Writing is playing a game of chess against yourself on a board missing pieces, isn't it wonderful?
I love reading science fiction, fantasy, and horror -- you tell me if I can write it as well.
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. If, however, the hardvac suit you’ve been marooned in contains enough trace O2 and power, the last few hours of your miserable life will be full of futile screaming. And yelling. And crying. I have on good authority.
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Kobal remembered the day it all changed. Her disheveled father, bleeding as he stumbled into the family’s cabin, raving about the otherworldly beasts that descended upon their precious sheep flock. Carnage, he howled. She remembered how the hearth’s firelight danced across his pale eyes from the way they darted wildly around the room. The other strong men of the clan took one look at his torn and burnt furs and knew something had happened, but dragons? Real dragons in the Deep Valley after a thousand years; surely not.