Below are samples from some of our ghostwriting team members. If you like their writing style, be sure to let us know you'd like to work with someone specific when you request services.
Finn knew Savannah was special from the way she never spoke. She laughed and giggled, a contagious laughter with squeals and bounces that bubbled through the air, infecting everyone around. But except for the occasional, “Mom,” and “no,” Savannah didn’t talk. Only those that loved her best could decipher her few words. Finn was one of those who loved her best. Even when she pet him too hard, or days like that day when she wouldn’t share her crayons.- excerpt from "the Crayons and the Bone," Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Magic of Dogs, July 2020
Down Clark’s Creek Road, at the edge of the Cherokee National Forest, on the map of the trails, a faded sign reads: “Overnight campers use caution. Aggressive bears in area.” It keeps people away. . . with the exception of the occasional daring teenager or the disbelieving passerby. But the locals know better. The sign hangs by a rusty nail, groaning in anguish with each passing wind, exclaiming what the sign really means. What it really warns about. For the locals all know there haven’t been bears in that part of the forest as long as anyone can remember. - excerpt from "Singin' Sally," Haints and Hollers, Sept. 2019
“My toenails are pink!” Libby follows me through the kitchen. “They’re a very pretty pink, Libby.” Not even butterflies should spread their wings before the coffee is poured. “Look at them Aunt Abigail Aunt Abigail!” She giggles at her squirming toes. My dog sniffs her feet. The perfume of wet wipes and baby powder lingers in my sleep. My sister flutters past us with red toenails.
“Mommy!” Libby looks up from her pink toes and trails after my sister. I meander to the living room hearth to sip my coffee in quiet. Butterfly feet pitter in behind me. Libby sits on the floor facing me. Her walnut eyes grow large with anticipation. I can’t imagine what she expects me to do. Her jelly bean lips smear into a smile. I can’t be that exciting. - excerpt from "Beatrice and the Red Wagon," Shelved, Dec. 2020
Still wearing her pink cotton house-dress, now accompanied by green house shoes, she lifted the toaster to see her reflection. She ran her hand down the side of her face, smearing her plastic-like skin. Her once full and pouty lips blended with the rest of the wrinkles that now decorated her face. She tried pushing her drooping cheeks back toward her ears, but when she moved her hand, they drooped again. Flustered, she pinched them: “They should at least have some colour,” she told herself. She neatly pushed back her hair, but to no avail. She never could get all of those white strands to stay in a bun. Her eyelids also sagged a bit, but tonight she was more bothered that everything else sagged. She lifted her breasts to where they had stood forty years ago. She knew that nothing could help them, and she let them fall again. She wrapped a red shawl over her shoulders pulling the ends of it to cover her bosom. She sighed at her old age and pulled the leftovers from the microwave. She placed them on the table and sat down with her guest. “I didn’t know if you would be hungry or if you had already eaten." - excerpt from "A Late Night's Visit," Shelved, Dec 2020
His eyes are fudge, when he looks at me. I can close my eyes hours later and taste them. It’s the look of the young. Pure simple picnics, sweet foolish sonnets and frolicking in dandelion fields. All things evolve in time. You grow older; you grow wiser; you grow purple veins. “Slow,” he says. “Let’s take it slow.” I never knew it was a race. I smile and nod and notice a new crease on my thumb. I can’t complain. My finger is still thin and doesn’t need a ring. - excerpt from "Lady Fingers," Shelved, Dec. 2020
I want to suck lung candy until my lungs rot from the inside and my kidneys poison my blood. I saw a man die that way. He became a child, sobbing that there was fire in his legs. Medication is no good. The kidneys flush it as poison through the body. It is the most painful death known to man. I blow out my candle and wait for the shadows to appear. They are hardly visible, as though in a fog. The wind drifts through my window and fondles the back of my neck. It whispers his name. The wind is cool and soft, like icy breath in Indian summer. My curtains sway with the pulse of the wind, causing the shadows to waltz. They are the living. Night after night I watch the same dancers on my wall. Night after night I pray they were dreams. Insomnia will be the death of me. - excerpt from "the Death of Me," Sojourn, Spring 2001