He writes. Sometimes a lot. Sometimes very little. But he writes.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d ironed anything. Beyond recollection certainly, but this shirt had to be perfect.
By Howard Ironsabout a year ago in Fiction
There weren’t always dragons in the valley. In fact, until three years ago, even the thought of dragons in Eirene would’ve been laughed off as absurd. No one was laughing anymore. The Immortus was dead and dragons roamed freely in the realm.
By Howard Irons2 years ago in Fiction
I woke up happy one morning. And they were going to kill me for it. I don’t know how it happened. I had a dream the night before; something that should’ve been impossible.
By Howard Irons3 years ago in Fiction
