I write stories, because I live a story. No fantasy world will ever compare to the one we live in. I want to describe our world in a way that reveals the Creator's magic, and write fantasy world's in a way that illuminates our reality.
flames from the east - ch. 3
“Aleksei you can’t!” Elowen exclaimed and watched how the young boy’s face did not change in its tranquillity. Aleksei glanced down at Elowen’s mug of tea and the dark spots on her olive green skirt from where it had spilled in her impassioned moment. Humour flickered across the boy’s face and he met Elowen’s intense eyes again.
flames from the east - ch. 2
The Mossy Oak bustled with life as Jago Crowne shoved his way through the crowd that lingered at the door of Lowen’s only tavern. An old man who seemed permanently attached to the chair in which he sat, was shakily putting out a fiddle tune while a much younger and fairer lady sung a lilty ballad. The song was a familiar one and all who were in bright spirits, which did not exclude many, sang along to the lyrics. Though only a few of them sang with the correct melody. Jago’s booming voice echoed through the room as he greeted Ginny Ratheroat, the fair haired daughter of the tavern’s owner. She wiped her hands on her soiled apron and pushed back a sweaty wisp of hair from her lightly freckled cheeks. The day had been sunnier and warmer than usual and the tavern was only growing hotter from all the farmer folk crowded into the musty hall.
flames from the east - ch. 1
"The forest has awakened and it calls those with wits to wage" Small hands pressed onto the bark of an elm’s trunk. They felt the rough grooves in the bark and they loved every part of the tall grey tree. The little girl smiled as the wind wisped up around her straight brown mop of hair and scattered leaves on the forest floor. The wind had a voice that the little girl knew better than the voice of her own parents. It was the language of the trees and that was deeper than spoken tongue. They were the words spoken in the changing seasons that brought emotion to the soul without evoking words in the mind. It was the sweetness of the first autumn apple, it was the coldness of barren winter branches, it was the careless dappled light of an ancient oak. It was everything that spoke life and goodness to the bones of mankind. The little girl laughed, and so did the wind.
the wind tells stories, and its good at it too
The wind tells stories. It’s good at it too, better than anything I could ever contrive. With every wisp of a breeze that touches the human senses, you are gifted pictures, memories and glimpses of a spoken, invaluably real world. Yes. Of course a spoken world is audible; even by the means of the mysterious invisible movements that rustle leaves, erode mountains, and destroy peaceful dwellings simply with its breath. How old is the wind? How old is the lore it has carried to the ears of mankind since the Earth was born?