Microburst, August 4, 2015

Sandy DeLuca. Additional blog where more information regarding my art and books can be found. Also a place for guest artists and authors to make appearances.


We survived unexpected turmoil on Tuesday, August 4th. Just as I was pouring my morning coffee, thunder and lightning ripped through my part of town. I heard several loud thuds, and then the power went out. My entire neighborhood spent the following two days without electricity and nearly four days without a cable connection.

Damage has been done, but it could have been worse. Right now we are in the process of cleaning up and repairing the damage.

I had begun the painting below before the storm hit, but as time progressed, and I began to feel the effects of being cut off from social media and the Internet, I reverted to my childhood imagination.

The name of the painting is “They Were with Me During the Storm”.

They were with me during the storm-Blog


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New Art-Summer 2015

Some recent new paintings. All images rendered for a new book project. Please contact me if you would like more information. Thank you.

Dolls in the Attic-social

Dolls in the Attic. Acrylic on canvas. 18 x 24 inches.



Glamour Dolls in a Hollywood Shop Window s


Glamour Dolls in a Hollywood Shop Window. Acrylic on canvas. 18 x 24 inches.

Marie Antionette Doll small

Marie Antoinette Doll. Acrylic on canvas. 18 x 24 inches.

Day of the Dead or Goth Doll Small

Day of the Dead Goth Doll. Acrylic on canvas. 18 x 24 inches.



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Facebook Painter Page


Narareth Painting


If you have a chance please visit my FaceBook artist page and give it a like. I’ll be post more images and updates regarding my art, and if you’re on FB you’ll be able to keep up on the latest news. Thanks!


Funky Buddha

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2014, An Amazing Year

The holidays are over and it’s time to give thanks for an amazing year. In 2014 my visual art became increasingly more visible through publishers such as Alban Lake Publishing, Night to Dawn Magazine, Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing and Elektrik Milk Bath Press. Thanks to Eldritch Press, Bete Noire Magazine and Tarradan Press for offering me further opportunites, for both my writing and paintings, in 2015. I am also thankful to the New Hope Art Gallery for the sale of my “Funky Buddha”, and for connecting me with other buyers and supporters of my paintings. I love the gallery, and will continue to support it and volunteer my time to it. Thank you  Annex Comics for going out of your way to make sure my art is visible to the public, along with some great local artists. Thanks to the Hughes/Donahue Gallery for your understanding. In addition, Providence Gallery Night, Bank RI and the URI Gallery have offered nothing but positive experiences.

Again, thank you to all who support my work and those who are aware of my creative history.

Happy New Year to all!


Recently sold–

Continue reading

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Please join me for my PROVIDENCE GALLERY NIGHT CELEBRITY TOUR, on Thursday, November 20th.

Check the link below for details.



The final stop of the tour will be at the University of Rhode Island, Providence campus, where one of my paintings is on exhibit.



Currently I am working on paintings for several print collections and am in the process of wrapping up a new novel.  My novella Lupo Mannaro will be released from Tarradan Press in the spring, and I will be painting the cover art.

I want to thank all friends and family who have supported my creative efforts over the years. It truly means a lot to me. Wishing you all happiness and success.

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Trying to balance painting and writing has been difficult for many years. A little over three years ago I retired from my day job to care for my ailing father, and he passed on in July of 2011. After that I swore that I’d now have time for both my visual and written work. For a while I exhibited a lot, especially in the summer of 2012, but doing so cut into my writing time, because exhibitions require a lot of time spent dropping off work, picking it up and taking time to research galleries—as well as other work related to the process, and lots of credit goes to artist friends who do it. My local area has a vibrant art community and some wonderful and hardworking artists, many of whom I have enjoyed working with.

Last summer I did nothing but write, and had little time for painting, and I became such a recluse that I did very little socializing. That didn’t seem to work either, because I HAVE to write and paint, and I need to get out of the house every now and then.

Presently I’ve gotten the hang of embracing both arts. I write from early morning until late afternoon, and then I paint. Sometimes I write a thousand words, or so, and paint when I’m mulling over what happens next in my story, and I tend to paint on weekends more than write.

With that said, I am currently cutting back on exhibiting my paintings, but for several galleries that have no problem working with me and my eccentricities, and I still love offering cover art and interior illustrations for a few select publications, and doing art/poetry collaborations. I also plan to sell some of my work online. With this balancing act I can now work from home without interruption and still have time for immediate family and friends.

(Examples of cover paintings and illustrations I’ve done over the years)

GardensCovervampirezombiesCoverartseltlingPaintingtheThirdFateHattery_Final_85201213_stdBurialPlotBride CovernightCoverartDavidDisturbed01400disturbed2

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Interviewed at the Hugo Award Winning SF Signal



Honored to be included with so many respected authors.messages_from_the_dead










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Women in Horror, by Candy Burke…thrilled to be mentioned

Most of you recognize the name Mary Shelly, the author who penned Frankenstein. How about Shirley Jackson, who wrote The Lottery and The Haunting of Hill House? (My first exposure to a horror story.) And surely you remember Daphne Du Maurier?  Rebecca, The Birds, Jamaica Inn and Don’t Look Now were all adapted for the screen with the legendary Alfred Hitchcock directing three. These authors were an early sampling of the amazing women writers who weren’t afraid to unleash their dark side in their work.

The legacy is carried on today by writers like Caitlin R, Kiernan, winner of the 2012 Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a Novel for her book The Drowning Girl.  Gemma FilesSarah LanganCharlee JacobSandy DeLucaSara GranElizabeth HandKaaron WarrenTanith Lee, and Lucy Snyder are part of a long list of outstanding women horror writers.

Click the link for the full article


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Tales of an Earthbound Traveler: Paintings by Sandy DeLuca–Solo Exhibition at Bank RI

I will be having a solo art show at Bank RI early in 2014.

The show will be at Pitman Street location, in Providence, from January 2nd through February 5th, and then the show will be shifted to the Turks Head Building, downtown Providence, and it will run from February 6th through March 5th.

I spent several hours yesterday afternoon with the gallery curator, Paula Martiesian (a gifted painter and awesome person) going over my creative process–
both painting and writing.

If you any of you are in Rhode Island, and in the Providence area, from January through March, please drop by to see my work.

The Upper East SideAnnouncement

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Blood & Spades Column, HWA August Newsletter

Column I wrote in August for the HWA newsletter. A bit of poetry and fun.


Blood & Spades Marge Simon

It is my extreme pleasure to welcome the extraordinarily talented artist and novelist Sandy DeLuca as this month’s column guest. Sandy has also been a personal friend and fellow collaborator of outstanding talents. You can thank her for stepping up to edit the special Poetry Page at our HWA Web site, aided by Max Booth III as well.

Sandy DeLuca created Goddess of the Bay Publishing in the late ’90s, producing several anthologies and a string of small press magazines. From 2001 to 2003 she edited and owned December Girl Press, producing novels and short story collections. She was a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award® for poetry in 2001.

At present, she is a fulltime writer and painter. She’s written and published five novels, two poetry collections and several novellas.


Time, Interruptions, Nostalgia, Imagination–and the Poet Making the Best of it Sandy DeLuca

Some say that time is an illusion, that it is perceived differently, depending upon where one is in the universe. It can be mystical, metaphysical, and faster than the speed of light–all things which inspire poets and writers, and some will tell you that time is money–and most it definitely is to those of us who are authors.

As writers, managing our time is not often the easiest task, because many of us work day jobs and must resort to utilizing nights and weekends for our creativity. And those of us who have the opportunity to work from home often face other obstacles–interruptions by friends who do not view work from home as real work. I have this problem.

People arrive at my house without calling first, or they call on the phone and expect me to chat with them for hours on end. If anyone knows me well then they understand how much I dislike the telephone–and how dear my time is. I don’t like when people try to steal it from me, especially when people insist I should join them for a day or night out, so I’ve learned to turn some of those quirky friends and interruptions into fodder for my work, and like all fellow writers, my imagination helps me to turn everything around–sort of.

Back in 1976 I was a kid (compared to now anyway), and lived in a third-floor-walk-up in Providence, Rhode Island. I wrote back then, too, and had made a decision to go to college to study literature and art. I spent my evenings writing on lined-paper notepads. The people who lived in that building were priceless, and they knocked on my door at all hours. They told me colorful stories and did offbeat things. The landlord was a sculptor who thought he was Casanova and I was hooked on the Vampire Lestat. I kept my notes from back then, and still remember it as a time growth and turbulence, but I didn’t write about it until around ten years ago, and the poem below was penned and published in The Catbird Seat.

In 1976 My hair was blue black, down to my waist; I smoked choice dope; drank cherry brandy, lived on the West Side; the days sped by like red race cars, slamming against guard rails, sparks flying from fine-tuned engines

I read vampire novels, bought at a corner drugstore; tales of tenebrous Casanovas made me dizzy, infused, horrified me; I called a friend at sundown; we fastened a wooden cross to the door, splashed water blessed by Father Jerome on the sills

I whacked the volume up too loud as The Eagles sang Hotel California; my landlord tramped up the stairs, shook his fist, chided me; later he hit on me; called me the girl with the flawless body

I only wanted the boy in leather, who parked his Harley beneath my window, ate my bagels and ice-cream at dawn; sounded my bell at midnight when he got jumped in a downtown bar; I smeared ice on his swollen lips, held him until the workday traffic drifted below

He read to me from Matthew and I wrapped thorns around his wrists

I saw him again in 1985; he dashed by on roller skates as I read a book on modern painting; we’d both cut our hair, but the parables still rocked our souls

During that time period I took a road trip from Providence to Miami with one of my Harley men–a girl interrupted segment in my life. It turned out boring as heck, along with the person I traveled with. However, while rambling down a dark highway, in the middle of the night, with no other traffic but a farm truck, bobbing and weaving on the road in front of us, he made a joke about the empty fields, the dark and how somebody could just take down that drunken driver, bury him on the side of the road … and no one would ever know. Of course, we made our way to Miami without incident, drinking cherry soda, not downing speeders and without anyone getting killed. I have no idea what happened to the driver of that vehicle, but my friend’s words remained stuck in my head for many years. I began to imagine what could have happened had my companion been more sinister, and I wrote the poem below, which appeared in my Stoker-nominated chapbook, Burial Plot in Sagittarius. I also went on to write a novel by the same title in 2005 … and based on the same premise.


We never slept between Providence and Miami, rebels in a black mustang high on pills that made the stars brighter

Colors bounds off the windshield, bug-splatters on glass, neons & white flashing lights; psychedelic dreamscapes, worlds ahead in dark, no exit; Joplin’s gutsy voice accompanied our laughter

South-boys blazing by in a red pick-up, swaying side to side, tossing beer cans from windows

we didn’t need it, did we? you said you could kill them, bury them someplace in the woods nobody would know..

I still dream of the graves … shallow, made of roadside loam, pieces of flesh raw, soft, bones slicked with crimson

to wake screaming– your hands around my neck; so many of them between here and the end of our journey.

My life is tame, seemingly reclusive to some, and I have friends who insist it does me good to get out on a Sunday afternoon, and away from my word processor. I sometimes reluctantly go. Someone brought me to a flea market one Sunday. Oddities and scenes from that day conjured this piece, published in Niteblade in 2010.

Baby Doll

Bought at a flea market from a gypsy cards spread on shaky table bones and beads piled in a copper bowl mangy crow on her shoulder … “Belonged to a girl just like you,” mother handed her a dollar … “Died last June,” I thought she said lips trembling hands shuffling slowly

I love my pretty doll did not care when eyes turned from blue to red or rosebud lips became an ugly scowl when blood stained clothing filled my drawers

No tears when big sister disappeared, or when Father’s body washed up on the beach

Now razor teeth protrude over parched lips devilish gaze on Mother’s Carotid

Baby doll nestles in my arms soft growl knowing smile …

Gypsy laugher Now I wonder where she’ll bury me

I’ve more or less learned to go with the flow, always with a notebook handy and always waiting for the next poem to manifest. Interruptions are frustrating, but–in time–a poet can learn to make the best of them.

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