout the entire journey. Gandalf the wizard is the mentor. He shines a light of wisdom, and he teaches and guides Frodo along the way. Our skeptic of this story is Boromir. The skeptic typically goes along with the main character, but usually is shady. Boromir took on the honor of joining the group to destroy the ring, but he briefly finds himself wanting the ring for himself. The antagonist is ultimately Sauron considering he practically wears the badge of “the bad guy”. However, Saruman definitely fits the role as well with his loyalty to Sauron. But that debate is for another day.

What Makes a Character?

Now that we have that ground covered, let’s discuss the fundamentals of a character. Well, first and foremost, that’s simply a person in a story. However, creating a character is not that easy. What does this person look like? Where do they live? What does this character want? How will his own desires affect the story? What are his weaknesses? Now we’re getting the picture!

What makes a character? Number one would be his personality. Is he independent? Is he young? Old? Let’s take a look at Harry from J.K. Rowling’s series. She described Harry as a skinny boy who had messy black hair and green eyes and a lightning bold scar. Unfortunately, this is not enough. Harry grew up with a harsh life under the roof of an aunt, an uncle, and a cousin who all hated and mistreated him. From this, Harry understood how to appreciate people who truly cared about him, and he was able to see through more shady people like Draco Malfoy. By this, I am indicating that your character requires some backstory.

Also, your main character should not be perfect. As children, we all felt a strong connection with Harry. But why? Because we related to him. Readers cannot easily relate to a character who has no flaws. The story will eventually become boring. Not only was his appearance flawed, but he had emotions. Crazy right? A heroic kid who can perform magic actually has the ability to cry; who would have guessed? That’s something that can pull your reader deeper into the story. And when your reader is emotionally invested in your book, they are more likely to finish and enjoy it.

One major trait that is crucial to your character is his voice. Yes, I said it. A voice. True, a book is just words on a page, and you cannot physically hear the character speaking, but each character should have a specific tone and vocabulary. Harry was very sarcastic and a little arrogant. Ronald Weasley, on the other hand, was more childish and a bit grumpy. Hermione Granger was clearly witty, and we could hear her intelligence through her larger vocabulary and her more precise language. Without character voice, your reader will feel like a ghost is telling them the story, and it will feel monotonous and flat, like that history teacher that put you to sleep everyday in high school.

The Little Things

What else makes a character unique? What are you ding right now? Chewing on your fingernail? Perhaps you’re twirling that one strand of hair? Or maybe you’re tapping your foot? Well, these little things are called quirks, and if you want a genuinely unique character, that puts the icing on the cake. In Stephen King’s The Shining, Jack Torrance had a habit of eating aspirins and rubbing his mouth when he craved alcohol. In King’s other novel IT, Ben Hanscom tends to bite his thumb. These tiny details make for a much more believable character.

The Character Arc

The final step for your character is the character arc. Now, what in the world is this, you may ask. In a sentence, the character arc is the change and development a character experiences throughout a story, whether he notices it or not. In life, we grow, we learn, and we change based on our life lessons. Guess what, your character needs that, too. If your character endures this back-breaking or mind-bending journey, and he learns absolutely nothing, and he remains the exact same, what was the point in dragging him through the mud? When your reader sees your character’s growth and his accomplishments, your reader is usually proud of that character, and he can be moved by your story. What if Frodo never realized that he needed Samwise by his side on his way to destroy the ring? He would have kept rejecting him, and he would have never understood the importance of friendship. See the lightbulb yet? Or what would have become of the Lucky Seven if they never understood that faith is stronger than fear? Would they have ever killed Pennywise once and for all?

Conclusion

As you can see, there is so much to making a solid, believable character. A story cannot be told by a plain John Doe who has nothing to remember him by, and who does not go through the pits of hell to learn a lesson and make his greatest accomplishment. A character must have depth, and you are the one who has to give him that significant breath of life.

I hope you can carry this with you on your next character development session. Have fun, and remember to keep writing!

Hello, everyone!

So, first and foremost, I really want to apologize for not posting anything in a while. I’ve had a pretty busy week, and I had intended to share my review on Amanda Hocking’s novel “Freeks” this past Tuesday. However, things did not go as planned, but I am very pleased to announce that I will post my review tonight!

I also want to give you all a great thanks for joining me on my Horror Weekend! I had a lot of fun writing short stories to share with you, and I’m glad to know that you all enjoyed them! I do plan to write more content for your own enjoyment. Unfortunately, I will be most productive on weekends. But I am working on making more time for my writing very soon, so you should be able to see more from me! Thank you all for your support, and don’t miss my book review on “Freeks” by Amanda Hocking! I hope you all have a great night, and remember to keep reading!

Opening my eyes, I noticed it was still dark. I rolled over in my bed and looked at my alarm clock on the nightstand. I was bewildered when I read 7:13 a.m. in its illuminated digital green numbers.

What?

I swiftly tossed the blanket to the side as I stood out of bed and walked over to the window. Surely enough, the moon was still up. Something was just not right. Maybe my clock was wrong? To prove myself right, I looked at the clock on my cellphone. However, it, too, displayed 7:13 a.m.

My head spun with confusion, and I sat back down on the bed. Could it be something with the weather? No, no. There had to be some kind of explanation.

Suddenly, a bright, flickering light invaded my bedroom. It looked like a lamp had been turned on, but this light was coming from outside. I sprang up to investigate, and what I saw startled me. Down my street, another house was on fire! I quickly shoved my arms through the sleeves of my robe as I exited my home.

I ran down the street, dialing 9-1-1 on my phone, but I had no signal. I began calling for help, but nobody seemed to hear me. The flames were growing larger, and the scorching scent fumigated the air. Before I knew it, the fire had spread to the trees on the front lawn, and I began screaming. Once again, I was not heard. I began pounding on neighbors’ doors in a panic, but not one single resident answered.

Then I turned around…

The same house that had been burning, was now calm and there was no sign of a fire. None. The street was as dark as my bedroom, despite the streetlights and the moonlight. What the hell? I was in no way satisfied, so I walked over to the house, eager for some answers.

As I approached the driveway, my heart raced within my chest. The door looked so far away. I felt like I had walked a mile before I finally reached the porch steps. Once I was finally reaching for the doorknob, the door swung open, echoing a whoosh! What I saw next sent a chill throughout my entire body, and my stomach sank to my feet.

An old man stood in the doorway, but he looked like something straight from a horror film. His mouth was open wide, as if his jaw had been rotting at the joints, and drool steadily leaked from his blue lips. His solid white eyes had neither irises nor pupils. They were two huge pools of nothingness beneath drooped eyelids. His clothes were torn, and his voice was a long, monotonous moan. I stood, frozen with fear. That was until the ghostly, zombie-like old man reached a pale hand out toward me. His yellowed fingernails almost grazed my shoulder before I turned around to run, almost stumbling down the steps.

I was unsure as to where exactly I was going. All I knew was that I had to get away from whatever had been waiting for me behind that door. My heart was pounding so fast, I was afraid it would soon burst through my ribcage.

I kept running until I reached the church across the street from the grocery store. A huge sign before the building read Davenport Church of God. Seeking safety, I ran into the church and buried myself under a pew. I had remained there for at least five minutes just to be sure that the old man had not followed me.

Once I declared that it was safe, I emerged from my hiding spot and tiptoed around the sanctuary. I made my way to the back door, planning to make sure I had not been followed. However, I became distracted by the faint light of a beginning dawn. The pitch-black sky was now a dark blue, fading into a blooming pink. Curious, I stepped out the back door.

The backyard of this church was apparently a cemetery. I told myself that I wasn’t going to put too much thought into the idea of walking through a graveyard after such a horrific night. Therefore, I put forth my best efforts to ignore the headstones.

However, I couldn’t help but notice the one grave that stood out in contrast of all the others. This one particular headstone made me fall to my knees and lose what little bit of a mind I had left. “Phillip John Bennett, 1993-2020” was engraved on the concrete plaque at the head of the grave. My name. The world began to spin, and try as I might, I could not catch my breath. No! This was impossible! Entirely impos-

Then, there he was.

The ghostly old man stood before me, pointing his finger at the grave. Was he telling me I was dead? Had he been coming to take me? Maddened, I clutched two handfuls of my own hair, sobbing and mumbling into the ground. The humming of the old man’s moans pushed me farther into insanity until I finally shouted, “Leave me alone!”.

It was silent. The moaning was gone. The old man was gone. I straightened up, still on my knees, and I glanced around, looking for the old man, but he was nowhere to be found. Daylight had spread a little further than before, and I forced myself to return my eyes to the haunting headstone. But this time, my name was no longer written on the headstone. My name and my alleged lifespan had been replaced by “George Hugh Powell, 1956-2020”. I arose to my feet, slowly backing away from the scene, neglecting to look over my shoulder. Shaking my head, I backed up a few more steps until I stumbled over a headstone behind me. I expected to land flat on my back, but I kept falling… and falling…

I sprang up into a sit, and sweat poured from my forehead, soaking my hair. I was in my bed. Daylight shone from the window beside my bed. I was alive! As I turned sideways, I looked at the alarm clock on my nightstand, which read 7:13 a.m. My heart skipped a beat.

Refusing to let a nightmare get the best of me, I arose out of bed and stepped to the window. To my surprise, there was a commotion down the street. Police cars lined the curbs of the road, and yellow tape was spread across two trees in front of one of the houses. Desperate to learn more, I walked outside. My neighbor Seth Williams was standing on the lawn beside my own, smoking a cigarette.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Apparently, Mr. Powell down the road died last night,” he said, blowing smoke through his nostrils. My jaw dropped as flashbacks of the ghostly man filled my memory.

“Who did you say?”

“Mr. Powell. You know, George Powell.”

Hi, everyone!

This weekend, I’m trying something a little different. So, I am normally more dedicated to fantasy/dark fantasy. But I’ve decided to try my hand at short horror stories.

My last post was my own short story “Claire”, and I’ve decided to post at least one more short horror story.

This is my first time completing any horror story, so this is quite an exciting process for me.

If you haven’t read “Claire” yet, the story is on my blog page, and if you are on Facebook, it is also on my page, Fiction with Kay.

I hope you guys enjoy the stories I will be posting for you this weekend!

Stay safe, and keep reading!

As readers, it’s only obvious that we would all have at least one favorite novel. Today I am going to be sharing with you my favorite!

I frequently refer to Stephen King in my posts, mostly because I see him as a literary genius! I deeply admire his twisted style of storytelling. Only he could materialize a psychic boy who visits a hotel that literally comes to life, or an author who is trapped within the hostile walls of an insanely obsessed fan.

Of course, it would only make sense that my favorite novel would be written by the author for whom I have the utmost respect. The novel that has caught my heart ever since I read the book jacket is none other than The Dead Zone. This is an underrated story of a man who suffers a tragic car accident and wakes up after a five-year coma only to realize that he has psychic abilities, and this is probably the novel that inspired me the most as a writer.

Johnny Smith was my first fictional love. Originally, he was a small boy who had an ice-skating accident, and was lucky to survive, but the accident was what had thrown him into the “Dead Zone”. We later view him as a history teacher who was desperately in love with his fellow teacher girlfriend Sarah Bracknell. King emerges us into an intense trance with Johnny as he later takes her on a date at a fair. Johnny is mentally trapped within this Wheel of Fortune gambling game. King very clearly explains that Johnny is unable to turn away from the game until Sarah has become sick from a bad hotdog.

Within this scene, I felt as though I myself was captivated by the spinning wheel along with Johnny. I personally must say that it takes a brilliant writer to make a reader feel hypnotized by an image created by words on paper!

Not only does Johnny wake up with a sixth sense after his coma, but he is also stricken by the fact that his beloved Sarah is now married with a little boy, Denny. Johnny is utterly crushed by this, and it absolutely does not help him while fighting through physical therapy. King vividly describes Johnny as devastated and longing for death.

Stephen King really tugged at my heartstrings as I felt nothing but pure sympathy for Johnny. To be completely honest, this is what made me fall in love with this imaginary person.

It was soon after this that he discovered his new power. Johnny’s first heroic act was during a physical therapy session when he grabs his therapist’s hand and he is emerged into his first episode, seeing that her house is on fire. After he recovers from the episode, he informs her, and she rushes home to find out that he was in fact correct.

Doctor Sam Weizak is my secondary favorite character in the novel. He and Johnny develop a bond throughout the story and become friends beyond their doctor-patient relationship. Doctor Weizak learns about Johnny’s new ability when Johnny has a flashback of WWII, and witnesses a young boy being transported by wagon to safety, leaving his mother behind.

After reading that scene, the lines “The wolf is loose” and “The boy is safe” echoed in my head in my sleep. It’s truly amazing how such simple lines can follow you throughout a whole novel. Even to this day, seeing the novel’s title triggers these ghostly whispers within my own mind.

I think the most emotionally investing subplot in King’s novel was the heart-breaking conflict of Johnny’s lingering passion for Sarah. I quickly found myself hating Sarah. Of course, I was likely biased by my own attachment to Johnny, but I despised how Sarah pulled and pushed Johnny away like a yo-yo. Not only did she give up on him and marry, but she leads him on, giving the false hope that they could reunite their love. She even makes love to him at his father’s home! Johnny discovers that it was all in vain when Sarah later tells him that it can never happen again. I don’t think I’ve ever cried over a novel so much!

Away from the cruel, tear-jerking romance, King cleverly weaves mystery into the story with the Castle Rock murder case, and he once again kicks our emotions into play.

A sheriff in despair approaches Johnny with a proposal to help him figure out who the killer is. Johnny is completely appalled. The whole world is using him for his clairvoyance. When he first refuses, to assist Sheriff Bannerman, the officer does not oppose, but he does remind Johnny of how God has “blessed” him. “Blessed me?” Johnny had retorted. He then spits out a series of ranting. God struck him with a car. God took away the love of his life. God gave him a gift that he absolutely does not want. “God’s been a real sport to me!” Johnny had said. This scene was probably the most relatable of the whole novel. We all know the feeling of failure and struggle. There’s always that one person who says, “Well, on the bright side…” Shut up, we all think. There is no bright side. I love the fact that King even gave Johnny those lines. He sort of brings us to our darkest moments within that scene, and we instantly click with him, and Johnny’s sarcasm and vividly-written emotions make him the realistic character he is.

The mystery of the story continues when Johnny finally decides to help the sheriff solve the murder case. After trying to use his sixth sense on an empty cigarette pack, a newly found body is reported under a gazebo, and of course, Johnny is able to solve the case by touching the young female corpse. King cleverly emerges Johnny into the moment of the murder. Johnny discovers that the killer is none other than Sheriff Bannerman’s deputy Frank Dodd. At this point, I almost threw the book, I was so surprised!

King introduces another subplot when a rich father hires Johnny to tutor his reclusive son, Chris. Within pages, a teacher-student friendship is bloomed. Not to mention that Johnny saves Chris from a fatal hockey accident when Chris’s father practically demands Chris to play on the team the day before the accident. Johnny has a premonition of the ice breaking and the team members drowning. Before we discover that Chris in fact did not attend the hockey game, Johnny reads a newspaper cover of children drowning during the said game, and he calls Chris’s home. I remember feeling as scared as Johnny was until I felt his mutual relief when Chris answers the phone.

Johnny Smith becomes the ultimate hero when he puts an end to a corrupt politician’s evil plot. Johnny discovers that Greg Stillson is indeed a sociopath when he shakes his hand at a rally and has a vision of his plot to release a lethal missile after threatening the life of the general for his reluctance to follow his orders. King also describes how brutal Stillson is when he kicks a dog to death!

Once Johnny discovers what kind of an evil person Greg Stillson truly is, he consults Sam Weizak. Johnny asked Sam if he could go back in time and kill Hitler, would he do it? Weizak responds that he would “kill the son of a bitch”. Therefore, Johnny plans his next move to assassinate Stillson the next day in the auditorium where he would be holding a town hall meeting. Personally, I believe that Greg Stillson’s most cruel act was after Johnny shot the first bullet, and he shielded himself with Sarah’s infant son. A young boy with a camera managed to capture a snapshot of the incident, but Johnny fell to his death from the balcony after being shot himself and crashing into a bench.

Although King’s beloved character does not survive to the end of the novel, Johnny does in fact save the world when Stillson’s chances at being elected are destroyed by the photograph that had soon made a magazine cover. We are positive that Stillson can do no more harm when he shoots himself in the end.

I think the ending was the most sorrowful scene of the entire book. Sarah is at Johnny’s grave, telling him goodbye for the last time through her tears. I remember my own tears falling onto the pages as I read the last line.

As you can see, this story is entirely brilliant! Not only does King take us on an wild, supernatural rollercoaster filled with mystery, murder, corruption, romance, and death, but he ingeniously engages our emotions with every turn of the page.  In my personal opinion, the emotion in the story is what brings it to life and makes it all the more enjoyable!

That’s all for my favorite novel by probably the most talented author alive. What’s your favorite novel? Feel free to tell in the comments!

Who Am I?

My name is Kayla McLaney, but we’re all friends here, so call me Kay. I am an aspiring author, and I am here to share my abundant passion for the marvelous world of fiction. I have always loved to create stories, as well as read them, and I look forward to inspire, entertain, and share writing advice with others who share appreciation for the literary arts.

What is my mission?

As I mentioned, I am of course here to share my love for fictional stories. But I also look forward to discussing the various genres of fiction, the authors who inspired me, what led me to writing, and so on. As well, I hope you leave this page with a fresh mind full of ideas for your own stories. If you are not a writer, then I simply hope to have made you smile.

Also, I know how much fun writing stories is. And I know how hard it is! Over the years, I have wrecked my brain, spent ours in front of a computer screen begging for ideas from myself, and nearly crying myself to sleep because I felt like a failure. I am here to help you fight through all that heartache. Overtime, I have learned numerous tricks to storytelling, from world building to character arcs to overcoming writer’s block, and I am more than happy to be here to urge you on and teach you what I know, and I will continue to urge you to push forth to achieve your writing dreams as well!

Didi Oviatt

Author of suspense novels Sketch, Justice For Belle, Search For Maylee, Aggravated Momentum, and a medley of short stories.

Nature,science,health,engineering

Distinguished reader selectively reads

myserenewords

Seeking Solace in the Horizon of Life & Beyond.

Carol's Notes

Thoughts from my life as a writer and adventurer.

Frank Solanki

If you want to be a hero well just follow me

Stine Writing

Poetry, Positivity, and Connecting!

Coco Crisp's Afro

We prattle on about the past and future of Oakland A's baseball with a rock n' roll rebellious spirit and an eternal love for Milton Bradley.

ALYAZYA

A little something for you.

Ailish Sinclair

Stories and photos from Scotland

My Journey

Welcome. My blog is a place where readers will find writings of personal experiences, thoughts, and the peace that the Lord provides throughout my walk. I intend to bring inspiration and insight, as well as providing a very personal and transparent view into my life, in order to help others see their own lives in a different perspective. I strongly believe that we all need a different view at times, in order for our own personal growth to take place.

John Wreford Photographer

Words and Pictures from the Middle East & Balkans

Taylor Thompson

Writer. Sci Fi. Art Nerd. D&D. Rum. Writing Portfolio and Blog. TWITTER: @tayrotten

Bombay Ficus

Running, Writing & Life

Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

Musings and books from a grunty overthinker

Fiction with Kay

Welcome to Fiction with Kay! This website is created to share my love for fiction with you, my fellow bookworms! Here, you can dive into the world of storytelling, gain inspiration for your own writing dream, and I will even include some tips I've learned on my creative journey! I may even surprise you with some of my own works, so keep your eyes peeled!

Fiction with Kay

Welcome to Fiction with Kay! This website is created to share my love for fiction with you, my fellow bookworms! Here, you can dive into the world of storytelling, gain inspiration for your own writing dream, and I will even include some tips I've learned on my creative journey! I may even surprise you with some of my own works, so keep your eyes peeled!

Discover

A daily selection of the best content published on WordPress, collected for you by humans who love to read.