Erin Sinclair's Page

I absolutely love this time of year, the scents, the sights, the colors, all of it! Weather is changing, comfort food becomes popular again, my favorite holidays are rolling towards me, there is movement, excitement and fun on the horizon.

Halloween is on the rise and so is the witch in me. My house is decorated, my sweet, funny son-in-law will be dressing as the grim reaper to frighten all the kiddies. My whole front yard has become a tombstone, rat, spider, ghoul and skeleton ridden graveyard… Continue

Buddy learns the meaning of scared and a lesson in humility in the final chapter of how our young man became a believer in the supernatural forces of the world he lived in.

“Ooh, I’m scared for Buddy, Grandpa,” Sissy stated rubbing her arms to soothe the goose bumps appearing on her skin.
“I don’t blame you one bit Sissy, me too,” Tom replied as he bit into another cookie.
Mrs. Hatcher hugged her great granddaughter close. “Don’t you worry sweet girl, there’s more to Buddy than meets the eye, i… Continue

When last we left our young hero, he took on the greatest dare of his life and all for the love of a beautiful girl with a will of iron and just enough mischief in her pretty blue eyes to slightly tarnish the halo he placed on her blonde head.

When Buddy arrived home, his mama was settin’ the table for dinner. She motioned the boy toward her and gave him a big hug and kiss. He wrapped his twigs for arms around her chubby frame as far as they could go holdin’ on tight not wanting to let her g… Continue

The seasons are changing once again, days are shorter, night is taking over. Halloween, All Souls Night, Samhain, Dia de los Muertos…a tale for the tellin' durin' the time when the veil 'tween the worlds is at its thinnest.

“Grandpa, grandpa, tell us about the Midnight Coachman, please!”
“I dunno know Sissy, you sure you and your friends can handle it?”
A resounding chorus of YESes reverberated against the old man’s hearing aid, sounding tinny and squeaky the fullness of the words disapp… Continue

I was fourteen years old when I read Shana by Kathleen Woodiwiss. Oh dear, I can hear the outcry now. Your mother let you read Shana at that young an age? No, she sure didn’t because I didn’t tell her. By the time she realized I was reading it, I was halfway through the novel, so there was no use arguing with a daughter who was fourteen going on thirty and one smart-assed teenager.

In my mother’s defense she was very much a traditionalist. Born in 1942 her one wish was to be a stay-at-home mom… Continue