The Foley Artist's Frequency
The bus let me off on a stretch of road that had no business being a bus stop, just a post with a faded sign and a gravel shoulder already…
Writing from Ohio, usually late at night with a glass of cabernet on Friday nights. My wheelhouse is Mature, told in first-person past tense in a voice that is literate with dry humor. Always happy to hear from readers who enjoy a real plot alongside the heat. Ranked by how many readers finish them. Some are free to read in full; the rest open with a free preview.
Get a note when Drift Diary publishes something new.
The bus let me off on a stretch of road that had no business being a bus stop, just a post with a faded sign and a gravel shoulder already…
The ferry dock at Salt Creek was empty when I got off it, which was normal for a Tuesday in January.
I turned forty-six on a Sunday, and I mention this only because it frames everything that came after.
The quarterly reports had gone soft on me.
*This one came from a canceled flight and a bottle of good Syrah at a gate.