Author Bio

In 2011 Linda moved to Spain, near Barcelona. Today she lives in Bulgaria where, following a spiritual epiphany – the spirits made themselves unexpectedly known to her, she works on her writing, art, herbalism studies, and homestead.

With her husband, and a growing menagerie of animals, she strives to become self-sufficient and is learning to garden, and heal using plants as medicine.

A powerful psychic, Linda finds herself charged to act as a messenger for the Higher Angelic Realms in troubled times but, despite this, remains grounded, fun loving and very much human.

With a unique and engaging voice she has much to say.

Her writing reflects her personality which is accessible, compassionate and fun loving. Whilst she is an open channel, who often writes in collaboration with her team in spirit – ‘The Guys in The Skies,’ her work is not overtly spiritual, preachy or self-help-y!


Linda prefers to weave wisdom within the narrative of stories which fall betwixt and between genre. An author to watch with a colourful and extraordinary life, she has a wealth of knowledge and experience to draw upon to create books destined to entertain, educate and move her audience.

Available to purchase HERE


The Dungeon

The room was dimly lit and the five hung, in a line, manacled to the wall. They wore only their underwear. The young men were toned with muscles rippling from stomach to groin. Two wore silk boxers, two – tight designer label briefs which accentuated the form of their aroused manhood. Beside them, the lone girl wore matching bra and knickers – of honest design with a delicate lace trim detail.  The brassiere was underwired and pushed her fulsome breasts together creating ample cleavage. The knickers were of a modest cut, satin which was softer and smoother than vestal skin to touch. Blood red, the undies complimented the girl’s skin tone – icy white with a subtle tinge of blue; reminiscent of the frozen landscape outside. Not that the five could see outside for they were in what the hotel called a fantasy suite which, sound proofed, had no windows and was a world unto itself. They were blindfolded. The dungeon was sparse and eerily silent except for their laboured breathing – for each wore a gag. They waited. Confused. Wondering what was going to happen next.

The Hotel Eden

At the foot of a chilled mountain, nestled amongst pine forests cloaked in crisp white snow, is a castle which is modest by castle standards – rather resembling a manor house with grand ambition. This castle stands graciously in a clearing where virgin snow sparkles in the watery sunlight. And the muffled silence is thick with promise. The entrance way, which is rarely used, is of carved granite stone and, with the sills of the vast array of half fan and rectangular windows, draws the eye as all else is anaemic monotone – hues of the purest, palest greys with tinges of blue sparkling as the icicles that hang seductively far above. The architecture of this building defies formal classification – it is a hybrid structure of whimsy and delight with turrets, gables and a rooftop walk way, with crenelated stones, affording views of unparalleled, stark whiteness.

This building was borne of a man who made his fortune through the plundering of heritage from far-flung lands; an unscrupulous fellow who, afraid of losing his wealth, withdrew from society – building himself a home that his contemporaries thought a folly. For the castle is miles from civilisation and its original owner rattled around its vast interior alone – albeit for a skeleton, pasty skinned staff. When he finally passed, for he lived an isolated existence for many years in his frozen foible, the castle remained forgotten and empty for decades, prior to being purchased at auction, by an undisclosed someone who mysteriously placed a sealed bid.  This someone worked for an exceedingly rich other whose plan it was to open an establishment, for those of unlimited means – dedicated to exquisite pleasure.

…A thoroughly entertaining and addictive read that’s well written with a wide vocabulary, and engaging story-line. With strong characters, this intriguing tale left me dazzled by the opulent, decadent world of the Hotel Eden. Laforge leaves the reader satiated, yet eager for more…


Coming quite soon.


In the early summer of 2010 peculiar, supernatural things started to happen.

We had found a lucrative side-line to help boost our coffers. Living in a small town, near Lille, in Northern France we noticed that French caravans were significantly more expensive and generally of a lesser quality than the caravans available in the UK. We realised that we could purchase, import and triple our investment with very little effort.

Our first caravan sat on the front drive of the house in Orchies. Like excited stink bugs, we decided to take a vacation in the garden! We carried pots, pans, bedlinen and sundries from the house to the van . As the light started to fade, Rick busied himself grilling bacon for our suppertime sandwiches. This was Rusty, our ginger tomcat’s favourite food.  Soon enough he popped his orange noggin into the open doorway. Visibly disturbed, his fur bristling, he defiantly refused to enter – despite a tempting, crispy morsel offered encouragingly.

The caravan was pretty standard. A lounge at one end with a seating area that could be configured to a double bed. A sliding door at the opposite end, with a permanent fixed bed. Kitchen, weeny loo and pathetic excuse for a shower room wedged between. We were tucked up cosily in bed, behind the closed door. Chuntering aimlessly, Rick suddenly asked me to be quiet. ‘Ssssh, did you hear that?’ He questioned. ‘Hear what?’ I replied puzzled. A voice.’ He said, springing up and deftly whooshing the door to one side.



 Coming real soon.


The first day I spotted her my heart skipped a beat. This woman was new to the village. She eyed me suspiciously. After a long, hard winter I was on my last legs. Flea ridden, covered in early springtime ticks I smelt like a sewer – had snot and goo running from my nose and eyes. I was all but done. Thinner than a stick thrown to fetch, my stomach was empty, hunger was my only companion. Honestly, I was bone weary tired. Ready to turn up my toes. Push up daisies. I like daisies but nothing was cheering my broken spirit, not even the bright little flowers I love to roll in! Wee white petalled sunshine-y delights – harbingers of easier times. I tried to make myself invisible, as I slunk uninvited across the lady’s garden. She hadn’t been there the last time I did this turn. I was unsure how she might react. I eyed her suspiciously.


Coming eventually!


Once upon a time there was a beautiful young woman who fell in love with a man long since passed. A romance most would imagine doomed to fail.

This is her story.

The Beginning

Born in the back of a butcher’s van Fleur was an only child. She lived in a small village in Northern France where her mere, and aged pere, were proprietors of Le Boucherie – Le Couchon Qui Crie. Fleur was a peculiar bloom.  She resembled a forced seedling – spindly and fragile. Growing up she spent endless hours alone playing amongst the gravestones of the local cemetery – the energy of the dead, their six foot under decomposing bodies, her chosen companions. Accustomed to death, the butchers block sat downstairs directly below her bed, it and rotting flesh held little fear for this unusual girl. Besides, Fleur knew that death was a doorway to other realms where spirit was no longer concerned with trivial nonsense such as her parents ,and the local townsfolk obsessed over. Often, she sat on the stairs, out back from the magasin, and listened to the spurious spite and inane gossip spewed from immaculately painted lips. Smart ladies in smart suits with string bags laden with carefully wrapped goods. They should have known better than to destroy a character with such ease, and glee she thought, as her sweaty Pere chopped through sinew, grizzle and bone. Wiping his sausage fingered hands on his bloodied apron.

The other children used to mock Fleur. They called her funny-bones-no-flesh. Playing out, funny-bones-no-flesh was ignored by the other children except when they were bored. Then they bullied her – lacking creativity and independent thought they were often bored. And Fleur was regularly tormented. Being awkward and angular, her skeletal frame appeared to stick out at peculiar angles through her translucent, pasty white, slightly blue tinged skin. The children were actually scared of her. Believing tall tales that told of funny-bones-no-flesh rising from the dead with unruly, carrot red hair reminiscent of the flames of hell.

Without a sibling, or friend of note, Fleur came to create an inner world populated by characters both real and imagined whom, soon enough she encountered in the graveyard. The cemetery sat at the end of the village slap-bang-next-door to where she lived. From a tender age she used to look out from her bedroom window and observe the moon and stars watching over the sleep of the dead. Intrigued by the wind, and shadows cast on Prussian-blue-sky-stormy-nights she imagined tales of lives long ago lived and felt no fear. On misty eves she thought to see figures in the gloaming, and hear voices full of bonhomie and mirth.  When she was four years of age emboldened, she carefully crawled through a broken section of the garden fence.