As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I am going to start publishing some of my short stories on Amazon.com and Smashwords.com, charging a modest $.99 a piece. Longer, novella-length stories will sell for $2.99, and will be available for download to the Kindle, iPhone, iTouch and other eBook formats.

I have a lot of short stories that I have shopped around for years, with little to no luck in getting them picked up by traditional publishers. I believe in the work I’ve done, and that the stories are unique. I have wanted to share them with readers for a long time, so now I am going to.

There has been a lot of talk about the podcasting and giving one’s work away for free. While it’s a great medium for sharing your work with readers, unfortunately it does not pay the bills that would allow me to spend more time doing what I love: writing.

I will be posting an announcement very soon about the publication of the first short story in the collection. It is called “Portrait of the Dead Countess” and I will include a short preview, along with the cover art at the end of this post. Stay tuned, and I hope I can count on your support once it goes live.

Portrait of the Dead Countess

A whimpering mockery of fear sniveled in the dark before ripples of laughter snatched out to silence them. Her strangled cries sparked light in shadowed eyes—a reflection from the fireplace that seamlessly began and ended within those orbs. His sharp lips curled into a grin, revealing teeth that soon yielded to the anticipatory caress of an anxious and delighted tongue.

She writhed against her bonds, the whine of her pleas muffled by a spittle-soaked gag stretched between her teeth. The gag had loosened against her struggles, revealing swollen red welts on her pale cheeks. She drew a wet breath through her nose and tried to appeal to her captor again with a squeal that cracked under the duress of her sobs. Matted hair clung in clumps to tear-streaked cheeks, and then her head and shoulders both fell forward in defeat.

Out of shadow he lunged and knelt before her on the floor. Bloodstained, but tender hands lifted her face to inspect it. Her puffy eyes were pink and glazed, the lashes thick with a crust of dried tears. She winced in anticipation of his touch—a final effort to struggle against inevitable torment—and the tenderness of his fingers confused her senses.

“Sweet Gabrielle,” he braced her naked shoulder in one hand, pressed fingers into the putty of her flesh, causing her to gasp.

And then he sensed me watching, turned a leering grin over his shoulder and a twisted reflection of my own face stared back at me. He laughed, and the hollow, triumphant cacophony overpowered my own screams.

Unfamiliar darkness, silence, save for the muted song of crickets. Pale light from the quarter-moon prodded the edges of the blinds, and I listened to my heart pound between burning lungs. Thin fingers of light illuminated the edges of the room, allowing just enough light to remind me of where I was. Domela Manor, my family’s summer home.

A dream. No more twisted than the host of dreams that followed me through the years to that strange, embittered moment. I had woken nearly every morning to the same sickening horror and lament, but this time it was different. It was Gabrielle.