Tuesday, August 19, 2014


Hello, everyone! The time has finally come when I can share this beauty with the rest of the world! I'm so very excited to reveal my beautiful cover for HEMLOCK VEILS today! Feel free to spread the word and share, share, share! Thank you to Swoon Romance for this AMAZING and eye-catching design, and thank you, YA Bound, for hosting this blog tour cover reveal! 

Now, feast your eyes...

Hemlock Veils
Release Date: 11/25/14
Swoon Romance

Summary from Goodreads:
When Elizabeth Ashton escapes her damaging city life and finds herself in the remote town of Hemlock Veils, Oregon, she is smitten by its quaint mystery; but the surrounding forest holds an enchantment she didn’t think existed, and worse, a most terrifying monster. The town claims it vicious and evil, but Elizabeth suspects something is amiss. Even with its enormous, hairy frame, gruesome claws, and knifelike teeth, the monster’s eyes speak to her: wolf-like and ringed with gold, yet holding an awareness that can only be human. That’s when Elizabeth knows she is the only one who can see the struggling soul trapped inside, the soul to which she is moved.

Secretly, Elizabeth befriends the beast at night, discovering there’s more to his story and that the rising of the sun transforms him into a human more complex than his beastly self. Elizabeth eventually learns that his curse is unlike any other and that a single murderous act is all that stands between him and his freedom. Though love is not enough to break his curse, it may be the only means by which the unimaginable can be done: sacrifice a beauty for the beast.

About the Author (Me!)

Though Jennie Davenport was raised throughout the Midwest, she now lives in the little desert mining town of Bagdad, Arizona, where seven guys beg for her constant attention: a husband, three young, blonde sons, a German shepherd with a name much mightier than his disposition (Zeus), and two cats named Mouse and Tigger. When she isn’t trying to run her home with as little casualties as possible, Jennie loves snuggling with her family, laughing with her friends, delving into brilliant entertainment of any vein, and playing outside. Despite the way being a writer is in her blood, and the wheels of her writerly mind are constantly turning, Jennie likes to think that in another life, she would have been a Broadway star. Or an American Idol finalist.

Jennie lives for the fall, and not just because of her adoration for the NFL (Go Broncos!). In her perfect world, she would have the springs, summers, and falls of Colorado, and the winters of Arizona—someplace where the climate and weather would allow her to go on a trail run all year round. But even though she prefers the pines and mountains, she is a devoted fan of all nature, from sandy beaches to woodsy cabins, and all are her greatest inspiration. She believes nature is one of the best healing remedies, with a magic all its own.

Jennie’s passion for writing is the way she survives, and is as vital to her sanity as oxygen, caffeine, food, and music. Even before she began writing it, well-told, original, and character-driven romance was always her weak spot. Add the paranormal or magical realism element and she may never make it back to reality. 

Author Links:
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Cover Reveal Organized by:

Monday, August 18, 2014

Flash Fiction #4 (final): Dialogue Only

For #MondayBlogs, here is the last flash fiction installment of the Red Wheelbarrow stories. This one is a little...weird, so bear with me. The writing prompt was that we had to use just dialog to get the story across. No dialogue tags, no narrative--NOTHING BUT DIALOGUE. Writing a story with just dialogue is a little rough, because you have to show the characters movements, actions, the setting, and exposition all in their words.

Background: this installment takes place a few years after the others--after Charlene and her family found the meadow in the mountains and have built a camp there. In the meantime, their small camp has grown to more than just their intimate family. This is Charlene's first meeting with a new character, John. The rest, I hope, comes together in the dialogue. Though I never wrote anymore after this, I have plotted and outlined. I got really attached to these characters and this story, and especially to what, in my mind, they will go through. Maybe one day I'll have time to write them into the novel they deserve.

If you haven't read the first three installments, read them here:
Red Wheelbarrow
Sea of Yellow
Already Home

And here is the last, in dialogue only:

“You go any further and the tip of my blade emerging from your gut will be the last thing you see.”



“You said if I go any further. It’s farther.”

“You really wanna correct me with a knife to your back?”

“I just figured you’d want to know. You know, just so you don’t make a fool of yourself the next time you’re threatening someone’s life.”

“Son of a—”

“Be careful with that thing, sweetheart! If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you actually wanted to use it.”

“What makes you think you know better, Mr. English Professor?”

“Not an English professor. Just got an education is all. You know, from a real school. And I know better because your voice is trembling. You won’t do anything.”

“My voice is not trembling.”

“That was a little better.”

“Shut up. Don’t talk.”

“What, this isn’t going how you rehearsed?”

“I said Shut. Up.”

“You did rehearse it, didn’t you, sweetheart? You sound too young to be a pro. That’s also probably why you think someone who can speak properly is some brilliant professor.”

“You laugh one more time and I’ll actually use this knife. And I never said brilliant. You’re pretty stupid if you think sitting here in the bare bushes like this is discreet.”

“Oh, discreet. Good. Sounds like you know a little.”

“I know a lot for someone like me, idiot. Back when things were still normal, before she had me, my mother was a school teacher. She’s taught me everything.”

“Not everything, I’d say.”

“Who do you think you are? Why are you spying on us? Who sent you to look for us?”

“No one sent me. I’m alone. Just trying to find a safe place is all.”

“Liar. No one’s alone anymore.”

“I am.”

“You probably have some squad somewhere, waiting for your command.”

“I wouldn’t serve a minute for our shit government. Not now. Do I look like I belong in the military?”

“I’ve seen them use disguises.”

“So, how old are you, sweetheart? Twelve, thirteen?”


“Whoa! I said be careful with that thing. You even know how to use it?”

“I could have you gutted in a matter of seconds.”

“So why haven’t you?”

“Stop talking and let me think…”

“Well, if you’re all this camp has for protection I’d say I’m coming out on top.”

“You know nothing. You don’t know what we’ve been through. Or what I’m capable of.”

“Sweetheart, I’m sure it’s the same things any soul still living has seen.”

“Don’t call me that anymore. Keep your mouth shut, put up your hands, and walk.”

“If you’re so hardcore, why not just gut me from behind, right here?”

“Stop tempting me.”

“I mean it. Why not?”

“We might need you. If you know where this meadow is, others might, too. We’ll need to know who.”

“I already told you, I’m alone.”

“Then I guess I can kill you…”

“Whoa, whoa. No need for that. My guts happen to be very precious to me, so why don’t you just lower that knife and we can talk?”

“Oh, now you think I’m serious?”

“Your voice isn’t so shaky anymore.”

“Turn around.”

“Why, so you can gut me the right way?”

“So I can look into your eyes.”

“Romantic. But you’re nearly ten years younger than me, sweet—”

“So I can read you. If you’re telling the truth, I might let you live. But no funny business.”

“Well, I’ll be. You’re kinda pretty for a little murderer.”

“What makes you think you can lower your hands? I said—“

“No funny business, I know. But really, sweetheart—you think you could take me?”

“Stop. Don’t come any closer.”

“Look at you. You’re just a little thing. What are you, maybe a buck-five? And you gotta be crazy, being out here by yourself like this.”

“I’m warning you…”

“John. Name’s John. And I’m the last person you need to worry about out here. Now give me the knife, sweetheart, and maybe we can make some arrangement.”

Monday, August 4, 2014

Flash Fiction #3: Already Home

It's that time again. #MondayBlogs is upon us. And regardless of how badly I want to write a poignant and powerful blog post, I just don't have time. Or the mind, really. So today I'm posting the third flash fiction piece to my Red Wheelbarrow series. (To catch up and see how they all piece together, read the first, Red Wheelbarrow, and the second, Sea of Yellow.)

I mentioned these pieces were all written because of flash fiction prompts. The first was the William Carlos William's verse, the second was a picture of a Sea of Yellow (a field of wild flowers). This prompt was just a simple line: And then we realized we were already home. Somehow, I had to work that into my piece, and because I wanted to stick with the Red Wheelbarrow story, I ended up writing a flashback for Charlene. I wasn't as happy about this one as I was with the others, but it's also special because it gives the background we've been desiring for the family. So, here it is. *hides*

Already Home

We had to leave immediately. I was five then, and Mama was pregnant with Rose. I didn’t want to go, even though it smelled awful. I was used to the smell, used to playmates and packed cots.

Now, years later, I realize the scent that permeated our “home” was burnt flesh. And body odor, too. And I’m ill from the thought that the smell had once been comfortable to me.

There were too many of us crammed inside, hiding from the soldiers. Most were sick or injured.

But then we got word that the virus was there, the one that had started on the East Coast, and Mama wouldn’t stay another day. She took me away in the night, when the only thing lighting our escape was the full moon and the smoke-lit sky to the east. Where a place called Denver used to be.

We hid from the soldiers for days, squeezing into small, tight places, until we found a dirt road—one Mama said was in the Middle of Nowhere. She said she wanted me and the unborn baby as far away from civilization as possible. Or at least what remained of it.

I didn’t understand then. I was only aware of my fear and Mama’s hand, and the fact that I hadn’t seen Daddy since the day the soldiers ripped him from Mama’s arms one month before.

Mama had cried for days when he’d left, and so had I, even though I hadn’t understood.

Now all I have of him is the sound of his jaunty laugh when he’d spin me until I was dizzy. I had liked feeling dizzy then, but after he’d left, and when Mama and I were on the run, feeling dizzy made me homesick for Daddy. And sometimes even for that old warehouse we and so many others called home my first five years of life.

Mama and I traveled for days. She had to stop a lot to rest, sometimes to throw up. And sometimes nothing would come out and she would gag until I felt sick, too. She said it was the baby, and I hated the baby.

But then Mama had her, and I didn’t know how to hate something so tiny. I loved her, especially because Mama let me name her. I named her Rose, because to this day, I’ve still never seen one. Mama used to talk about them all the time, about their beauty and their perfume smell.

A few days after Mama had Rose, she bundled her up in her jacket and we continued to travel. I whined a lot, but Mama told me there was nowhere safe.

Then we saw the abandoned house. It was the only one we’d seen without broken windows and doors. The only one that hadn’t been ransacked. The mountains on the evening we found it were majestic, and not so far from the house. And in that moment, I imagined I was a normal little girl, with a normal house in a normal world.

The cupboards weren’t bare, and there were clothes and supplies. There were even chickens and farming equipment outback, a shiny red wheelbarrow catching my eye. And it wasn’t until our second day there that Mama found the body. The man was white and covered in wrinkles, and Mama said he’d died from old age. She buried him out back, behind the chicken coup, and I helped cover him in dirt.

She shed tears. When I asked her why she was crying, she said it was because she wished I knew the value of a life, wished that seeing a dead body wasn’t something so normal for me. And again, I didn’t understand.

For the first few weeks at the house, I missed the company and stability of the warehouse. And so did Mama, I think, because she cried a lot, almost every time Rose did. When I asked her if she thought they were all still alive, she cried harder. And that told me she thought not.

Then eventually tears turned into smiles, and smiles into laughter. I wasn’t so homesick for Daddy anymore, or even the warehouse. We were happy, and Mama even swung me around until I was dizzy.

And then we realized we were already home.