Home of author Cheryl Anne Gardner.

Now, some might say that she is a little touched in the head, clinically disturbed, that is, and some might say that she goes way way way beyond a mild case of scab-picker. Just between you and me, it’s the company she keeps. She knows a guy, who knows this other guy, who knows a guy’s cousin or something, who can sit for hours in a corner, extracting the fossilized dust mite lint from his belly button. “It’s the only way to get a quiet moment in the oubliette he calls his creative mind,” so he says. All those damn voices, blathering at him all the time, who wouldn’t want to hurt them, hurt them all, and hurt them bad. And that guy she knows, who knows that other guy with the frizzy hair and the lint fetish, he is mercilessly cruel: killed, tortured, and maimed cruel. He’s had characters commit suicide, commit rape, commit murder, lie, cheat, steal, and self-flagellate all in the name of a story. Yeah, that’s right; he’s even had little girls in frilly dresses eat turd and dead rat kebabs. You see, there’s Cheryl Anne and there’s him, and they’ve got this thing they do. Been doing it since they were kids. They’re not afraid to go there, wherever there might be, no matter how dark, dank, or putrid. They’ve got their suitcases packed — all liquorice and lace knickers – cause that’s what it takes…