Felicia Campbell
Lee is a dedicated writer who has piles of unpublished novels. Besides this disappointment, he has about everything he needs to be content. But when the opportunity to publish one of his novels has finally arrived, he becomes overjoyed. Suddenly, the publication of his book appears the only thing going well, while everything else crumbles.
Bizarre events constantly occur. Some of the endless episodes causes Lee to appear insane. After so long of enduring traumatizing incidents, Lee still refuses to question the stability of his mental health.
Reese, his long-term girlfriend, joins him in the search for the source of the events, to determine if Lee has lost his marbles, or if there really is something odd in the air.
Felicia Campbell was raised in Lithonia and LaGrange, Georgia. As a young girl, she discovered her inclination for writing with the help of her closest siblings. Felicia was inspired to compose her first novel at the age of eleven, and has taken writing seriously ever since. Today, Felicia continues to write in various genres—her favorites being coming of age, juvenile fiction, and fantasy. She is also the author of One of the Johnsons.
I couldn’t jump out of a window. With my luck, I would most definitely injure myself.
Besides, I didn’t do it! And this wasn’t my house.
“To hell with it!” I said, and began to descend the stairs hurriedly as the M&M’s juggled in my pocket furiously. I began to head to the back kitchen door and tried to exit but it seemed as if it were locked from the outside.
I fumbled for the lock with trembling hands, “What the hell? What the hell? How do you unlock this?”
I turned to see two detectives bursting into the front door.
“Freeze!” one of them yelled.
I held my hands up, “I can explain! I didn’t do it. This isn’t even my…”
“Shut up!” he spat, and another detective ran in after him.
The first detective, wearing a bullet proof vest, strapped, gestured his head toward the second one, issuing for him to conduct a search of the house.
“There’s a murder in this house,” I told him.
“We know that, ass hole!” he said, as two cops came in behind him.
“I’ll get the downstairs,” the first cop said, pointing his gun at me briefly, then in the direction he was headed.
The second cop headed upstairs after the detective.
“Found it!” the detective called, before the first cop could make it up the stairs, I heard.
“What we got!” the first detective yelled, staring straight at me.
“Two bimbos and a pile of puke.”
