Friday, 24 October 2014

777 Challenge

Good Morning, lovelies!

It's 777 Challenge time! As most of you know, the 777 challenge is one writer challenging another (or however many you'd like) to post seven lines of text, seven lines down, on the seventh page of a work in progress. 

I was tagged via facebook/gchat/DM/all the ways Rachel Simon (hi!) and I chat, so I'm tagging Amber Mauldin!

I'm going to do THE BONE TREE, since it's the best representation of where my head is at right now, and because I love it SO much.  It's a contemporary MG with a healthy dash of horror and a few sprinkles of adventure. I'd give you some comp titles, but they always make me feel dreadfully inadequate.

So, without further ado, here are 7 random lines.

(from pinterest)

Roman continues. “Yup. Anyways, Samuel spent night after night at Mary’s grave, crying and begging God to show him his wife.”

“Did God answer his prayers?” I try to remember my old Sunday school classes. I know people rose from the dead all the time, but I can’t remember if they roamed graveyards after or not.

“Someone did, but I don’t think it was God.” Roman walks in a slow circle around the tree. “On the fourth day Samuel found his wife, still dressed in the white gown she was married in, and later buried, in. Samuel scooped her up, but she was made of icy mist and nothing more."

Have a fabulous weekend <3

Monday, 6 October 2014

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I love the fall. I love the colours, the crisp pumpkin everything-tinged air, and chunky sweaters.  But most of all, I love the movies. Here are a few of my favourite Halloween flicks, in gif form, naturally.

Since I'm Canadian, we have two super fab holidays in October; Thanksgiving AND Halloween. I know, turkey and candy in one month?? It's pretty awesome. 

Anyways, since October is the perfect month for spookiness, I thought I'd share a wee bit of fun news! THE MIDNIGHT SOCIETY, a fun new horror blog, held a flash fiction contest. All you had to do was write a story, 700 words or under, that has to do with a mailbox.

They announced the winners of the contest yesterday, and I won :D Check out this sweet badge I got.

I'm going to include my entry below, because if your phone is like mine, it takes forever to open new windows, but I really hope you'll go check out the other creepy entries. 

Here's my entry to the contest. Since I'm know to be a little long-winded, I clocked in just under the 700 mark at 682.  Enjoy :)

An hour ago, I was tucked in bed and dreaming. Now I’m standing barefoot in a dark field. I knew this was going to happen. I am, after all, a legacy.

Mom has been grooming me for this sorority since I started my freshman year. Now the wait is over. All that stands in my way it tonight.

I’m surrounded by my fellow pledges and my future sorority sisters. The sisters hold flickering candles. The pledges and I blend into the blackness.

“Listen up, bitches.” Claudia, sorority president, stands on a makeshift podium. “The test is simple. At the end of the field is a mailbox. All you have to do is stick your arm inside for three minutes, and then you’re in.”

“That’s it?” A shadowed pledge asks.

“That’s it. The only catch is that you’re not allowed to scream.” Claudia scans the crowd. “Who’d like to start things off?”

I take a deep breath and step into the wavering light. “I will.”

“A legacy,” Claudia purrs. “Perfect. Come with me.”

I follow the girl into the inky depths until we stop at a rusted red and blue mailbox. It’s nothing special; it’s the kind that would stand on a busy street corner. It’s big enough for large parcels, or teeny sorority sisters. When my mom pledged, it was one of these bendy sisters that grabbed her hand and yanked it the second she slid it through the mail slot. But Mom didn’t scream and neither will I.

“I’m going to leave you alone now.” Claudia walks backward. “But I’ll be close enough to hear you yelp.”

Once I’m alone, I pull my foot back. If I can startle whoever is hiding in the lower compartment, I won’t be so scared. I let my foot fly and boot the mailbox.


It was worth a shot.

I set the timer on my roommate’s dorky digital watch for three minutes. I clench my jaw and lift the mail slot. I slide my watch-less hand into the narrow gap and squeeze my eyes shut.

The air inside the mailbox is thick and humid. The hair on the back of my hand stands up and digs into my skin like tiny needles. I wiggle my fingers to let the hiding girl know I’m there. I nearly lose it when I graze a patch of coarse hair with the back of my hand.

Found you.

I crane my neck and look at my watch. Two minutes to go.  I nudge the girl’s head with my hand. She leans into my hand and a throaty sigh rumbles up the mailbox.

“What the hell?” I pull my hand back but the furry head follows.

Hot breath cascades over my palm. Chills erupt over my body and cover my limbs. I shiver but I don’t make a peep.

“You’re halfway there!” Claudia calls.

A warm, fleshy tongue drags across my palm. Saliva covers my hand like ooze. I flick it off and it tings against the medal siding.

They’re really going all out this year.

My timer beeps. One more minute.

Razor sharp teeth graze my thumb. I flinch and shove my hand into the corner of the mailbox. The mouth follows. The teeth trace my fingers and break the first layer of skin.

I wince but I don’t make a sound.

Canines dip into the flesh between my thumb and pointer finger. It hurts, but it’s not enough to make me fail. The tongue laps at warm beads of blood. Another sound, this one more like a growl, makes the entire mailbox vibrate.

Thirty seconds.

Finally, the monstrous head pulls back. I smile and let out a deep breath. I did it.

Suddenly, vise-like jaws clamp around my wrist and yank my entire arm through the slot. Skin pushes up my forearm like a bunched sleeve.

Whatever lurks in the mailbox smashes my arm against the side of the opening. Bone snaps. The world starts to spin. The teeth rip into the soft flesh of my bicep. Teeth gnash. It’s tongue slurps.

My watch beeps.

I scream. 

Friday, 20 June 2014

This is my Confession (I hope you sang that in Usher's velvety voice)

I have a confession to make.

Until last night, I didn't like my book.

Some of you don't even know that I have a book published. I do. It came out last year. It's a ghost story (horror novel) called SECOND HAND LACE.  I don't really talk about it. I never handed it out to reviewers or did a big give away. I never blog toured and I hardly posted about it on any sort of social media.

Why? Because I am, or at least was embarrassed about it.

Let me hit you with a little back story. SHL was the first thing I'd ever written. After query failing, I hit up a few small presses and by some miracle it sold to the lovely folks at Turquoise Morning Press. I was ecstatic. I couldn't believe that someone actually wanted my book. I told everyone and anyone who would listen about it. In the near-year it took to release, I kept writing.  I got better (as one tends to do with a lot of practice), and by the time SHL came out I had two new novels under my belt.

As soon as the SHL paperbacks came in, I freaked out. I hugged them and kissed them and built a tiny book fort. I remember sitting down and opening a copy for the first time. I remember reading it and my smile slowly slipped away.

Did I always use this many adverbs?

Why were the sentences so clunky?


I don't think I made it more than a few chapters in before I put it down. I haven't picked it up since.
I still smiled when people complimented me but I shrugged when countless people asked where they could get a copy. I was an ungrateful little brat because I didn't think it was good enough and if I didn't want to read it, why would anyone else?

Anyways, last week I got an e-mail from my publisher. They're switching over to a more romance focused business model and said we could talk to them about anything we thought didn't fit the new mould (my spellcheck is telling me mold isn't a word. Am I crazy?) My first thought was "Thank God. Maybe one day I can rewrite it and fix that one typo / dialogue tags, etc."

(I know what you're thinking, "What a spoiled bitch." Bear with me.)

Anyway, last night a co-worker of mine blushed adorably and said she'd read the copy of THE BONE TREE (the book of my heart) I had accidentally left saved on the work computer. She loved it. She said, and I quote, "I could actually see everything in my head. That's never happened to me before." She went on about how awesome I was and totally pumped up my tires. I thanked her but all along I was thinking, "I wish she read the revised version. It's so much better than the original. I. Am. So. Embarrassed."

Like....What the actual fuck. I just blabbed onto my agent about how much I love TBT and a week later I'm embarrassed about it because I made some minor changes? That same week I got excited about potentially pulling my book so I could rewrite it...even though I have six other things on the go. And I don't write adult anymore. And I have zero interested in self-publishing it. The train of thoughts that came after really hit me upside the head. I sat down and thought about all I had accomplished and went to bed thinking, "How dare I??"

How dare I negate the two solid years of hard work I poured into SHL. How could I forget the excitement that came with that publishing offer?? How could I dream of pulling it off the self because it isn't perfect? How could I ignore compliments about my favourite book because I changed a half a dozen sentences?? Why wasn't anything I did good enough?? And when would it be??

I always used to tell myself I felt this way about SHL because I'm a better writer now. What I didn't understand was improving doesn't mean your past work sucks. All the hard work I put into SHL doesn't mean anything less just because I have an agent or I can control my dialogue tags.

This morning, I woke up with a smile on my face. I grabbed my copy of SHL and hugged it. I'm making book marks and handing them out. I'm sending my great aunts their copies with pride.

Maybe you're like me and think the work you did last year/month/week/night isn't good enough. But it is. It is great. It is worth a read. You should be proud.

Now here's a new confession. My name is Jenna Lehne and I wrote Second Hand Lace...and you know what?

It's pretty freaking awesome.

Friday, 23 May 2014

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 2.0

Gather round, kittens. I have a gif-filled story for your reading pleasure.

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Rachel.

When we met, Rachel had just finished a R&R for an agent. Rachel, Rachel #2 (now being called Rach for confusion purposes), and I held our breath as she hit send.

While Rachel was waiting to hear back, she starting fiddling around with a new story.

She sent Rach and I the first chapter.
We. Lost.Our.Shit

She drafted SADIE (the only thing I called it though I'm sure it had a working title) in record speed.

Rach and I squeeeeeeed for a few days, then sent back notes. After a few revision, SADIE was ready for her glorious entrance into the world. Rachel already had interest from a few agents just from posting a few pages online, so she sent those queries. When she got her first full request, we all freaked out.

And then she a few more full requests...

After a few rejections and a butt tonne of requests, RACHEL HAD "THE CALL" 

She fell in love with the agent and her ideas for Sadie. 

She notified the other agents and got a few more offers, but Agent #1 had her heart from the very beginning. Rachel called and accepted representation from.......


Congratulations, Rachel and Carrie!!! I can't wait to see the magic you two come up with. !!

And now, just because, I give you the hottest gif of Norman

Sunday, 6 April 2014

Sunday Scribbles

Sometimes you have a story in you  that just need to get out. This one, in particular,  will never go anywhere.

Most likely because I will never finish it.

Or it won't fit into the brand I'm trying to build.  Or a baby pterodactyl will swoop in and destroy my computer, and every laptop I try to operate after that. When I convince my agent to accept handwritten MSs, the pterodactyl will develop a vicious hunger for pens and pencils alike.

I thought it'd be fun to blog about the words no one will ever read. So, for your viewing pleasure, here's a taste of the book I'll never finish.


You wake me up the usual way;
incoherent text messages and snowballs against my window.
We’ll get caught one of these times,
but you don’t care.
“It’s worth it,” you say.
“You’re worth it,” you say.
You kiss me like the plane is going down.
Like I’m the only thing worth saving.
You kiss me like you’ll never let me go,
but we both know you will.
You’ve already started.


You’re so fragile.
I could snap you into pieces with my bare hands.
The look you’re giving me now makes me
feel like I already have.
“I have to go,” I say.
You push your fingers into my hair and slip your tongue into my mouth.
“Come upstairs,” you whisper.
The lie sticks on my lips but I force it out anyway.
“I can’t.”
Do you know I’m going to see her?
You curl around me and slide your icy fingers underneath my t-shirt.
I know I could…but I don’t.



Before, you never would have left.
You would have stayed until the sun spilled into my room.
Now, you don’t even look back.
Now, you don’t even try to hide it.
Hide her.
She’s all over you.
Her lip gloss stains your cheek, her perfume lays claim to your pillow.
You think I don’t see it?
I can’t see anything else.



Her mom doesn’t care that I’m over,
 though sneaking in is half the fun.
She’s waiting for me,
 already naked under her covers.
It’s like getting a present that’s already unwrapped.
She doesn’t run her fingers through my hair.
I don’t care how school was.
She tears the buttons you just sewed back on.
I tuck them into the pocket full of condoms.
We don’t make love,
we fuck.
She doesn’t sigh my name,
she screams it.
She sinks her nails into my back,
 carving her initials into my skin like bark.
I don’t kiss her goodbye.
I never do.
All my kisses are saved for you.


I remember the first time I saw you.
Jenny warned me you were trouble.
I couldn’t resist.
You acted like you didn’t even see me,
But I felt your stare all night.
You stayed on the couch the entire party,
a different freshmen bringing you a beer each time.
You only got up when I left.
You only got up to chase.
Jenny said you were hard.
Damaged Goods.
I should have known fixing you


I want you more after I’ve been with her.
I want to wash the taste of her out of my mouth.
I want you on my breath.

My parents know.
Dad just shakes his head.
Mom won’t even look at me.
They love you.

I love you.

Or at least I would if I knew how.


“You look tired,” Jenny says at school.
“I’m fine.” I shrug your sweater off my shoulders.
I’m always fine.
“Don’t lie,” she whispers.
“I’m not.” I smile.
I’m always smiling.
“It’ll be okay.” She hugs me.
“I know,” I lie.
I’m always lying.

I think about the days
we couldn’t make it through class
without sneaking out to
devour each other in the stairwell.

Where did we go wrong?


I remember when it all changed.
You were out with Jenny.
You’re always with her.
I went to that party.
She was there.
I filled her plastic cup until foam sloshed onto her fingers.
I got hard when she licked it all off.
I stayed hard until she sucked me off.

I hated myself after.

I still do.


We sit together at lunch.
You and Jenny exchange insults
while I pick at my salad.
I feel your phone vibrate
against my leg.
You pretend you don’t.
You’ll delete the message later,
like you can erase your sins with the press of a button.

I watch you in gym,
waiting to see if the sweat cracks your mask.
When you flick your hair out of your impossibly
blue eyes, the girls all sigh.
“She’s so lucky,” they whisper. “I wonder what he’s like in bed.”

They don’t need to wonder.
All they need to do is ask.

Ask her.


I used to love the way you watched me.
The way your mouth wrapped around my name,
the way you blushed when I kissed you in
the hallway.

I loved the way you loved me.

Now your love is a noose,
my guilt the rope,
slowly dragging me upward.

One of these day the toes of my
sneakers will drag across these
gym floors before
going up,

Because one of these days,
you’ll know.


I wait for you in your
beat up old chevy.

You smile when you see me.
The light makes your golden hair shine
and my breath leaves my chest
in a gasp.

You’re perfect.

“Hey.” You press your mouth against my
sun-warmed shoulder. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” I still do.
 Even though you’re right next to me,
I miss you so bad my heart actually aches.
“Can I come over tonight?”

Your lips leave my skin.
“I’m busy tonight, how about tomorrow?”

It’s always tomorrow.


I’m trapped.
Admitting it makes me
a pussy, but it’s the truth.
I can’t escape her.

I tried tonight.
I told her it was over,
that I couldn’t keep doing this.

I let her hit me,
let her scream and throw things.
I took my punishment.

But now it’s three am
and I’m reaching for my
phone, already
her mouth


So that's that. What are some of the stories that dwell in your trunk?

Wednesday, 2 April 2014


My name is Jenna, and I'm a scareaholic.

A fear junkie. Horror hound. Whatever you want to call it. I love being afraid. I love scaring people. Anytime there's a new horror flick, I'm there opening night. I've been reading Stephen King since I was nine (thank you, unsupervised garage sale purchases). I road tripped town to Idaho for Scarywood. That was my 26th birthday pressie from my parents. I wanted to get my engagement ring from a pawn shop just for the slightest chance it had some gory history.

Lately, horror is all I've been writing. I've been burning out on Ghost Adventures and the horror section of Netflix. I've had more nightmares the past month or two then I've had in years. I see the potential for fear everywhere. Last night, for example, I stopped at Walmart to pick up a few things. I turned down an aisle that was only occupied by one other person, an older gentleman. He was tall and wide, wearing work clothes and a plaid jacket. He wore those big, clunky steel-toed boots that always seem to be caked with mud. In his hand was a tiny, fluffy yellow dress. The kind you make your six-month-old wear to a family picnic. That's it. He was probably just picking up a pressie for his granddaughter. But in my head, there is no granddaughter.

There was no one else in Walmart. It wasn't five in the afternoon, it was two in the morning. The lights are flickering on and off. The coolers are empty,the stench of sour milk fills the air. The shelves are bare. I think I'm alone. My shoes squeak on the stained floor as I scavenge for food. I haven't eaten in days. Heavy footsteps fill the air. I press my back against an empty bread shelf. I hold my breath and peek into the next aisle.

A man is at the other end. I haven't seen another human in weeks. He's old, his face tan and weathered like a crumpled paper bag. His head is covered in knotted, grey hair. His mouth is rimmed red. He walks down the aisle, his body jerking from the effort. He doesn't have a weapon. The only thing in his hand is a blood-stained, yellow dress.

And then I blink and see the man return to his cart. Among the groceries is a car seat. He smiles at me and walks on by.

That, ladies and gentleman, is how my brain works. Anyhoo. Moving on.

When I first started drafting my latest brain monster, a YA horror called THROUGH THE PALE DOOR*, I polled my facebook friends about what they were afraid of.

What are you afraid of?

Seriously. This is important writing research.

 ·  · 

Isn't that interesting? People are afraid of random things like balloons and foam, all the way to dying alone or leaving their children. Naturally, I cherry-picked my favorite fears and tossed them into the story. All of my characters experience one or more of their greatest fears, and many will die from them.  Friends, don't say I never wrote anything for you :D  

So now I have to ask....What are you afraid of?

*Thanks for the fab title, Rach!