Links to my pages

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Writing is my number 1 passion. I write short stories, poems, novels, and blogs. Genres I’m interested in are but not limited to . . . Horror, paranormal, occult, spiritual, romance, modern, suspense, thriller and drama. (I have worked with some erotica, but with another pen name.)

These are the links to all of Internet me (but the naughty part)

Facebook page

http://www.facebook.com/RebekahQuinne

Twitter

https://mobile.twitter.com/rebekahquinne

WattPad

https://www.wattpad.com/Rebekahquinne

Instagram

https://www.instagram.com/Rebekahquinne/

Smash words

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Rebekah1213

Deviant art

https://www.deviantart.com/rebekah1213

Good Reads

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6454956.Rebekah_Quinne

Old LiveJournal

https://rebekah1213.livejournal.com

Fan fiction.net

https://www.fanfiction.net/~rebekahwriter13

Nanowrimo profile

https://nanowrimo.org/participants/rebekah1213

Tumblr

https://rebekah1213.tumblr.com

My WordPress blogs

https://rebekahwolveire.wordpress.com

https://rqshortstories.wordpress.com

https://rebekah1213.wordpress.com

https://beckyms1213blog.wordpress.com

https://spiritualbeck.wordpress.com

The Whispering Path my first attempt at a novel

https://www.amazon.com/Whispering-Path-Ms-Rebekah-Wolveire/dp/1463674309

Her Path to Hell

 

Normally, these get posted on my blog site http://rqshortstories.wordpress.com However I clicked on the wrong blog. I’m working a few short stories over the weekend to wake my muses up for Camp Nanowrimo July.

Now onto the fictional story. . .

 

 

She shouldn’t have done it. Stress killed her rational thought, while she was still shattered and crushed from the breakup. She was in pain and still helped him. It was just type of person she was . . .loyal and devoted.

One half of her family yelling at her feeling used, but it was not her intension. It was never her intent, but she is not going back to the looks of bitter disappointment and half yelling lectures of being used with half rolled eyes watching her on her knees while telling her “we told you so.”
She also was not going to cause wedges between members, so she left and didn’t look back. It was best for everyone. She just didn’t know she was going down the dark path.

Everyone yelling at doctors. . . specialist telling everyone different things. Some days she had three or less hours of sleep. She was sleeping in the hallways of the hospital waiting for answer. Then a weak voice ask to go home, and he listened to her advice. The final few days everything declined making her feel like a useless liar.
He left the earthly realm, and so did part of her heart and soul. She felt empty and purposeless. She was simply a walking hallow shell of a human. The dim light of her soul barely sparked, and she bared got out of bed. So many pushed her, encouraged her, but by the time she woke up and everyone was gone. They all moved on with their own lives. She instantly felt lost and alone.

Drama with landlord. . . rules upon rules, she felt like she was in a prison not a rental. There was a prison of her heart and mind locked in her cautious and scared soul. She was locked with “what ifs” for bars. The endless verbal rules made her even more alone. . .
No cats, shoo away the stray cats, fees if you feed them, no guests after ten, payments by third, keep windows close, don’t talk to neighbors in the middle of the sidewalk, do not discuss rent prices.

Soon she just locked herself away until one day the nightmares got louder, scarier, and more confusing.
So she ran, but turned the wrong way. The lifted truck came out of nowhere, she had no chance. Secretly, she didn’t want one.

Extreme scream pain coursed throughout her body with seconds, and then instant black numbing silence.
She waited in a line only to greeted by her ex with the words “What are you doing here?”

Then he begins to step back and panic. . . “It’s too early, you are not supposed to here.” A siren blares hard and like a mixture of flat angels singing blended into bitter souls screaming and slowed aged bells.
“Oh God, gun, what did you do?” his eyes got large in terror as armored angels grabbed her both sides and pulled her out of line.
“You are the wrong location, miss.”

They drug her away and pushed her into a slide. . . whispering words and thoughts twisted.. . .it was bright turned into a redness, crimson shadow into a darker blackness. . .lacking light and warmth. Whispering word of gossip and lies turned into harsh shrieking, blood curdling screams.
She landed on a hard black slab or cold rock. The only thing she could hear was the arguing bitterness and cries of old friends and separated family blaming each other for her death. . .

Time went by . . she wasn’t sure how much because she was alone in her darkness with her past playing over and over in her head.

Finally there was a candle. . .although it was a dim light it was enough to burn her delicate eyes. Her head felt as if someone drilled a screw in her head through her eyes. She squinted and lowered her eyes to the harsh yet dim flame lighting most of the room.
Then a slim man walks into the room, she saw his dirty feet. She looked at him and instantly looked up and memories of her childhood crush replayed in her head.
He was still beautiful with his dirty skin and greasy hair. For one second she was stunned. . .
Until said “no, I cannot do this.” There was no sorry just a look of unattractive disgust.

 

 


At that moment, she knew she was in hell.

For my other short stories http://rqshortstories.wordpress.com

Random writing facts about me

  1. I feel I can never write too much.
  2. I can clean and cook, but I am not productive unless I am writing.
  3. I love to write lists, menus, grocery, to-do, idea etc.. It helps me to be organized and calm my anxiety.
  4. I’m picky about my co-writers and editors. I feared people will take my ideas.
  5. I feel accomplished when my pen runs out. Papermate pens run out fast. Bic pen take longer and they are a big accomplishment.
  6. I love writing by hand. Pen and paper do not electricity.
  7. I need to read more.
  8. I have at least five projects in my head.
  9. I fight my depression and my exhaustion vs my productive writing.
  10. I currently have at least four active blogs, and several inactive older blogs. I will post links on another page.
  11. I write poetry, short stories, novellas, novels, and blogs.
  12. I love to write. It is who I am, a writer. I hope someday for a professional publisher to publish and sell my work.
  13. I am obsessed with number 13 and put it my writings often.

Health vs writing

Lately, I have been getting inspiration between the hours of 1am and 7 am. So I get on the tablet or set up the tv table and write. Check out my Short Stories, I did get a few posted. . . My Short stories

  • The more I try for a day schedule, the more my body seems to fight it.
  • My heart burn issues wake me up and it sometimes feels like it is impossible to go back to sleep.
  • Then my eyes strain with the glow of the screen because everyone else wants the lights off.
  • I also have a dry cough that keeps me up all night. I feel like I’m choking but their is nothing there. . . Like I am choking on air.
  • I’ve been fighting headaches so bad, they are migraines and I’m down for days at a time with nausea and extreme pain in the head and eyes.
  • I’m also fighting hot flashes so bad, making my eyes and neck burn.
  • My pelvic area, lower back, and thighs have random pain, and it is hard to be comfortable as I write.
  • This has been fighting against me with getting quality writing.

I just want a decent writing schedule bit why is my health fighting me.

My Short Shories

I’m writing Short Stories.

I put my feelings in each one. These are flash fiction but very personal. In the last few year my heart and soul shattered, each of these pieces are my a piece of shattered heart and soul.

I hope to find myself and piece myself together.

I’m posting them on my Short Story blog. . .

Rebekah Quinne Short Stories

Dear Santa

Dear Creative Santa,

I have tried to be a good writer (minus a few discouraging people and distractions). I tried to write something every day. I try to keep my brain working.

I ask for several things this year.

  1. Motivation . . . I need to get some willpower and write. (Even when I have writer’s block.)
  2. Inspiration . . .  please let me see the world in a new light.
  3. 300,000 word count.  I know I gave myself too high of goal in 2016, but may 2017 be a productive year.

I would also like to be published this year, but I am just taking things one at a time.

Thank you for everything I have experienced this year, and maybe I could use it in a story or two.

Enjoy the cookies. 30315014663_b77a532518.jpg

From a Hopeful, Soon to be published Writer

Rebekah Quinne

Flash Fiction: Eatable Anticipation

Back story: I am have several other hobbies besides writing. Cooking is one of them. I am a huge fan of Marcel Vigneron. I found some pictures and this what inspired me. This is a fictional flash piece.  I have not been to his new restaurant WOLF yet. I want to . . . imagine what I could write about after I taste it.

 

Flash Fiction: Eatable Anticipation.

By: Rebekah Quinne

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He searched and pondered to find a small piece of an exciting hope, of pure inspiration. . . He needed just to find a color, a smell, a single moment in which a spark of pure stimulation would help him to create artistic food that appeals to all of the senses.

He walked into the golden field to fall away from the pressure to simply to be one with nature. He wanted to connection with life of his food in hope his muses will bless him with the special touch. The wind blows just so lightly and it hit him . . . Use all of the food, and let it speak for itself.

 


He desired to tell the ultimate story with his food. He wanted his customers to never forget the moment that they did not just see art, but tasted it. He wanted them to have an experience with the food, not just another simple meal.

He wanted them to fall in love with the entire wholeness of each protein, vegetable, and fruit. He wanted them to experience the beauty of the colors for what they are . . . to see the pureness in the roots, the swipe of the stunning juice of the blushing vegetable.  He wanted them to allow their palette to dance with the taste while the scent teased.

wolf-room

The circular lights may dim, the laughter may fade, but the realness of the experienced senses will be remembered. . .

Check out WOLF https://twitter.com/wolfdiningla