Photo courtesy of Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Photo courtesy of Aaron Burden on Unsplash


in progress


A Pretty Pickle

a novel by Marnie Lyn Adams

Photo courtesy of Monika Grabkowska on Unsplash

A Pretty Pickle: A Novel

Thirty-year-old travel blogger, Holli Day Davis works hard, parties harder, and holds nothing back.

After sleeping with her best friend's estranged husband Buck, Barbie threatens to reveal Holli's twelve-year-old secret—a teenage prank gone wrong—which could ruin her career and devastate her family.

Holli also discovers her grandfather's shenanigans include stealing money from her grandmother—who dies and literally takes the mystery's key to the grave with her.

Hog-tied by blackmail, retribution, and love, Holli must decide how to appease Barbie, how to derail her grandfather, and how to get Buck naked again.


This story is a fantastically written gem that shines so bright with creative flair and characteristics... terrific fun.
Kimberly C.

...dialogue creatively states the obvious without actually saying it the words… shows a mastery of details.
Bahron T.

I enjoyed reading it and laughed out loud...
Ruth S.

...busting into laughter at your amazing regional dialect.
Colleen T.

I was engrossed from the start... a very funny writer.
Mia S.

...a witty and satirical story, and the approach you’ve used in the tone of the narrative is fresh, modern, and entertaining.
Kirk S.

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Discover quotes, characters, images, videos, and oodles more about Holli and all the ornery residents of A PRETTY PICKLE.



in progress

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The Fortune Cookie Psychic

a novel by Marnie Lyn Adams

Photo by Marnie Lyn Adams

The Fortune Cookie Psychic: A Novel

Hereditary psychic Claire O'Reilly's life officially sucks. In the last twenty-four hours, Claire's talents show her a sickening image—her boyfriend, Cody Dai, with his hands on Mother's breasts. And now she cannot "see" anything. On her way to the first day of her dream job as the psychic Dear Abby, Claire crashes into Marty Swiner, "the neighborhood whiner’s," car. Unfortunately, Claire let her auto insurance lapse, and, Cody—and his banishment to the couch—is there to witness her humiliation.

After arriving at work, her new boss, Andrew Rollings explains his stipulations: Claire has thirty days to raise the readership on the website, or he will withdraw her contract. And he's named the column, Dear Claire Voyant. Yikes! Desperate to keep the job, and in frantic need of money, Claire agrees.

Cody texts every hour on the hour. He wants to talk, and he wants his iPad back.

Claire and her BFF Poppy Pettersson powwow over steamed dumplings and egg rolls and make a surprising discovery: the tiny slips of paper in the fortune cookies combined with a spark of intuition, imagination, and intellect, allow Claire to give readings believable enough to fool almost everyone—except Claire's Gran.

After Gran confronts her, Claire finally confesses her embarrassing dilemma. How can she ever trust Cody—the man she wanted to marry—or Mother—the maternal unit on her fifth surname and third set of boobs—again?





The Good, The Bad, and the Fugly

a short short story by Marnie Lyn Adams

Photo courtesy of Ahmed Zayan on Unsplash

The Good, The Bad, and The Fugly: A Short Short

The opening three paragraphs:

I’m not a proponent of guns, but I wanted to pop my son over the head with the one laying in front of me.

Since arriving home a few weeks ago with a fresh goldfish carcass in his pocket, I enacted mandatory searches. The evening’s bounty: a slightly chewed piece of taffy, a dangly rhinestone earring, two ticket stubs—and the gun.

“Christopher Robin Randall, where did you get this?” I named him after the boy-hero in the Pooh series, but he resembles the bear and Tigger more; a combination of heart-warming Zen and boundless energy which leaves me torn between the inclination to hug him and the need to pin him to the floor.




A Gentlemen’s Agreement

a short short story by Marnie Lyn Adams

Photo courtesy of Daniele Levis on Unsplash

A Gentlemen’s Agreement: A Short Short

The opening three paragraphs:

There were three things Jeremiah Savage’s mama didn’t allow: swearing, tobacco, and alcoholic spirits—excepting the Sunday sacrament. “Sh-eee-utt!” Jeremiah spat on the ground, a Rorschach pattern of chaw and saliva, dark and thick, as if his gran-mama had spilled the tea she used for reading leaves. The dry red clay greedily soaked up the liquid, and by the time Jeremiah let loose an enthusiastic belch, the wetness had all but disappeared. Jeremiah took a long draw from his ever-present bottle of hooch and belched again. As far as Jeremiah could see, the fact he was nearly thirty and his God-forsaken mama had been rotting in the ground these past six months made his habits none of her never mind.

Jeremiah leaned against the wood fence separating a corn field from a small lane. Clad only in a sleeveless undershirt, a rotted-out pair of workman’s pants, and a thin sheen of sweat, Jeremiah stretched his long thin legs in front of him and pushed his bare feet into the dirt.

Jeremiah’s companion, one B.B. (“I’d take it right kindly if you called me Billy Bob”) Payne, knew the liquor was Jeremiah’s thinking whiskey, and past experience—Jeremiah’s backhand—made B.B. content to wait.