Talking Poems, Serially?


Talking SeriallySo why poems and why are they talking?

Well, the imputes for Talking Poems was entering a contest. Wattpad was running the Attys, a poetry award. They wanted different styles of poetry and I really only stuck with the one style, so I didn’t place in the competition. I’m not very good at following the rules (I once wrote a play about God judging the victims of a car crash to see who gets to keep their soulds when I was supposed to write about a judge in a courtroom making a decision on a criminals life. Go figure.)

However, the idea was there. I thought it would be neat to write a small collection of poems about language and how we speak. The first poem, Difficulty Speaking, was written for a college course and got an A+ (*ahem*). I thought if I was going to try and write a collection of poetry (something I haven’t really done before, though I’ve written a lot of poetry, I don’t usually put it out there), I would focus on that style.

This would accomplish two things: it would get me off my lazy behind and write (at the time it had been a few weeks since I had written anything) and it would get me writing with a goal (I work best with a deadline, I guess).

So I wrote ten poems and called it done. The collection itself had its own ideas, however. I went on to write five more poems to round the whole thing out. So that’s pretty cool.

I thought about a collection that could combine real life conversations I’ve had or heard (Bus Babies, Difficulty Speaking, He is Everywhere, Past Resident, The Casual Vacancy, Yellow Bottle, Violent Sound, Smoke, Snippet Bees, What Awaited Me) with other poems that are more whimsical in nature (G and the D in an E, On the Yellow Brick Road, Sometimes/Words, Translation)

The real and the fantasy would have one main link: I wanted to examine language in different ways. Some poems in this collection are actual conversations or dialogue’s caught on paper. They happened as they are written; I just tried to capture them. Others, more obviously, are made up, but each poem looks at what we say and what we do not say. I tried to let the conversations stand out a bit. I wanted to examine how we talk to each other.

As I listened and wrote, I experimented with the form of a poem itself. If language  was going to be a focus to the poems, I also wanted to play around with the page, the space and the words. I had fun-I hope you did, too.

If the poems are a little loud, I’m sorry about that. I talk enough for three people.

The poems are free. The entire collection of Talking Poems is being given out for free. It will eventually consist of a completed eBook and a printed version. Right now, Talking Poems is available in multiple formats. If you’d like to read the current version of Talking Poems, you can do it in one of two other ways:

You can read the collection for free using WattPad. You can do this online using your computer, or using your phone and the app. This is where I place the VERY rough cuts of the poems that make up Talking Poems. You can check it out here:

You can also download the current edition of Talking Poems via Amazon .ca, .com or The eBook is $0.99 and will be updated once this project is final. The eBook can be read on your Kindles or on your Amazon compatible device with apps such as your iPhone, iPad, iPod Touch, Android Devices, etc.

Talking Serially will be available on my web site at  I had considered a few other ways to try this, but figured, why not just stay home? I hope you enjoy this serial poetry experiment. This poem is available to you for free in .mobi, .pdf and .epub formats. I hope you enjoy them.

In whichever way you read them, be it serially, online or in eBook format, I hope you enjoy them.

An Unexpected Novella – The Contestant

The Contestant Cover
I’m not quite sure how it happened but I wrote an unexpected novella. Since it was unexpected and not something I was actively working on (currently The Other Side of Oz), I thought I would give it away to you for free. How cool does that sound?

Here’s a bit about the novella titled The Contestant:

Poppy has always watched reality television. In a world that is controlled by the government and only the strong can survive, her future looks bleak. Like all citizens of Sparrow, she watches Haven on her Sparrow Approved Electronic Device, or SAED. When she receives the Calling at the age of sixteen however, she is about to enter the reality television show she has watched so much of-this time as a Contestant, not a viewer. Poppy will have to form her own reality if she has any hope of surviving.

When she begins to realize that not everyone could leave the reality show called Haven, Poppy wonders what those around her did to become free…

You can read the whole novella for free here:

How awesome is that? Enjoy The Contestant. There will be two more novella’s following shortly titled The Game Player and The Victor. Oh, and an eBook format! Sweet!





Have you ever wondered where Valentine’s Day comes from?

According to legend, as early as the fourth century B.C., the Romans engaged in an annual young man’s rite to passage to the god Lupercus. The names of the teenage women were placed in a box and drawn at random by adolescent men; thus, a man was assigned a woman companion for the duration of the year, after which another lottery was staged.

After eight hundred years of this, the early church fathers sought to end this practice and promote monogamy. They found an answer in Valentine, a bishop who had been martyred some two hundred years earlier. According to church tradition, St. Valentine was a priest near Rome in about the year 270 A.D. At that time, the Roman Emperor, Claudius II, had issued an edict forbidding marriage. This was around when the heyday of Roman Empire had almost come to an end.

When Claudius became the emperor, he discerned that married men were more emotionally attached to their families, and thus, would not make good soldiers. So to assure quality soldiers, he banned marriage.

Valentine, a bishop who witnessed the trauma of young lovers, met them in a secret place and joined them in the sacrament of matrimony. Claudius learned of this “friend of lovers,” and had him arrested. The emperor, impressed with the young priest’s dignity and conviction, attempted to convert him to the Roman gods, to save him from certain execution. Valentine refused to recognize Roman gods and even attempted to convert the emperor, knowing the consequences fully.

On February 24, 270, Valentine was executed.

While Valentine was in prison awaiting his fate, he came in contact with his jailor, Asterius. The jailor had a blind daughter. Asterius requested him to heal his daughter. Through his faith, he miraculously restored girl’s sight. Just before his execution, he asked for a pen and paper from his jailor, and signed a farewell message to her, “From Your Valentine.” A phrase that lived ever after.

Happy Valentine’s Day Everyone!

The Dead Are Everywhere!

JW_In the dead of night_600x900

Hey Everyone,

I’m just super thrilled that my new novel, In the Dead of Night, is available all over the place. You can find it at

Breathless Press


All Romance eBooks

And don’t forget to download the free eBook prequel Dawning of the Dead!

You can read it online at Wattpad:

Or you can download the eBook at Smashwords:

There are zombies everywhere!

Flash Fiction Friday!



I had fun today. I took part in Flash Friday with Breathless Press on their Facebook Page. I had to write twelve fifty word flash stories based on word or picture prompts. This inspired me to write a 100 word entry to a contest. So that’s awesome.

Rather than repeat the prompts here (you can view them on the Breathless Press Facebook Page), I thought I’d just share the words with you. Here they are in the order they were written. Enjoy!


He was always up with the sunrise. More beautiful than that were the people he would see while he was still not quite awake: A woman gathering bottles from the street, a man walking his dog, an early morning runner. They were all part of a whole: separate but unique.


He was early for everything. His mother had taught him that promptness was the mark of someone who took life seriously. “If you are early or on time, people will respect you.”
Over the years, he was prompt for everything. Now, he spent his life waiting for it to start.


When the sunrise filled the sky, he knew his last moments were upon him. He had lived a long time, too long in fact. To see the end of his existence didn’t frighten him. Instead, it would be a welcome respite. He would wait for the sun to claim him.


He had not been expecting to get a thong for Christmas. He picked it up and looked at his boyfriend.
His boyfriend smiled. “You like it?”
Instead of replying, he asked “Why did you crochet it out of white acrylic yarn?”
“It’s more virginal that way.” He said.
“For whom?”


He was no longer sated. When food had been his companion, he could fill the void in himself with many culinary delights. Since going from a 48 waist to a 32 waist, he saw food as his enemy. He was always hungry; for food or for whom he had been.


He stood, naked but almost decent, as the photographer took picture after picture. The strangers on the street that looked hungrily at him were somewhat disturbing. Most frightening of all was that one of the strangers looked familiar. She walked towards him, the photographer still clicking away. “Mom?” He asked.


He grabbed another arm off of the pile. She gave him a withering look. “Don’t be such a pig.” She said.
He sighed. “I’m hungry. We haven’t even had any brains for weeks now.”
“Well, try a nice foot or maybe a pinkie finger.”
He sighed. “Being a zombie sucks.”


He’d never seen Casablanca, or any black and white movie, for that matter. The one time he had tried, his eyes had switched off all the colour around him. For days, he wandered in a grey haze, waiting for the pigments and hues to return, pining for the colour red.


He wondered, as he often did, about language. There were so many words that sounded the same. For instance, when someone told him to “come here”, he often mistook it for “cum here”. This led to difficult misunderstandings, fines and problems with the police. He always asked for clarification now.


Adam looked at Steve. “What is THAT?”

“It’s a fig leaf.” Steve said. “This way at least things stay covered.”

Adam grinned. “Looks like a fruit roll up. Oh! Wait, no, it’s a-”

“Don’t say it.” Steve’s voice was firm.

“A fig roll up!”

Adam didn’t join in the laughter.


There were a myriad of other things he should be doing, but he focused on the task at hand. He moved the needle through the skin, being careful not to snag the thread. She had been such a stickler for her looks. When she was finished, he would give her life.


He waited for the curtains to part. The audience, invisible to him, shifted and coughed. They were waiting for him. He didn’t feel embarrassed by his nakedness; instead he was empowered. When the music began to play, he was ready. As the curtains opened, parting slowly, he began to move.

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