Thank You

Wow. I am humbled. Thank you.

“Amazon did a wonderful and a horrible thing. Horrible because it enabled anyone who could barely put a thought together to become “writers”; and wonderful because it enabled people who are truly great storytellers to share their gift with the world. Reinhart is one of those people; a great storyteller whose ability to weave words together in ways that affect the reader outshines the throngs of pretenders who should never put pencil to paper. It’s a shame that in today’s world, those who deserve accolades are often hidden behind thousands who don’t.”


Deja Vu With #2!

“Powerful follow up to the first one, hands down.”

“The book held me in its grips to the very last word and left me wanting more.”

“Once again, Tom Reinhart shoots a goal with the second installment of his gritty ‘study-in-noir’ drama of Mason Stone!”

“Tom Reinhart has a special gift. He is able to weave a story that is intense, intriguing, and incredible! Saint of the Seven Mile is the second book in the Saint Monolith series and it will make you stay up way too late like all of his other books do. Tom makes you cheer for a killer.”

“WOW…!!! Exceptional writing…Tom is a fantastic writer! This book held my attention so much I could not stop.”

“I am a new fan of Tom Reinhart…. Fantastic Author, looking forward to reading more of Tom’s books.”

“Not every writer can bring up these kinds of emotions when you read their books, and Tom managed to do that so well that you end up finishing his book with tears in your eyes and your hands shaking with rage.”

“Chapter after chapter I was hooked and wanting more, a feeling I usually never have. I did not want to stop reading, and when I finally got to the end, it wasn’t enough. Truly something special where you find yourself lost in the story.”

See what everyone is talking about at AMAZON BOOKS


Monsters Are Real





Life is magical when you’re seven. The Transformers toy in Seth’s little hand was as real to him as the park swing he had been flying it on. In childhood the world is full of wondrous things; superheroes, cartoon characters, magicians. Things that fill a child’s mind with great fantasy and often seem so real. His mother would take him to church and speak of angels, but Seth was usually more interested in getting home to his Sunday morning cartoons.

But the world of childhood is also filled with monsters, like the one Seth was sure hid in his closet whenever the light was out; and the one that had just shoved him to the ground and pushed his mother down onto the park bench while pulling at her clothes. “Just lie there and shut up” the monster growled at him. His mother, looking horribly frightened squirming beneath the strange man, told him to do the same. “Stay there baby. Just stay there. It’s okay.”

Seth knew it wasn’t okay. One of the world’s real monsters had come. He was frozen there, the side of his face pressed against the sand, his Transformer toy held tightly to his chest. His eyes were clenched shut, forcing the tears out faster. In his ears his mother’s voice was pleading, begging, and when her voice became too loud the monster hit her, and her screams turned to silent sobbing. His mother’s surrender only heightened Seth’s terror and sense of helplessness.

Moments later footsteps near his face made Seth open his eyes. A large black motorcycle boot stood motionless beside his face, the single silver buckle glistening oddly through the fog of his snot and tears. Seth’s panic grew; another monster had come. The boot shifted into the sand as the second monster leaned down, and Seth felt a hand on his back. A gentle touch, a rub, and the hand stayed there pressed against his back for a moment, now somehow calming and soothing. Seth looked up, and above him the face of a man with a finger over his lips signaled him to stay quiet, and Seth watched the boot walk away towards his mother and her attacker.

For the next few moments Seth couldn’t turn away, couldn’t close his eyes, as he watched one monster tear apart another. Later, when he would re-tell the story, he no longer called the second man a monster, but an angel, like his mother had told him about in church.






I totally win at PokemonGo, because this is actually the first real Pokebear ever captured alive.




Here is the complete DV2 story.

Das Vampir II

The Farm

A short story by Tom Reinhart

The skin on one side of her face doesn’t match the rest anymore. Long tangles of matted hair hang from only one side of her head, the other half barren and scarred from where the sun had once touched her. The light of a long forgotten world had finally found her one morning, briefly trapped and exposed without shelter as the end of night came.

She dreams of it now, the nightmare burning her flesh all through her tortured slumber, her own screams blending in with those of the faces that dominate her nightly visions. Faces she cannot recognize, people she cannot remember, thousands of lives she had ended to extend her own. They haunt her sleep, a strange conflict permeating her being; the euphoric taste of their essence struggling against a fading disgust of their slaughter, a remnant emotion of a former, more human existence. This was how she awoke tonight, as she has for a thousand years.

The old storm drain, cold and damp, isn’t quite big enough to stand in. She nests hunched over, deep within the cool wet darkness, half hidden under sticks and branches and human trash that wash in during the rains. Rats wander close, drawn to her body heat, scurrying away too quickly for her to catch. Beside her lies a stray cat, not quite as fast as the rats, drained of its life through two large punctures in its neck. On her leg a leech clings firmly rooted into the flesh, to steal the blood she has stolen from others; the ironic, inevitable circle of life.

She stares blankly down through the long rusting tunnel to the circle illuminated by the last fading rays of the setting sun that has searched for her throughout the day, eager to burn more of her flesh. With each minute the comforting darkness grows deeper, the chorus of nocturnal insects growing louder; a familiar and soothing symphony that slowly drowns out the screams in her head, the screams of the once living that she has made dead.

~ * * ~

Helen’s arthritis chewed on the cartilage in her joints, and as she often did she awoke in the middle of night from the pain. With a hip nearing need of replacement, the journey to the bathroom for aspirin always seemed like treacherous miles. It wasn’t fair getting old. You spend your life gaining wisdom and wealth, just to watch your body fall apart before you can enjoy it. Next to her, Peter’s labored breathing made him sound like some kind of monster. This had been going on for the last fourteen years. Now, at seventy two, the breathing machine he was supposed to connect himself to at night stood pushed into the corner collecting dust because he refused to use it.

Helen sat up in the darkness, swinging her legs off the edge of the bed despite the reluctance of her hip. Many a consultation had been had with the family doctor to decide whether or not she would go through with the surgery. At her age, such a major operation like this, and the recovery and rehabilitation that would follow was not something to be taken lightly. She glanced at the clock as she stood, trying to read the time without her glasses. Even with the extra-large glowing numbers it was still a bit fuzzy, but it seemed to read 2:35am.