Amy E. Lilly's Blog: Book signing at Dahlgren General Library

I’ve written a few short screenplays to help with visuals and dialogue. Here is my latest work:

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Amy E. Lilly FADE IN: EXT. FRANK’S RANCH – BACKYARD DAWN Thin light bleeds across scrubland and distant mesas. A small ranch house sits weathered but tidy, chicken coop to one side. HARLEY MORRISON (75), face like worn leather, emerges from the back door. Coffee mug in hand. He breathes in the morning, then freezes. White and brown feathers drift across the dirt like snow. HARLEY (under his breath) Son of a bitch. He sets down his mug hard on the porch rail. Follows the trail of feathers to the coop. One section of chicken wire curls inward. More feathers cling to the metal diamonds. Harley crouches and examines the damage. HARLEY (CONT’D) Big one. Damn cats getting bolder. He counts his chickens through the wire. All present, but huddles in the far corner. HARLEY (CONT’D) Lucky girls. This time. Harley stands with a grunt. Heads toward the toolshed. At the coop’s corner, partially hidden by sagebrush, a tuft of tawny fur trembles on a broken wire. Harley doesn’t notice. He returns with wire cutters and a roll of heavier gauge wire. Works methodically, muttering. HARLEY (CONT’D) Forty years. Forty years of chickens and I’m still fighting the same damn fight. A crow watches from a fence post. Harley flicks a pebble at it. HARLEY (CONT’D) Get. Nothing here for you. The crow caws but doesn’t move. Harley shakes his head, then returns to his repair. In the distance, morning shadows retreat across the desert. Something moves between the junipers. Then stillness. INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS Harley enters through the back door stomping dust off his boots. The kitchen is clean but outdated with avocado appliances, faded curtains, a 1980s wall calendar still hanging by the phone. He pours fresh coffee and glances out the window at his repaired coop. The RATTLE of dry dog food hitting metal echoes from the porch. Harley freezes. Sets down his mug carefully. EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – CONTINUOUS Harley eases the screen door open. An old dog bowl sits overturned on the porch boards, kibble scattered. HARLEY Maggie? Silence. HARLEY (CONT’D) That dog’s been dead two months, you old fool. He kneels to gather the spilled food. Pauses. Fresh scratch marks score the wooden floor leading under the porch. Harley leans down, peers in the darkness beneath the boards. He straightens up slowly. Notices the dog food bag has been dragged from its usual spot by the door. HARLEY (CONT’D) (louder) If you’re under there, you best move on. This ain’t no shelter. Nothing. Harley heads inside and returns with a broom. Bangs the handle against the porch boards. HARLEY (CONT’D) Go on! Git! A low growl rises from beneath. Not aggressive – pained. Harley stops banging. Crouches again, squints harder into the shadows. Two amber eyes catch the morning light. HARLEY (CONT’D) Well, hell. INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – MOMENTS LATER Harley stands at the window, phone in hand. Dials. Waits. Through the glass, he can see the dark gap beneath the porch. HARLEY (into phone) Yeah, Animal Control? Got a situation…Bobcat, I think. Under my porch. Pause. Harley’s jaw tightens. HARLEY (CONT’D) Three days? No, I can’t wait three days. I got chickens. He listens and grows frustrated. HARLEY (CONT’D) Look, if you can’t–fine. I’ll handle it myself. He hangs up. Stares at the porch. Opens a cabinet, revealing a rifle on wall mounts. His hand hovers then drops. HARLEY (CONT’D) Least see what I’m dealing with. EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – AFTERNOON Harley approaches with a flashlight and a long, green-handled rake. He’s changed into heavier boots and work gloves. He crouches far from the gap and shines the light under. Using the rake, Harley gently probes the darkness. The handle hits something soft. A HISS. A flash of movement. The bobcat’s face emerges briefly. A bloodies ear. Matted fur. Female. She retreats deeper. Harley sits back on his heels. HARLEY You’re hurt bad, aren’t you? Thunder rumbles in the distance. Dark clouds mass over the mesas. HARLEY (CONT’D) Storm coming. Hell of a time to pick my porch. He stands, decision made. Heads to the kitchen and returns with the dog bowl filled with water. Sets it at the edge of the porch gap. HARLEY (CONT’D) Don’t mean you can stay. The first drops of rain begin to fall. EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – NIGHT Rain pounds the tin roof. Lightning illuminates the yard in stark flashes. Through the kitchen window, we see Harley at his table, eating alone. He glances out frequently. EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – CONTINUOUS The water bowl is empty. Harley opens the door, refills it. As he sets it down, he notices something in the mud. Paw prints. Leading from under the porch to the bowl and back. HARLEY Least you’re drinking. Another flash of lightning. In the brief illumination, the bobcat is visible. She is pressed against the far corner under the porch, eyes reflecting the light. Her body is tense, ears flat. But she doesn’t retreat deeper. HARLEY (CONT’D) We’re both too old for this dance, aren’t we? He goes inside. INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS Harley opens the refrigerator. Leftover pot roast on a plate. He considers, the cuts off a piece. EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – CONTINUOUS Harley emerges and sets the meat near the water bowl. The bobcat watches from the shadows. HARLEY One time. Just tonight. Storm’s got to be hell on that ear. He turns to go, then stops. HARLEY (CONT’D) My wife used to feed every stray that showed up. Said hungry is hungry, doesn’t matter the species. The bobcat’s eyes follow him as he goes inside. INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – LATER Harley washes dishes. Through the window, the meat is gone. The bobcat has moved slightly forward – just her face visible at the porch edge, rain dripping off her whiskers. Their eyes meet through glass. She doesn’t look away. Harley doesn’t either. EXT. HARLEY’S RANCH – DAWN The storm has passed. Puddles reflect the early sky. Harley emerges with his coffee. He checks the coop first. The chickens are already scratching in the mud. He walks to the porch. The meat plate is licked clean. Fresh tracks circle the porch. Harley bends down and peers under. The bobcat is still there, but her posture has changed. Less coiled. Her injured ear is crusty with dried blood, but the swelling looks reduced HARLEY Still here, huh? The bobcat blinks slowly. Doesn’t retreat. INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – DAY Harley cuts up more pot roast, smaller pieces this time. Pauses as a framed photo on the counter. It’s of him and a woman, both younger, smiling at some long-ago event. HARLEY (to photo) Don’t start, Helen. It’s only temporary. EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – CONTINUOUS Harley sets the plate down, but closer to the house this time. Only three feet from the porch gap. He settles into his rocking chair with a newspaper. Pretends to read. The bobcat emerges partially – head and shoulders only. Sniffs the air. Her eyes dart between the meat and Harley. HARLEY (not looking up) Go on. Not gonna bite you. She stretches forward, grabs a piece, retreats. Then another. On the third attempt, she doesn’t pull back as far. They exist in the same space – predator and rancher, six feet apart. A truck rumbles past on the distant road. The bobcat tenses. Harley glances over his paper. HARLEY (CONT’D) Helen used to know everyone’s schedule. Said it was like watching a clock tick living out here. The bobcat finishes the meat. Sits back on her haunches, begins grooming her good ear. HARLEY (CONT’D) That’s new. Making yourself at home? She pauses mid-lick, meets his eyes. Then continues grooming, deliberate and unhurried. Harley almost smiles. INT. HARLEY’S LIVING ROOM – EVENING Harley sits in his armchair, TV playing a rerun he’s not watching. He glances toward the kitchen window. Gets up, walks over. The porch light illuminates the empty food plate. No sign of the bobcat. HARLEY Good. Back where you belong. But he doesn’t move from the window. EXT. HARLEY’S RANCH – NIGHT The moon is bright. The desert is alive with sounds – crickets, distant coyotes. Something moves near the chicken coop. INT. HARLEY’S BEDROOM – CONTINUOUS Harley bolts upright in bed. Grabs the rifle form the wall and heads for the door. EXT. HARLEY’S BACKYARD – CONTINUOUS Harley emerges, rifle ready. Sees a shape by the coop but it’s facing away from the chickens, crouched low. A second shape slinks through the sagebrush. Coyote. Lean and bold, it approaches the coop. The bobcat rises from its haunches, back arched. A low growl rumbles from her chest. The coyote stops, assesses. The chickens are right there, but so is the bobcat. Harley watches, rifle lowered. The bobcat steps forward, places herself between the coyote and the coop. Her injured ear is pinned back, but she stands firm. The coyote circles, looking for an opening. The bobcat pivots, matching its movement. HARLEY (whispered) I’ll be damned. The standoff stretches. Finally, the coyote backs away and melts in the darkness. The bobcat remains on guard until the threat is gone. Then, she limps back toward the porch. She pauses and looks at Harley. HARLEY (CONT’D) Yeah, I saw. Don’t let it go to your head. She disappears under the porch. Harley stands there a moment longer processing what he’s witnessed. INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – MOMENTS LATER Harley puts the rifle away. Pulls out the pot roast and cuts a generous portion. HARLEY (to himself) Guard duty deserves hazard pay. EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – MORNING Harley sets down a plate with raw chicken scraps closer to his chair this time. The bobcat emerges fully from under the porch, still limping but moving better. She eats while he drinks his coffee. The space between them has shrunk to four feet. HARLEY That ear’s looking better. You’ll be moving on soon. The bobcat pauses eating and looks directly at him. Her gaze is steady, evaluating. HARLEY (CONT’D) What? It’s true. You’re wild. This ain’t… natural. She returns to eating. Harley notices she’s positioned to watch both him and the yard, protective but not fearful. INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – DAY Harley’s on the phone watching through the window as the bobcat suns herself on the porch edge. HARLEY (into the phone) Pete, you still got that chicken wire? … Yeah, the heavy gauge… Coyotes been bold lately. The bobcat stretches and reveals her injured side. The wounds are healing but still visible. HARLEY (CONT’D) No, haven’t lost any birds. Just being careful EXT. HARLEY’S PROPERTY LINE – SUNSET Harley walks his fence line, checking for breaks. The bobcat follows at a distance keeping pace but staying wild. They reach a spot where the fence meets a dry wash. Fresh coyote tracks in the sand. HARLEY See that? They’re testing boundaries. The bobcat sniffs the tracks and her hackles rise slightly. She sprays a nearby bush marking her territory. HARLEY (CONT’D) That’s your answer, huh? Make it yours? A crow caws overhead. The bobcat looks up, then at Harley. HARLEY (CONT’D) Don’t ask me. I’m just the guy who feeds you. They walk back toward the house as shadows lengthen. Two solitary figures maintaining their distance but moving in the same direction. INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – NIGHT Harley reads at the table. Through the window, the bobcat is visible on the porch, grooming. The phone rings. Harley lets it ring three times before answering. HARLEY Yeah?… No, Jim, haven’t seen any bobcats… Why? His expression changes as he listens. HARLEY (CONT’D) Shot one? Where?… That’s two miles west. Male?… Right. Thanks for letting me know. He hangs up. Looks out at the bobcat. She’s stopped grooming, alert, as if sensing his tension. EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – NIGHT Harley steps out quietly. The bobcat watches from her usual spot. HARLEY Rancher over at Miller’s Creek shot a male bobcat. Probably your mate. The bobcat’s ear twitches. She stands, stretches, but doesn’t approach. HARLEY (CONT’D) Territory’s gonna shift now. Others will move in. She walks to the porch edge, scans the darkness beyond. Her tail flicks once. HARLEY (CONT’D) You can’t stay here forever. We both know that. But even as he says it, his voice lacks conviction. INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – MORNING Harley prepares two plates now – one with meat scraps, one with his own breakfast. He takes both outside. EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – CONTINUOUS He sets the bobcat’s plate in its usual spot, then sits with his own food. They eat together in silence. A pickup truck approaches on the ranch road. The bobcat tenses. HARLEY Easy. That’s just Pete again. The truck slows and stops at Harley’s gate. PETE (60s) leans out the window. PETE Harley! You still need that wire? HARLEY Leave it by the gate. I’ll get it later. Pete squints at the porch and notices the bobcat. PETE Jesus, Harley. Is that…? HARLEY She’s just passing through. PETE Passing through? She’s eating off a plate! The bobcat has partially retreated under the porch with only her head visible. HARLEY Pete, just leave the wire. PETE You know what happened at Miller’s Creek? These cats are getting too comfortable around people. HARLEY This one’s different. PETE They’re all different until they ain’t. You’re playing with fire. Pete shakes his head, drops the wire roll by the gate then drives off. Harley looks at the bobcat. She’s watching the truck disappear. HARLEY He’s not wrong. But he’s not right either. She emerges again, cautious but not running. Returns to her food. EXT. HARLEY’S RANCH – DAWN – ONE WEEK LATER The bobcat’s ear has healed to a scarred but functional state. She moves without limping now, patrols the property edges at dawn. Harley watches from the porch as she investigates fresh coyote tracks near the coop. HARLEY You’re ready. Time to go back to your world. She looks back at him then continues her patrol. INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – DAY Harley doesn’t prepare the extra plate. He eats alone, glancing occasionally at the empty spot where she usually waits.

The first time it happened, I mistook it for allergies. A peculiar tingling along my cheekbones during the full moon, nothing more. But when I woke up the next morning and found actual whiskers sprouting from my face like delicate antennas, I knew something extraordinary had begun. They were golden brown with black tips. Unmistakably feline, unmistakably not mine. The bathroom mirror reflected familiar eyes, but something wild flickered behind them now. Something patient and calculating, entirely unlike me. I ran trembling fingers across them, expecting a brittle texture, but they flexed and twitched in response to my touch. Unfamiliar sensations rippling through my nerve endings. I called in sick to work, closed the curtains, and spent the day alternating between panic and fascination as I watched how they quivered when I sensed movement beyond my walls.

By the third full moon, the changes had intensified. Tufts of russet fur now sprouted along my ears and jawline, my canines had lengthened to sharp points, and most alarming of all, my pupils had elongated into vertical slits that caught the light in eerie golden reflections. My hearing had become unbearably sharp. The hum of the refrigerator roared in my ears and the rustle of a stray cat in the alley was a thunderous interruption. I had convinced my job to let me work remotely. I sent a silent apology to my dear dead grandmother for inflicting her with crippling gout, which required me to help her.

My outside wasn’t the only thing changing. Hunger gnawed at my gut. The salads that usually sated my hunger made my stomach roll. I craved meat. Raw meat. Attempting to cling to my humanity, I seared steaks in a pan for thirty seconds before sinking my teeth into the fibrous tissue that oozed dark red.

One night, I surrendered to the overwhelming urge to roam and slipped out my back door. It was two a.m. when I padded out the door. Clothing set my nerves on fire, so I stripped down to a tank top and a pair of shorts. No need for shoes. My feet, no, my paws, made no sound as I prowled around my familiar neighborhood. What had been ordinary was now a cacophony of scents, sounds, and movements.

The streets soon gave way to forest paths as I followed an invisible thread, pulling me deeper into the woods. My newfound instincts guided me toward something that called to me with a silent frequency my human ears had never detected. A rustle in the leaves made me still. My nose twitched, and I sensed the heartbeat of a fieldmouse. I could feel its fear and a part of me was exhilarated and wanted to pounce, while the human side of me forced my paws to continue their journey.

Then I saw him. A muscular silhouette posed on a fallen log ahead. His tawny fur dappled by moonlight, and distinctive, black-tipped ears tufted and alert. The characteristic short, bobbed tail that gave his species its name twitched slightly as he assessed me. His eyes mirrored what I was becoming. I stopped, fearful and unsure. Was I welcome? Or was this transformation only in my mind–the delusions of a woman overwhelmed by life and looking for a way to escape through fantasy? He stepped down from the log with slow, silent precision, each paw finding the perfect position on the forest floor. My whiskers quivered in anticipation and fear.

We stood facing each other. Two creatures sharing a language older than words. His golden eyes met mine without fear, only acknowledgement. In that moment, as we stared at each other, I finally understood. My borrowed whiskers weren’t a curse, but an invitation to remember what humanity had forgotten. The wild isn’t separate from us. It lies dormant, deep within our bones.

He blinked, and before I could move closer, he slipped into the darkness, leaving me alone with my new understanding. The whiskers were never borrowed. They were mine to reclaim.

Copyright by Amy E. Lilly 2025

Fade In:

EXT. BLACK CANYON NATIONAL PARK – DAWN

A large, new RV crawls along the empty road, headlights cutting through the pre-dawn mist.

INT. RV – CONTINUOUS

MARIE HENDERSON (56) hollow-eyed and pale, grips the steering wheel. Her wedding ring catches the dim light.

SCOTT (V.O.) (memory)Just think of it, babe. You and me visiting every national park in America. We finally get to be wandering nomads.

Marie’s eyes drift to a carved wooden box secured in the passenger seat. A bottle of sleeping pills rests beside it.

She pulls into the deserted overlook and cuts the engine.

MARIE (whispers)We made it, Scott. You and me.

A photograph falls from the visor: Marie and Scott (57), both smiling, him holding up RV keys. The photo hits the dashboard before tumbling to the floorboard.

INT. RV – DAY (MEMORY/FLASHBACK)

Scott guides Marie to the driver’s seat of the new RV.

SCOTTRelax, babe. You've got this. Just remember it's wider and longer than you think. MARIEThat's what I'm afraid of. SCOTTI'll be right beside you the whole way. Every park, every road. Even when you're cursing my name because I talked you into this crazy adventure. MARIE (softening)Promise? SCOTTTill death do us part. And even then, I'll haunt this RV if I have to.

INT. RV – PRESENT DAY – DAWN

Marie stares blankly at the fallen photograph. She doesn’t pick it up.

MARIE (bitter whisper)Liar.

She gathers the wooden box, tucks the bottle of pills into the pocket of her jacket, takes one last look at the RV’s interior and steps out into the darkness.

Marie takes a deep breath and walks down the path to the canyon. She looks around and settles on a spot farther down the path away from the tourist overlook. She stops and clutches the wooden box to her chest.

She opens the box, revealing Scott’s ashes. With trembling hands, she stands and steps closer to the edge.

MARIE (whispering)Our last adventure.

Marie tips the box forward and attempts to scatter the ashes over the canyon. A sudden gust of wind catches them and blows them back into her face and clothes. She stumbles backward, coughing.

MARIEDamn it, Scott! Even now you're not making this any easier.

She brushes at her clothes and tears form in her eyes-from ashes or emotions. She sits down at the cliff’s edge. She pulls out her bottle of pills and starts to open it.

A rock skitters across the ground near her. Marie looks up.

ELLIE (15) walks down the path and sits down. She’s dressed in black jeans and a black hoodie. She has a lip piercing and it’s clear from her blonde roots that she’s dyed her hair black. She kicks her legs and looks out across the canyon, oblivious to Marie’s distress.

Marie slips the bottle of pills back into her pocket.

MARIE (grumpy)Sunrise isn't for another twenty minutes or so. ELLIE (nonchalant)I know. I like to get here before the tourists. MARIEThere's plenty of canyon. About 30,000 acres of it. ELLIESure. But this is the only spot without safety rails.

Marie’s head snaps toward Ellie, suddenly alert.

MARIEThat's a strange thing to say. ELLIEJust an observation. I come here a lot. But you. I don't think you're a regular. MARIE (a little annoyed)I've come here before. A long time ago. (sadly)A lifetime ago.

Ellie swings her legs around and moves closer to Marie. Marie gives her a sideways glance, clearly annoyed, but Ellie doesn’t seem to notice.

ELLIEDid you come by yourself?

Marie hesitates. Her expression indicates she wants to tell this teenager.

MARIEYes. No. I mean I came here a long time ago on my honeymoon. (gestures to the wooden box)Now it's just...what's left of him. ELLIEOh. That's his ashes?

Marie nods looking a little surprised by Ellie’s directness.

ELLIE (fidgeting with her hoodie string)How'd he die? MARIEA heart attack. Six months ago. (defensive)You ask a lot of questions. ELLIE (shrugs)My mom says I have no filter. (studies Marie's face)You look super tired. MARIE (bitter laugh)I haven't slept in days. ELLIEInsomnia? MARIESomething like that. I've always been a light sleeper. Scott snored like a chainsaw. I used to complain about it all the time. Tried wearing earplugs, but I could still hear him... ELLIEAnd now it's too quiet?

Marie gives Ellie a sharp look.

MARIEHow old are you? ELLIESixteen. Almost seventeen. (looks at her phone)You traveling in that RV? Looks pretty sweet.

Marie’s hand tightens around the wooden box.

MARIEIt was supposed to be our retirement. We were going to visit every national park. I always dreamed of traveling... (bitterly)He had a heart attack a month after we bought it. ELLIE (quietly)That sucks.

A silence falls between them as the sun rises and begins to touch the canyon walls.

ELLIE (suddenly)So what's your plan after this? MARIEPlan?

Ellie gestures toward the ashes, then the canyon.

ELLIEAfter you do this. Where you heading?

Marie stares out at the canyon and avoids Ellie’s question.

ELLIE (CONT'D) (pulls out a granola bar, takes a bite)My mom's boyfriend makes these gross protein shakes every morning. Whole kitchen smells like rotten banana mixed with ass. (rolls her eyes)Had to get out before I puked. MARIE (surprised)Your mom knows you're out here? ELLIE (snorts)Naw. Mom's still passed out. Friday is her "wine night" with her boyfriend. (with air quotes)She won't even notice I'm gone till noon.

Marie looks at Ellie more closely.

MARIEYou do this often? Come here by yourself? ELLIE (shrugs)Beats listening to them fight. Or worse, making up. (makes a gagging noise)Our walls are super thin. MARIEStill... it's not safe-- ELLIEWhen my brother died, I didn't eat for, like, three days. (casual, but glances at Marie to gauge her reaction)My mom totally freaked.

Marie’s head snaps toward Ellie. She frowns.

MARIEYour brother died? ELLIE (nods and looks out at the canyon)Two years ago.

Marie stays silent and waits for Ellie to continue, but Ellie munches on her granola bar and swings her legs.

MARIEI'm sorry. ELLIE (shrugs)It is what it is. (beat)So... your RV. Is it hard to drive? It looks pretty complicated. MARIEIt... Scott taught me. Before. ELLIEThat's cool. So you can just, like, go anywhere? (wistful)Must be nice to have an escape plan that actually works.

Marie’s face tightens as she clutches the pill bottle in her pocket.

MARIEWhy are you really here? ELLIE (defensive)

I told you. My mom’s boyfriend–

MARIENo. This exact spot. Without railings.

Ellie falls silent and her tough teen facade cracks slightly.

A PARK RANGER’s TRUCK appears in the distance. Its headlights are visible on the approach road.

ELLIE (noticing the truck)They do early patrols to check for overnight campers.

Marie looking panicked, glances between the truck, the pocket where her pills are, and the box of ashes. She jumps up.

MARIE (suddenly urgent)I need to finish this. ELLIE (standing quickly)Wait-- MARIEI don't need an audience for this. Please. ELLIE (dropping the casual act)My brother jumped from this exact spot.

Marie freezes. The ranger’s truck parks. A door opens in the distance.

MARIE (voice barely audible)What? ELLIE (eyes fixed on the canyon)Two years, three months, and six days ago. Right where you're standing.

Marie instinctively takes a step back from the edge.

ELLIEI found his note. He said the view was worth it. He wanted the last thing he saw to be beautiful. MARIEJesus... ELLIEI come here a lot. Especially when I can't sleep. (beat)But I'm not the only one who can't sleep, am I?

Marie’s hand moves to her pocket where the pill bottle is.

ELLIEThose aren't just regular sleeping pills.

It’s not a question. Marie doesn’t answer.

The RANGER appears in the distance and walks the path with a flashlight.

ELLIE (quietly)I know what an exit plan looks like.

Marie sinks back down.

MARIE (whispers)How? ELLIEThat bottle in your pocket. My mom has the same ones. (bitter)She started taking them after Aaron jumped. Mixes them with wine most nights. (looks at the canyon edge)They put warning labels on Tide Pods but they sell those over the counter. MARIEYou don't understand-- ELLIE (interrupting, suddenly intense)I understand exactly. You think I haven't thought about it? Following him? My mom is drunk half the time. Her loser boyfriend is moving in. No one remembers Aaron even existed. MARIE (defensive)It's different. I'm-- ELLIEOlder? So that makes it okay?

The ranger spots them and changes direction.

MARIE (desperate)I have nothing left. No one waiting. No kids. The RV was our dream together. ELLIE (fighting tears)Aaron said that nobody would miss him. (voice breaking)He was wrong.

The sun breaks across the canyon and transforms the darkness into deep reds and oranges.

ELLIEI started coming here to understand why. Then to be mad at him. (looks directly at Marie)Now I come because sometimes I see people like you. MARIE (stunned)Like me? ELLIEPeople who think they're invisible. Who come to the spots without railings. (beat)You're the fifth person I've met here like this. MARIE (stunned)Fifth? ELLIEThe fifth person I've talked to who was thinking about... (she glances at the edge)...who changed their mind. RANGER (calling from a distance)Morning, ladies! Beautiful sunrise today.

Marie quickly wipes her eyes and clutches the wooden box tighter.

ELLIE (to Marie, low and urgent)Please. I can't walk away from you.

The ranger approaches then turns off his flashlight.

RANGER (friendly)You folks are early birds! Are you here for the sunrise?

Marie stares at the wooden box in her hands, then at Ellie, whose eyes silently plead.

MARIE (finding her voice)Yes. My husband always wanted to see it from here.

She holds up the wooden box slightly. The ranger nods respectfully.

RANGERI'm sorry for your loss, ma'am. It's a beautiful place to remember someone. (to Ellie)Are you her daughter? ELLIEJust a friend.

The ranger tips his hat.

RANGERI'll give you folks some space. Just stay behind the marker stones, please.

He walks a respectful distance away but remains visible.

Marie looks at the canyon now glowing with morning light. She opens the wooden box.

MARIE (quietly)I don't know how to do this without you, Scott. ELLIEOne day at a time. That's what my school counselor says. (small smile)She's kind of a walking bumper sticker, but sometimes she's right.

Marie takes a deep breath and gently tips the box. This time, the ashes float beautifully away from her.

MARIE (watching them go)Goodbye, Scott.

She turns to Ellie as she reaches into her pocket. She pulls out the bottle and stares at it for a long moment.

ELLIEWhat are you going to do with those? MARIEI'm not sure I can sleep without them. ELLIEMaybe you're not supposed to. Not yet.

Marie walks to the edge of the path and empties the pills into the dirt and then grinds them under her heel.

ELLIE (relieved)So... what are you doing to do now? MARIE (looking toward the RV)I don't know. But I think Scott would be pissed if I didn't use that gas-guzzling monstrosity to see at least a few national parks. ELLIEWhere will you go first? MARIEI was thinking Grand Teton. Scott always talked about it. (hesitant)Would you... would you want a postcard? ELLIE (surprised, then genuine)Yeah. I would.

They exchange information. Marie puts Ellie’s address in her phone.

MARIEI probably won't sleep tonight. ELLIEMe neither.

They stand together and watch the sun fully rise over the canyon.

MARIEMaybe that's okay. FADE OUT.:

I love my cover, and I’m so grateful at the designers at Deranged Doctor Design. Their name is crazy but their designs are spot on. Final Bow at the Bijou is available for preorder. Release day is October 4th.

Preorder the ebook here.

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Final Bow at the Bijou – Ebook and Paperback release on October 4, 2022!

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… has changed my complexion from white to rosy red. My husband can still make me blush even after all our years together. We are true opposites. I’m the word girl and he’s the numbers guy. Never were these differences more apparent than last night.

In the late spring and early summer, my husband and I sit on our rocking chairs on the front porch in the evening. It’s a time for us to talk about our day, watch the woodpeckers on our trees, and listen to the frogs. Yesterday, I explained that I was having some difficulty coming up with a working title for my latest novel. I asked for his help. I asked for something punny and related to the 1920s.

“Well, they had alcohol back then and it’s ethanol. You could use the word ethanol in the title. Fatal Ethanol Syndrome,” Dennis said, his voice serious.

“No. That’s not fun. It needs to be funny. A play on words. Something related to the 1920s, the Chesapeake Bay, and death.”

“Well, they have these shots of alcohol that have a raw oyster in them. You also have crabbing. You could use crab in the title.”

It went downward from there. It was at this point that I realized that I think figuratively, and he thinks literally. “Never mind. I’ll brainstorm some more tomorrow.” I gave him a quiche for trying. (See what I did there? Punny, right!)

I don’t want you to think I’m complaining. He’s brilliant when it comes to guns, cars, fishing, and construction. If I have a question on any of those topics, I don’t need to track down an expert, he’ll know the answer. In fact, he’s presented to our local Sisters in Crime chapter on various firearms and has offered to answer any questions any of them might have. He’s also great at sitting and listening to my stories. He even gives great critique on plot holes or things that don’t make sense. He’s just so darn… factual.

I’m back to the brainstorming for titles today.

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Mark you calendars, local readers. There is a full slate of amazing writers who will read their dark short stories that evening. Looking forward to the return to in-person readings and events.

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Why don’t we do spring resolutions instead of New Year’s resolutions? After all, spring is a time of new growth, birth, sunshine, and a sweeping out of the winter doldrums. At my house, we have tomato and pepper seedlings sitting in trays seeking the sun and 6 Australorp chicks sprouting their big hen feathers waiting to move outside to the coop. Personally, I’m too mired in the cloudy, cold winter blues on January 1st to make a serious commitment to any new habit, but once the buds sprout on our dogwood trees and the crocus push through the mulch, I’m ready to refresh my home and my spirit. Perhaps that’s why we have spring cleaning.

Today, it will be a glorious 70 degrees here in Virginia. I plan to take some time to clean out my flowerbeds. It’s a long overdue task and the weeds have staged a coup. It’s time to yank them out and give my iris bulbs and tulips a chance to shine. What spring task do you enjoy doing?

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March is Women’s History Month. It’s a time when we look at the accomplishment of women throughout history. As a writer, I create women characters, so today I’m reflecting on the difference between men and women.

Many years ago, when I was an undergraduate, I had a close friend who devastated me with one comment. She told me, “You’re like a man. Feminine women aren’t so outspoken.” This was in the early 1990s, so Women’s Liberation had already occurred. I replayed her words in my head for weeks and doubted my own self worth. Perhaps it was too much navel-gazing, but it really rocked my view of what society viewed as feminine.

I recently had the chance to attend an hour-long webinar on women in the workplace. The statistic was that men interrupted women 33% more often than they interrupted their male colleagues. You can read more about the study in this article published in Forbes on January 3, 2017. How many great ideas never make it to the table because they do not afford a brilliant young (or old) woman the opportunity to speak at the meeting?

Now, lest you think I’m male bashing, I don’t place the blame solely on men. As women, we criticize loud or accomplished women. We peck away at their faults lest we allow them to rise too far above us. We teach our daughters to be soft-spoken and reticent in conversation, while encouraging our sons to be bold and tough. Why can’t we insist that our daughters be bold and tough when the situation demands it, and encourage our sons to incorporate a balance of soft-spoken, considerate speech?

As I create more fictional worlds, I am stepping back and evaluating my characters. Have I assigned them a stereotypical gender role? Have I made my female protagonist a shrinking violet who waits for the powerful man to save the day? I know I probably have in the past, but I hope to create more balanced characters who will reflect the world as it could be.

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