Mitch pushed his achy body up from the prison cot and tossed the small paperback he’d been reading on the nightstand between the cell’s two beds. Over his wire-frame spectacles, slightly askew on his turtle nose, he stared in resignation at his president. Donald sat on his well-worn cot, squeezing the last bit of bronzer from a tube he’d purchased a month ago at the prison commissary.
Her writing muse lurks in the volcanic hills amidst mustangs, marmots and jackalopes. While hiking with her dogs, Ann stumbles upon stories of dark humor.