L.J. Longo's Blog

After years of being out of print, my debut novel Evasive Love is returning—with a fresh edit, a sharp new cover, and a new home at Evernight Publishing.

This is a re-release of my very first published book, and I’m ridiculously proud (and a little terrified) to be bringing it back. It’s queer, chaotic, morally compromised, and just the right amount of sweaty.

Kavan Griffiths is a bounty hunter trying to claw his way back into respectability after a scandal destroyed his career. His latest mark might be innocent… or else Elliot Grayson might be a seductive mad-scientist wanted for biochemical crimes.

In a world where every touch might be a trap, the most dangerous thing these two men can do is fall in love.

Starting Sept 3rd , you can find it online at Evernight Publishing.

Or on Amazon.
Or on Smashwords.

Tropes & Tags:Enemies to loversBounty hunter x fugitiveForced proximity (hovercraft edition)Biotech noirHigh-heat M/M with emotional chaosA tiny chaos gremlin named PhilMoral ambiguity, but make it hot
Looking for ARC Reviewers!

If you’re a reviewer, blogger, or Bookstagrammer interested in a spicy queer sci-fi romance with heart, heat, and hovercraft handcuffs—I’d love to send you an ARC.
You can request a copy via:Contact form BookSprout or BookSirens (available upon request)Release is Sept. 3, but I welcome reviews before or after launch.

So excited to be participating in In Your Write Mind! This writer’s conference is near and dear to my heart since it’s hosted by the alumni group of my alma mater, Seton Hill University. (Go, Griffins!)

I’m posting links to my presentations here for attendees of the conference and frankly for anyone else who wants them. There’s no secret formula to Revision or Writing Synopsis, but if the excersizes here help you, let me know and I’ll post more content like this.

Revision: This session draws heavily on the revision craft book “Intuitive Editing: A Creative and Practical Guide to Revising Your Writing” by Tiffany Yates as well as my own experience as a writer of Chaos who needs a very steady revising hand. I use Yates’ book as a guide to break down the overwhelming revision into four separate chunks.

Writing Synopsis: This session is actually based off my final teaching assignment for my M.F.A. in Writing Popular Fiction. In a series of prompts, I help writers break their stories into the simplest form to help them pitch, write a synopsis, and back cover material.

Some time ago, I entered the first round of NYC Midnight’s Short Story Challenge. I’m very happy to say my story “Gold and Bones” was not only in the top five of the prompt category (which means I move on to Round two) but was the top pick! Each round the story gets shorter and the deadline gets tighter. While the top prize is $7,500, the real treasure is the stories we write along the way, right?

Gold and Bones

Sometimes from the lighthouse, I catch a patch of blue sky. Not today. Today the fog’s mean. A blinding glare blanketing the world in malice.

A drown woman scratches on the lighthouse window. Fish nibbled her bloated face and the fog’s tides toss her rotten nightgown. Her eyes radiate gold light and there’s another shine of a gold ring on each bone squealing against the glass.

“Hello Harriett.” I sip my coffee. “Sorry on behalf of the mainland. Oli the boat-builder and me are tryin’—”

The fog swallows Harriet Whitter and her golden glare. She never cared for me much.

Four stories down and several hours later, the door swings open as Oli returns from his first dive. I hobble over to see him. “Oli? That you?”

“Naw, it’s Christ come again. Who the hell else would it be, you goat-kneed madman?” 

Could be a ghost.

His coat smacks the floor in front of the fire. “Seen any islanders today?”

“Living or—” I stop myself before he has to. “A-yuh. Harriet Whitter.”

Oli fiddles with his wet belt. “Whitter, eh? How’d she look?”

“Uh…Dead?”

Oli puts his forehead in his hand to hide his scowl. “Murderous? At peace?”

“Well, can’t says as I know.” I only remember the hole in her cheek. “Hattie always had a murderous look.”

He can’t deny it. “Especially for you.”

“Yeah.” I laugh. “She always said I ought to have been chucked in the sea as tribute.”

Oli snorts at that, then disappears under the stairs. Maybe he agrees.

When he brings fresh coffee and chowder he mutters. “Fresh clams. Fog was too bright too see gold or bones today.”

“Thanks.” He makes the coffee too bitter, but I don’t complain. “Maybe it’s sunshine.”

“What?”

“Making it brighter. Why wouldn’t it be sunshine?”

“Why would it be?  Because we’re doin’ such a good job?” He scoffs. “You go out and dive and tell me if we’ve made a lick of difference.”

“So I will, once I finish the chowder.”

Oli scratches his eyebrow as he considers. He knows the ghosts give me hell. I wasn’t from the island. Hell, I’m barely from the mainland. If they’re particularly bloodthirsty today, he won’t let me go.

Eventually, he shrugs. “You can decide yourself.”

That’s not like him. “So, who did you see today?”

Oli’s face swirls from regret to confusion then back to hard. “Not my Izzy. If that’s that you’re getting at.”

“I’m sure I wasn’t—”

“Eat your damned chowder and go dive or don’t. It makes no difference.”

Izzy was the sort of islander to break a seagull’s wing and leave it as tribute to the sea. But she was always kind to me.

As kids, she’d help us dundibums with our homework, she’d let me sit near her. Even with my legs. Same way that Oli let me hold the planks in place while he fitted them together, even when his dad would yell at him for bringing bad luck near the boats.

They were a good match. Happy together. Both born on the island. Born to sail in the storm to shipwrecks and salvage the living, the cargo, and the dead. They’d had a good life together. Ended too soon.

At the base of the lighthouse, the black stones moan in the fog. I limp out onto the dock and the half dozen boats Oli’s built. I wasn’t allowed to help with them.

Scratching under the dock. The soft squelch of sharp and thin on wet and thick. Sure enough, three sets of gold eyes stare back at me from the water.

Lively day for the dead.

The three kids don’t look at peace or murderous. They look like someone slapped them upside the head. They each have a bit of gold in their ears.

“Hello there.” I touch my cap. I don’t know their names, but when they were alive, they swam around the rocks here. They’d be grown up now. “If you kids show me the way to your bones and I’ll bury you nice on your island.”

Quick as fish, they vanish.

Yeah. It’s a rotten day to dive.

But what if them ghosts understood me? What if it does make a difference? Even if it’s just to those three ghosts.

The folk who say the fog is just cold air and warm water say it was hurricane. But the islanders knew hurricanes. They knew to batten up and shelter on the mainland.

And I was there in my perch half-way between the mainland and the island when the sea roared up and ate that island. If I didn’t know before, I know now how the sea hoards its bones and gold. But them islanders got wealthy from salvaging. They dove into the salty maw one too many times to snatch what wasn’t theirs.

Then on this perfectly clear night, with no sign of a storm, just a real low tide—suddenly, this roar of water and miles out. Like… a tower of water rolled in fast. Big enough to slap the cliff and send the lighthouse tumbling—

And the island—

I moved faster then I knew I could and raised the alarm. Rang both the hurricane bell and the ship-wreck bell and hollered uselessly to the empty sky. Soon the whole coast rang.

Still, it wasn’t enough warning.

How could it be? When it was the middle of the night? When God was splashing the ocean like it was bathwater?

Maybe it was unkind to warn them. The ones crushed to death by the water must have been so startled by the darkness and the noise. It sure didn’t help none.

When the wave hit, the lighthouse windows shattered and the spray killed the light. It was the only time in my life that fire went out. I stumbled around in the dark to restart it, cursing my legs, my slowness, my bad luck. They needed the light to find the shore. To know which way to swim. Even with the inland sirens roaring, I heard them in the water. Piercing cries. “Help us! Forgive us! Save us!”

Maybe if I wasn’t so slow…Maybe if I’d protected the flame…maybe it would have made a difference.

I never dive as far as Oli. I know I’ve gone far enough when the island and the lighthouse both blur to a hazy shadow and I can only tell one cliff from the other because of the flare four stories up.

When I swing my legs over into the water, it chills me to the core.

“Just the ghosts.” Not a very reassuring reminder.

 I snap the goggles over my eyes and nose, tie the boat to my waist, and attach the air-hose the mast. It smells like copper and rubber, but I can’t dive like an islander.

In fairness, I don’t need to.

Under the water, it’s clear. A smooth white light washes the sea bed and shows each brown pebble and clam. What I want is gold and bones.

After a time, I see glints in the distance. Jesus! Them three dead kids bobbing along with empty gold eyes and slack jaws. Someone tied them together with a bed-sheet. When they float away, I follow, swimming as fast as I can.

Being the build-builder, Oli had been inland fetching lumber and trading the island’s gold for finer goods when the wave came. A little group of us— I suppose his friends and the people most involved— met him at the mountain pass to give him the news before he could see for himself. Nearly killed me how cheerfully he greeted us. Last time, I ever seen him smile.

They talked in somber tones while I stared into the cart. Bolts of silk next to the raw lumber. Packages tied with brown string next to a bucket of shiny nails. I’d counted twelve bags of sugar when Oli snatched me by the collar and shook me. After I told him what I’d seen, he threw me on my back and called me a jealous, goat-kneed cripple, which isn’t necessarily wrong.

He’d run to the cliff to see. The mainland town was mostly the empty bed and breakfasts and broken fishing hovels with dull cheap cotton on the lines. The island should’ve just beyond, been brightly painted houses and pretty linens drying in the breeze.

Instead, it was empty sand and clumps of sea weed.

He howled for Izzy, wailing like if would bring her bodily back from the surf. I’d see love-sick dolts bellow at the sea before and I feared he’d throw himself off the cliff.

Which, of course, he did.

Lord knows, I couldn’t have done anything except accidentally gone over with him. But the others grabbed his clothes and then his arms and plucked him back from death.

Oli kicked and screamed and sobbed and cursed. “Don’t act like you mainland fucks don’t want every islander dead! Damn this whole town living out here in the sun like you own the sea when you ain’t never paid it nothing.”

That’s when the fog rolled in.

We all watched it rise off the sea, like steam off a bowl of soup. It covered the island first, obscuring the salt-slicked grass glittering in the sun like jewels. 

Oli went limp as a fish and gawked.

The cloud rolled over the beach and climbed the cliff. I panicked when the lighthouse, the center of my world, faded into white nothing. It kept coming over the town, settling thick and silent among the houses. We thought our whole town had been smudged away, but then right on schedule the bright light flared in the distance.

Five years on and the fog ain’t let go yet.

Too late I realize the sun is setting, I’ve gone too far, and the ghost’s slack jaws are open with hunger.

Oli’s told me not to follow the ghosts too far. Oli’s told me not to go deeper than ten or so feet. But those three float so patiently. Their gold eyes plea and promise that if we set enough of these ghosts to rest, the fog will clear and folk like Monte McGuane will come back.

I can’t find the sea floor any more. I’ll do what I should have done before. Drop a buoy with a long rope for Oli to find tomorrow. I start to swim to the surface.

The ghost children float after me. Their fingers reach towards me.

Keep calm. It’s only ghosts.

In this slow race, a goat-knee madman ought to have the advantage over the dead.

I swim like Oli taught me. Long ago when we still had sunlight and smiles. Big long strokes with my arms. Little kicks with my useless feet. 

Something sharp catches at my trousers. I look down. I should not have looked down.

The fog is in the water. Hundreds of faces below me in the depths, gold glaring eyes and open mouths. Floating hair clipped with bits of jewels and sharp clawed fingers ringed in gold. An island of the drowned reaching for me.

The little ghost hooks onto the twisted lump of my ankle and tries to climb out of the water.

I give up on swimming and climb the rope, dragging myself to the surface. But this rocks the boat, makes choppy water, which spits into my air-hose. I swallow the brine until I can get to rubbery air.

The darkness brightens. Not from sunlight. The fog surrounds me. I can’t tell up from down. The goggles fill with the shine of gold. I close my eyes and climb.

Hand-over-hand on the rope. Only the rope can get me out of this.

In the water all around, piercing cries and grasping hands. “Help us. Forgive us. Save us.”

The hand on my ankle grips harder and climbs higher up my leg. A ghost seeking life, a drowned kid looking for breath. So cold. So heavy.

I grasp something soft and slimy and rotten on the rope and flinch away. I clench the rope stronger in my other hand, terrified to lose it, but with my free hand I can’t find the rope above me. Only the corpses. White silk nightgowns, white linen sheets, dead gold eyes. Glints of golden earrings and necklaces and rings and buttons shine in the rot. They pile around me, unmoving and suffocating and glittering.

My mask pops— air-hose plucked out— salt water rushes in my nose and mouth. I hold my breath and swallow at the same time. I have to get to the surface. I don’t want to drown. I only wanted to help. To be a little lucky… to make a little difference.

I hold the rope in my knees and crawl my fingers up the rope, snailing towards Oli’s boat, squeezing through the rotting flesh and glittering treasure while my lungs burn and my muscles freeze. I’m going to drown. One more set of bones for Oli to bury. He’ll notice the shape of the legs and bury me by the lighthouse.

Maybe I can haunt the lighthouse. Keep the fire burning even when it’s wet. So, people in the water can find their way. Even now, the light slashes the darkness. I flutter toward it. The hose, the rope, and my mask fall away as I swim towards the lighthouse.

Something strong grabs the back of my neck and yanks. The distant slash of light comes nearer and I flail my arms to help whatever is dragging me through the water.

I break the surface.

Breathe.

I cough and heave and the scent of rot makes me want to retch. I’m in a cloud of bloated frozen flesh, wrapped together with bedsheets, glittering with gold.

The strong grip on my neck vanishes and I flounder. It’s too dark to see, but I think— yes, my rope is tangled in the bodies. The boat is— far away. But coming nearer. Has oars in the water and— Oh, that’s Oli in a different boat.

He sits still and staring above my head.

Grinning like a love-sick puppy.

Of course, it was his Izzy that saved me.

I don’t try to turn and see her. It’s not my place to interrupt them.

Then the oars splash again. “Damn it, how did you swim out this far? You’re nearly at the island you know!”

“Am I?” 

Oli grabs me and hauls me into the boat. The wet rope hooks in the curve of my legs, dragging the string of drowned with it.

“What’s on your—?” Oli realizes. “Oh, Jesus—”

“A-yuh.” I try not to lose this strange fish.

“Oh Christ!” He tugs on the tangled mass, gingerly bringing it with us as we float toward the shore.

“Yup.” I stay on my back. Breathing and gazing at the warm darkness of the sky. For the first time in five years, I can see the stars.

Today is the day my company, The Bold and The Brazen, launches Tavern of Conquests, a foreplay game for couples.

Click here to read about The Bold and the Brazen: Tavern of Conquests on Indigogo

Role the Dice to find Paradise

This little book mixes table-top role-playing games (TTRPs) and a choose-your-own romance fantasy. The Hero player makes a sexy character striving to finish a quest and save the day, but The Muse player uses Roving Conquests to send all sorts of lusty temptations to seduce and distract The Hero. To stay on track, The Hero can use the “Bribe the Muse” tables and use real-life sexual favors to influence the will of fate. Whether The Hero saves the day and wins The Muses reward, or both players decide to ‘finish’ early, there is no losing in foreplay!

Labor of Love

As an award-winning fantasy romance writer who regularly talks about the transformative power of love and sex, it is not unusual for people to share… personal things with me. Friends I’ve known my whole life, fans I’ve met that day, people on the train who will never meet me again trust me with their dark secrets. Their unfulfilled desires.  Their kinks. I look at this as a perk of the job.

 Anyways, about eight months ago, an old friend reached out to me because she wanted to create something special, sexy, and fun for her boyfriend, who loves TTRPS. But everything sexual on the market fell either into “violent goblin porn” or highly clinical rulebooks. So the two of us brought in a  professional game master (GM) and set out to create the sort of product she was looking for: a beginner’s guide to erotic role-play with a TTRPG flair.

This little booklet will act as a little buffer between people’s real lives and their sex lives. We hope it helps lovers add a little “dragon fire” to the bedroom without cringe of improving dirty talk on the spot. This is a way for me to help my friends and fans bring their inner world of fantasies to light with their partner, who would no doubt enjoy a taste of their imagination.

Please support this game on Indigogo.

The game itself, with all my sexy content, is written and in the editing stages. We’re trying to raise money to pay an artist to bring these scintillating stories to life, to add additional quests, and to print the book. There’s a ton of great supporter perks (including erotic stories written by yours truly), but all levels of support get access to:

Two Quests: The Princess and the Flame, where The Hero strives to save a beautiful princess from an equally beautiful dragon, and Prison of Desire, where The Hero can help the handsome villager Jack keep an Incubus King imprisoned or set the demon free.

30 Roving Conquests: These are the temptations the hero must face along the way and they come in various flavors, Bold (lightly flirty), Bawdy (a little blush-worthy), and Brazen (a lot blush worthy).

To give you a taste of Taverns of Conquest: here’s one of my favorite Roving Conquests where the hero runs into a starving succubus.

Devil’s Advocate

The path is perilously steep. Rocks slide and plummet from the granite cliffside as you force your way further up. Your muscles strain and ache as you find a small shallow cave. Finally, a place to rest!

You’ve only just caught your breath when from inside the cave, comes the delicate echo. “Help!”

A fair maiden in distress! You turn towards the sheltering cave and see… not exactly a maiden. The ruby-skinned woman weakly crawling towards you is built like sin. Lucious hips, juicy lips, perky breasts, and… an inhumanly long tongue licking between them. A tail drags under her ragged skirt, and her pitch-black eyes roll desperately. On her knees, she grasps at your legs. “Please.”

The touch of her hands sends electric currents of pleasure up your calves. “So thirsty. Small drink. I’ll repay you.”

She pulls your hips forward, and her hot breath warms your inner thighs.

What will you do?

Attempt to escape, charm, or deceive Roll Slick.

You may not be the sharpest sword in the armory, but this does not seem safe. “Whoa,” you back away, but her tail wraps around your leg.

You’re on the ground, and she’s straddling you. The heat radiating from her naked body, kisses sear your flesh before her licks soothe the wounds. She moans with complete abandon. You struggle to escape those clutches, but her thighs tighten around your body, and the impact of her skin, the magic… it makes it difficult to think of anything but her perfect body.

Her tongue tastes the inside of your mouth as you breathe more life into her body. The more you wiggle, the more she rubs against your limbs.

“YES!” She finally screams as her wings explode outward. She giggles at you. “Was it good for you, too?”

Fight, endure, or do nothing: Roll Strength.

You raise your weapon, about to strike. But her helplessness and her beauty, however demonic, make you hesitate.

You ought to cast the demon out. Or offer some sort of heroic resistance… but it’s been a long day.

And she already pushed your clothes to the side. Her lips gently kiss that most sensitive skin, then her tongue slithers to caress.

Lust jolts your body, and it is no longer yours to control.

At her command, you push yourself further into her mouth and release an animal grunting.

She drinks voraciously, laughing as she laps, and you pour strength into her broken body.

Finally, she pulls away and smiles at you, mischievous. She wipes the shine off her lips. “Refreshing.”

Use magic, knowledge, or other schemes: Roll Savvy.

Succubi are dangerous. This dying creature is already in your mind nibbling at your thoughts.

“Stay,” you command.

She sits obediently, chin up, waiting.

There’s an old Orcish ritual for certain kinds of soothing. Usually used to aid in sleep and… to trigger orgasms. You mutter the words, and she licks her lips curiously, tasting the magic.

She feeds on your imagination. As you visualize her straddling her lover, her tail curled around their legs, the succubus arches her back and shudders. She spreads her legs, presenting herself like an offering, and you imagine a world where you give in, where you come in this devil’s hands. She squeals and sighs with delight and looks up at you, fed enough to survive. “Mmm- may I have another?”

If you liked what you read here, there’s much more where that came from. Find out more and support us at Indigogo:Tavern of Conquest.

Paranormal romance lovers will devour these seven novellas featuring alpha male shifters and the men they’re determined to claim. Our handpicked stories are full of heat, passion, and romances to remember. Seven authors, including some of your favorite Evernight bestsellers, are proud to present  Alpha Male: Manlove Edition.

Releases Nov. 8th.

Get it here from Evernight, Amazon, Apple, kobo, Barnes and Noble, Scribd

My story in Alpha Male is “The Stranded Sky Castle”

The Stranded Sky Castle is a Romeo and Juliet story, if Romeo was a magic-wielding wolf and Juliet was a very militant eagle. Rokor, an eagle-shifter and child-soldier, grew up in a war with witches that ended when his father died to defeat the coven. He takes his role as a leader very seriously and is skeptical, flattered, and somewhat annoyed when he finds himself relentlessly pursued by the cheerful and cunning alpha wolf of the valley, Tchen the Trickster. The wolf lives up to his name laying traps to get closer and closer to his lover, until he finally manages to take the young eagle hostage. It’s only then that Rokor realizes how much the witches’ stole from the wolves and how very alive the witch threat still is.

Selection from “The Stranded Sky Castle”

He stood there by the window, howling at the moon in his human form, ignoring me and my entourage. Today, he was wearing soft fabric trousers and a thick hemp belt. Otherwise, he was only covered with one of our cheap feather blankets. The sight of his broad shoulders, his long unkempt hair, the angles of his jaw, and the shape of his mouth made me weak. I’d made love to that man. I’d kissed that skin, had those lips around my cock, felt the body move over and inside of me.

I had to stay cold. “All right, you hell-raiser, what are you doing in my prison?”

The howling silenced at once, and he beamed at me like a child. “Well, you look very nice out of your armor, your majesty. Like a red peacock. Very soft, very elegant.”

I turned to the other second and both of our entourages. “Would it be possible for me to speak to this person alone? I commend you all on your service in capturing and subduing this man, but it takes a while before he says anything other than lewd jokes and meaningless drivel when he’s alone with me. I can only imagine how much worse he will be with an audience.”

“You know this man, sir?” The other second was curious.

“From patrols. He frequently comes too near the border.”

She was not at all sorry to miss the show. “I wouldn’t leave him to anyone but you, sir. Call if you need help. Flock dismissed!”

Tchen leaned on the bars, devilishly handsome and innocently pathetic. Still, he at least had the sense to wait until the rustle of their feathers retreated. “I had to see you again.”

“You’re insane.”

“Am I?”

“You must be. To abandon your people and give up your freedom just to see—”

“I hope to more than see—”

“That’s not likely—”

“I hope to touch, kiss—”

“God’s balls, wolf. You are a prisoner of war!”

Tchen stepped back as if he’d been punched. Shocked deeply by my shout. I hoped I’d made progress, just the slightest dent in his madness.

“Tchen, you have to give this up. There’s no world where you and I—”

I saw his trick too late. The man didn’t have a shred of contrition, and by the time he’d grabbed my wrists, I wasn’t strong enough to hold my ground. He yanked me against the cold metal and kissed me.

My cock leaped at even this slightest contact, and I knew I’d been anticipating this. As much as I promised myself I would remain in control, Tchen’s hands groped at my ass. I should never have left the library. Never have sent my entourage away. Never put myself near this beast.

“Rokor.” My name in his mouth cracked my control, and the rest of his growl melted me to the core. “I want you so much. Please.”

Recently, I attended the 2022 Writer’s Digest Conference, where I was able to pitch my latest rom/com horror novel, Route 413. This is a story about a mail carrer whose route takes him through hell, fairyland, and a retiremnent community for dead and dying gods.

I pitched to three agents with this project and got requests to send materials to each of them…

which I did today!

[cue exhausting variety of celebration videos, memes, parades, etc]

Anyways, now I will forget I ever sent these in order to not get my hopes up.

Route 413

Bridger Hahn is a solitary mail carrier, whose route takes him through hell, fairyland, and into a retirement community for dead and dying gods. If he can survive his route, his mother, and the constact attacks of an unfeeling universe, he might true love and becomes the next Santa Claus.

A rom/com for fans of literary horror, ala Welcome to Nightvale, John Dies at the End, and Everything, Everywhere, All at Once. Between 70 and 90 k, this book uses mythology from all over a world but especially folktales from Southeast Asia (Bridger is Vietnamese-American) and the indigenous people of the New York area (another character is the Hudson River who has not forgotten he was once worshipped as a god).

CLICK FOR FIRST CHAPTERS

Very honored and excited to announce that my short story “To Harvest Lavender” won 3rd place in Writer’s Digest Short Story Contest 2022. This story is very much a product of quarantine and my real life experience with the passing of a loved one. I hope you enjoy...

To Harvest Lavender

I saved her from the oven all those years ago, only because her death by fire would have been a calamity for the rest of us. Of course, she couldn’t tolerate me in the house, so I slept in her wilderness. For years. To protect her.

No, to watch her die.

Well, that job is done. All that’s left is to clean.

I steal in her doorway, like she will come with thunder in her fingertips. Like she will scream at me for dawdling.

She never once welcomed me. Even when I came to the door, a child in a red bramble-torn cloak, pursued by a savage furred terror, she’d sneered. “You should’ve sent the wolf to eat me. It would have been kinder.”

I light the sage to consume the magic she left behind.

One must be of strong will to command magic. It’s difficult for two strong wills to coexist, harder when one is learning the art. She hated teaching. She bragged of the worlds she’d slain, the princes she’d conquered, the dragons she’d seduced before I made her an unwilling mother.

The dust caking her books, the shelf of rotting potions, the filthy cauldron remind me of her broom striking my back, of the foul taste of her ladle in my mouth, of the dark places she’d abandoned me. The pain sits like a rock in my belly. Unforgiven. Made small by newer memories.

In the end, she was fragile as spun-sugar, weak as broken teeth, and soft as wet dough. I never beat her or tested potions on her, and the only dark place she wandered was her own mind.

It’s hard to hate a woman who can’t chew her own gingerbread.

I scrub the ancient and sticky residue in the oven, stooped over inside the black maw. This oven hasn’t been cleaned for decades— not since a girl with a stronger spine than me pushed—

No, I mustn’t be unkind to myself. Not when I won’t be unkind to her and just burn the whole house down. That girl had a brother, another heart to protect. She wasn’t alone with this confusing love for someone she hated…

Or do I feel hatred for someone I loved?

I can’t tell. Not surrounded by the damp and sticky muck of her life.

When the oven blazes clean, I burn the scraps of her life. The chocolate rotted in a bowl. The licorice glued to the page of a book. She’ll never finish reading that book.

Do I actually smell burning flesh, or is that just her ghost?

I scrub the chalky cauldron. She hasn’t been able to clean this terror for centuries. It isn’t fit to conjure soup. When the fresh water stays clean, I brew a potion to drink the magic. While it bubbles, I rest in her chair.

The aroma of stale cookie fades into the clean scent of fresh ash. Soon the walls will only be wood. I breathe deeply to preserve that sweetness in my lungs, already missing it.

Her lungs never were right after the oven. And at the end, it was her gasping that called me from the woods. I meant to ease her passing, but when I found her sitting by the water, exhausting herself with breathing, she’d already eaten her own poisoned apple. Self-sufficient. She didn’t have the teeth to break the skin. Had waited for it to rot so she could scoop out the mush.

By the time the rattling croak of her breaths had stopped, her eyes were glazed and sweet. She didn’t curse me. But only because she didn’t recognize me.

That hurt far more than any beating.

Her golden rings litter the table below the cloth-draped mirror, a lure for greedy crows and dutiful daughters. I gather the treasure, uninterested in the shine, respectful of their recovery.

Such a vain old toad. Here’s the powder to cover wrinkles. Here’s the ointment for smooth skin. Here’s a flaking paper to remind—

Harvest lavender.

Lavender wouldn’t have prolonged her life, only soothe her lungs.

But the lavender grows just outside her door. She used to grab handfuls from the window, gleefully flinging them into the cauldron…

To need to harvest…

To need a reminder…

How mad was she at the end? How lonely? How lost?

I catch her scent. Not in the perfume. In the mirror. Saying goodbye? No. Not her. She’s lying in wait.

If I were clever, I’d catch her in my pocket mirror. If I were cautious, I’d light more sage.

I tear the cloth away, confront the ghost.

I was never clever nor cautious; I was bold.

Her smile is honey. She reaches from the mirror to embrace me. I know it’s a trap, but I sink into the softness of her arms… one last time. She sinks her claws in my back… one last time.

She means to trap my soul in the mirror, to crawl inside my body. Once she has my hands, she will bake something sweet and crunchy.

That’s all I am to her. Good teeth. Strong hands. I’m disappointed. Disappointed to find I still care what she thinks.

Her ghost pushes at my heart. It’s too hard for her to invade.

“You had to harvest your own lavender, because you’d rather have me howl in the wilderness than tolerate me as your daughter.”

It’s difficult for two strong wills to coexist, but I have learned my art, and she is dead.

“I love you, baba, but you’ve taken all I’m willing to give.”

The scent of the ghost— carrot-cake and candied plums— wafts away, dragged into the cauldron with the rest of the dead magic.

My soul tremors. Relief? Grief?

There is freedom in death and longing in life. I will never visit her again.

The tears only come now. I feel guilty they have not come sooner. Resentful that they come at all.

She will give me no new hurts.

No matter how hard I seek them.

I’m dipping my toe just a little into self-publishing with Smashwords.com; you can find my profile here, under my name, L.J. Longo.

Mostly what’s up here now are short stories and previously released novellas. Some are absolutely ridiculous (Alien Abduction; Thug’s Night Off). Some are just too short to be published through normal channels or involve history I don’t have any interest in researching enough to make into a full-length (A Fair Deal; Before the Rain). Some have been previously published.

“Writing Tutor” was actually my first story ever published, and it was released in the early 2000s in a book called “Dorm Porn.”

“Whims of Witches” was originally published as part of Virginia Nelson’s Flip the Trope Anthology.

Starting in May check this space for previously published short stories, brand new novellas, and other weird things that I’ve chosen to put up on Wattpad.