Amy J. Markstahler
Bio
Amy J. Markstahler lives with her husband and son, near the banks of the Salt Fork River, in Illinois. She's published two novels. If she’s not writing you can probably find her on the porch with one of her many cats.
Stories (5)
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A Bed of Molten Flowers
The foyer was empty. I glanced right, then left, scanning the separate rooms in the old funeral home. The two-story, white mansion had been the final gathering place for most who had lived in our small town. I didn’t see anyone but could hear faint voices deeper in the house.
By Amy J. Markstahler4 years ago in Fiction
I’m Not The A**hole, It’s You
I know I’m being an asshole. I hate the word bitch since it singles out a certain sect of individuals. However, everyone is an asshole at some point, whether they know it or not. It’s a mood some days, a choice on others. I see it all the time. I’m surrounded by assholes, including myself. And that’s what sucks, when I know I’ve stepped over the line and joined the club.
By Amy J. Markstahler4 years ago in Confessions
The Exemplification of Carter Winslow
Carter Winslow lived a charmed childhood. He was healthy, came from a well-off family, had a picturesque childhood reminiscent of a Norman Rockwell image, and he was brilliant, everything seemed to come easily for him. However, there was always an edge about him that no one could nurture out. His mother tried, maybe a bit too hard. His dad was supportive of his artistic talent and pursuits, never heavy-handed and always encouraging. His sister was his biggest fan through the years, watching him play the violin like a child prodigy. But for some reason, Carter had convinced himself that he still wasn’t good enough, and days when those feelings dominated him, his sharp-edged cynicism would slice anyone close to him.
By Amy J. Markstahler4 years ago in Fiction
