The Cut

My boy friend Caleb Ford's childhood sweetheart, Julia Leclair, is losing her hair from chemotherapy. So, he orders me to cut mine off and make her a wig. "Julia's allergic to synthetic wigs. You've been growing your hair for ten years—it's perfect." I refuse, but his friends tie me down. Someone shaves my head to the scalp, buzzing through my thick, glossy hair until nothing's left but a butchered mess. Julia sits in her wheelchair and laughs, saying I look like a toad. Caleb smiles and nods in agreement. He adds with a chuckle, "It's just some hair. Was that really necessary?" But back when I was bullied for having uneven, choppy short hair for six straight years, it was he who stood in front of me. He had his arms spread wide as he shielded me from harm. Now he's the one wielding the blade. One by one, their little circle chimes in. They tell me not to hold a grudge against someone who's sick. Caleb snaps impatiently, "Stop trying to talk sense into her. She can get lost! Did you see that fit she threw over a few strands of hair? It's not like they won't grow back." I turn around and walk away. I never look back. Later, I hear that Caleb begs for my forgiveness by kneeling his way up 9000 steps until his knees are ruined.

In an East London lock up, two film makers, Jimmy and Sam, are duct taped to chairs and forced to watch a snuff film by Ashkan, a loan shark to whom they owe a lot of money. If they don’t pay up, they’ll be starring in the next one. Before the film reaches its end, Ashkan and all his men are slaughtered by unknown assailants. Only Jimmy and Sam survive the massacre, leaving them with the sole copy of the snuff film. The film makers decide to build their next movie around the brutal film. While auditioning actors, they stumble upon Melissa, an enigmatic actress who seems perfect for the leading role, not least because she’s the spitting image of the snuff film’s main victim. Neither the film, nor Melissa, are entirely what they seem however. Jimmy and Sam find themselves pulled into a paranormal mystery that leads them through the shadowy streets of the city beneath the city and sees them re-enacting an ancient Mesopotamian myth cycle. As they play out the roles of long forgotten gods and goddesses, they’re drawn into the subtle web of a deadly heresy that stretches from the beginnings of civilization to the end of the world as we know it. ©️ Crystal Lake Publishing

Crescent Cove: Where the Tide Brings Death Gabe Mitchell once wore a badge with pride—until the night everything was ripped from him: his career, his marriage, and nearly his sanity. Now working as a private investigator and nursing an old bottle of whiskey, Gabe finds himself dragged back into the shadows of law enforcement when a series of brutal murders rocks the quiet coastal town of Crescent Cove. The victims? Teenagers. The method? Slashed throats, hollow eyes. And the message? Always the same—“The Rip” scrawled in blood near the bodies. But when the latest victim turns out to be one of his son Nick’s closest friends, Gabe is forced to confront the nightmare head-on. Each death brings the killer closer to Nick—and the line between man and monster grows harder to see. The deeper Gabe digs, the stranger things get: whispered legends of an ancient sea demon, occult symbols etched into driftwood, and eyes watching from the waves. The truth may not just threaten his son’s life—but the soul of the town itself. Now Gabe must uncover the darkness hiding beneath Crescent Cove before the tide rolls in again… and takes Nick with it.

I was performing the hundredth "restoration" surgery on my mafia husband's latest mistress when I finally decided to leave him. For five years, I, Isabella Rossi, have lived a double life: the respected wife of a powerful Don, and the personal physician tasked with "purifying" the women he discards. Vincent's twisted religious conviction is his law: only a wife untouched by any other man can bear his legitimate heir. I was that pure wife, yet he treated me as his most unclean possession. My love for him died a slow death. A thousand empty nights. It was killed by the cold steel of my own operating table. By the sounds of other women boasting about his touch. The five-year prenuptial agreement that bound me to this hell was set to expire at midnight. I had already called my grandfather, the only man Vincent truly fears. My escape was hours away. By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late.

Mara Quinn is used to walking into places she shouldn’t—because the truth never waits in well-lit rooms. One late-night meet behind a bar goes wrong, and she sees something no one is supposed to witness: a man’s eyes flashing gold, bones shifting, a wolf where a man stood. She runs. The pack’s Alpha doesn’t let her. Gage Blackwood catches her in the dark, tilts her chin up like she’s a problem he can’t ignore, and delivers a sentence that feels like a threat and a promise all at once: “You’re mine until I decide you’re safe.” Except “safe” doesn’t mean free. It means locked inside a packhouse full of wolves who watch her like prey… or leverage. It means rules she never agreed to and a rival who smiles too easily and whispers that Gage will cage her forever—unless she chooses the right side. Mara refuses to be bullied into silence. If they want to keep her contained, she’s going to make herself useful. She demands answers. She digs into the crime she witnessed, she discovers the ugly truth: the blood spilled that night wasn’t random—it was part of a pack purge that went wrong, and the traitor is still breathing. The worst part? Gage’s “protection” wasn’t supposed to bind them. But a single drop of his blood on her tongue snaps something ancient awake—something that shouldn’t exist. Something the council will kill for. Now the Alpha who tried to control her is fighting the bond he never wanted… and the hunger he can’t shut off. Because Mara isn’t just a witness. She’s a secret and the mark she carries might be the one thing that topples a pack—or crowns her in it.

On International Women's Day, I spent twelve hours straight in a live stream, selling $5 million worth of product. When it came time to settle my commission, my aunt and boss, Sandra Holt, quietly transferred my $400,000 cut into her own account and handed me $500, labeled as a meal stipend. She took my hand with a warm, motherly smile. "Sweetheart, you're still an intern. Taking that much money at your age would hurt your career development. Let me hold onto it for you. Put it toward a car someday." I looked at the sharp calculation behind her kind eyes. I didn't argue. I took the money without a word. That night, I deleted my account and vanished, taking my entire product-sourcing system with me. The next morning, Aunt Sandra stared at a live stream with ten viewers and finally started blowing up my phone.