Formal intro as a Wicked Pen Writer

Can I get a Woot!?! Pretty thrilled as just hours ago I got formally introduced as one of the new Wicked Pen Writers. Have you checked us all out? Mr. Blackthorne has put together a great group of authors. Take a look at the names, their excerpts, some freebies and an all around sexy and entertaining site. You can find it all at   While you’re there, sign up for his newsletter to keep up with all the exciting news.

Feel free to Follow all of us. Links are listed with our names.

Have a super day and take care. (Don’t forget that Woot!)


Tamara McLanahan, Author

Want to see what I’m up to lately? Check out my Author web page on Facebook.

And be sure to check out all the existing and new Wicked Pen Writers. Sizzling hot, deliciously wicked short stories to enjoy from some of your favorite authors and some you may have missed.



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And Goodreads:

Want to hear me reading select poems and shorts? Check me out on Podbean. Follow me and hear the latest updates and readings. Never boring!



Super Cool Smutpunk Blog for the Win!

And a “Hey Nonny Nonny Neener Neener to Ms. Gough and her antiquated, judgmental and downright offensive little rant on Huffington Post. I would read Callie Press by penlight any day over her and her smarmy, condescending Holier than Thou, vituperative tirades. Wise up, Ms. Gough. Times they are a’changing and while you may have one teeny tiny point in that self publishing may allow a truly abysmal book to see the light of day, your point is lost in the glare of your hypocritical diatribe. Surely an aggrandizing self appointed guardian of the literary world, a consummate wordsmith with such a long list of accolades wouldn’t end a sentence with a preposition!? I am appalled and aghast but always alliterative. So buy a vowel Ms. Gough. (I would suggest an A, but I used them up in that last sentence.) The phrase you’re looking for on that Wheel of Literary Fortune is:


Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system. Take a look at someone who can say it so much more eloquently than I. Check out Callie Press and her blog.




  by  Tamara McLanahan 


He sat alone in front of his laptop, in a room full of people. The mug of coffee close to his hand, a sinuous stream of heat spiraling upward, provided no warmth. Ode to Joy drifted melodiously in the background, yet he felt none. Low murmurs of conversations surrounded him, but he heard not a whisper.

His mind was full of thoughts but none would coalesce. He stared at the blank page on his computer screen, realizing how devoid was his life.  So many missed opportunities, chances he’d told himself to take, emboldened for a time, but ultimately hadn’t. A toe edging over the precipice, only to draw himself back. True, he’d been afraid of falling, but in guarding himself so carefully, he’d kept himself from flying.

And since words were his life’s blood, he went into his files, looked over all the stories, tales and notes, crafted so lovingly over lo these many years. His babies, his darlings, rereading those he thought his best efforts but this time derived no pleasure from them. Simply words he’d thrown upon the screen, relatively few had read them and he wondered when his time came, how many would remember him for much longer than it took to peruse those words. Would he be ultimately forgotten, fading in the fullness of time?

He’d intended to leave a mark, but in haste had pushed those who held him in highest regard away. Those who had embraced his words in awe, hugging them close to their hearts. Ones who had understood, appreciated the nuances. But had he misunderstood a situation and jumped to a false conclusion? Overthought and weighed them culpable? Some had done nothing more than encourage him, inspire him but in his doubt and angst, he’d chased them away.

The evening wore on, false revery perpetuated by cumbersome companions until finally, mercifully, he could extract himself. Home, to once again open his laptop, to stare at that blank page. His fingers moved but quickly stilled. The darkened room was bathed in a garish light as he squinted, looking at the solitary word emblazoned on his screen:



Copyright 2016, Tamara McLanahan All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.






She is done…

She was three. Young to have the cruelties of life thrust upon her, but when had life shown fairness? Not to most, and most certainly not to her today. She ran to the bedroom closet and climbed up on the pile of old clothes stacked there. Dark. Musty. But as she was all alone in the house, she felt safer there than anywhere else. The sirens had scared her, her mother’s cries of anguish still echoed. Her daddy, lying in the snow, colder now than the flakes covering him. She wanted to stay with her mother, cling to her hand, be hugged, but was ordered back into the house. Watched out the window as her mother got into the ambulance that rushed down the snow covered street, lights flashing. A neighbor, a stranger to her had finally found her, bundled her up to take her across that street to wait. As the flakes continued to fall, she clutched Teeny, her favourite doll and worried how much trouble she was going to be in. She was never allowed to cross this road unless daddy or mother took her.

She was eight. The smells of the hospital made her stomach hurt. She didn’t like hospitals. People went in to them and never came back home. Her mother lay gaunt in the bed, sallow skin, dried cracked lips, hair dull and tangled on the pillow. Not looking like she’d remembered her. Just a hollow shell of the mother she loved. She wasn’t normally allowed to visit her, usually had to sit by herself in the big room, strangers passing by at a steady pace. Waiting downstairs while her sister sat bedside, hour upon hour. But a nice nurse, another stranger had come to get her, taken her in to mother’s room. She sat engulfed in the big chair, waiting for her mother to open her eyes, glancing at the machines that beeped and hummed. Reaching out, she stroked her mother’s hand, so cool to the touch.

She was thirteen. Just walking in the door from school, but sensing something wrong already. She found her sister lying on the bed, sobbing uncontrollably. She hadn’t seen her big brother in a few years, he’d taken off to California just after the funeral. Her sister stumbled out the words between great hiccuping breaths. Fog…car accident, highway…a massive pileup. They didn’t have enough money to attend the funeral so she grieved three thousand miles away, wishing she’d been able to see him one last time. She pulled the covers over her head, burrowing in against the cold.

She was twenty-one, listening to the doctors at Children’s Hospital drone on about what they’d done, but more importantly, what they couldn’t. Three months old but nothing more to do, only a matter of time. They signed the DNR order and walked back to her daughter’s bedside. So still laying in the enormous bed. The nurses brought an extra chair and they kept vigil, until finally the monitor she’d watched for six weeks there began to alarm, a heart arrhythmia dancing across the machine. Kindly, a nurse came in, removed all the tubes, the IV, and let her be held. Swaddled, rocking, caressing downy soft red hair so like her own, but growing cold. So cold. So tiny, it happened quickly.

She was forty-eight and tired. Feeling once more like that three year old. Left behind, abandoned, without so much as a second thought. So easily discarded, she must be unworthy. Lacking. The ache was all over. Her head hurt, heart hurt and yet she continued to breathe, a cruel reminder of all that she’d lost, continued to lose. She thought back over the last few days, wondering what had happened, why it happened. No clarity, but worse, no closure and so she waited while the pills worked their way through her system, the aches finally, mercifully easing as the room grew cold, then colder still…