Typically, I write science fiction (Mutiny); but my passion for writing has led me to write a handbook for lucid dreaming and I hope to one day write travel books from the lens of my anthropology degree. All my work is published on Amazon.
Spirits of Blue Mountain
A winter frost had settled on the ground in the Blue Mountain Forest. There were no leaves crunching underfoot. No foxes dug their holes through that dark unyielding dirt. It was solid, unforgiving. It was a wonder that the trees could grow there at all; but nature has its ways. The evergreens grew tall and fat, and so close together that it was impossible to see more than ten feet in any direction. It is easy to lose one’s way in a forest like that.
They say there's a ghost out on Lake Pelko. You wouldn’t find the lake on a map; but it's just outside of town, where the main road forks. To the left is the highway, the daily commuters driving out to the city every weekday around eight in the morning and coming back the same way around six o'clock every night.
Derek took a note out of his pocket and unfolded it, smoothing the corners that had crumpled in his jacket pocket. He was soaked to the bone; but his rain jacket had kept the ink dry on the page. A bit of ink smeared down the page with a heavy drop of water falling off the edge of Derek’s hood. He shoved the page back into his pocket and ran to the nearest doorway. Standing beneath the awning, he removed his hood and shook off some of the water from his body. There were no signs marking the businesses on this street and the windows were all covered with dark curtains; so he didn’t notice until he was standing in the doorway that he was at a whore house. A gentle red glow was coming under the door and he could smell the incense wafting out onto the sidewalk.
The Mounted Races
Every year, the city of Bosk lights up for one week to celebrate and bring together distant family and old friends who were happy enough keeping their distance; but obligated to participate in the festivities to keep their spot in the family wills.
Follow Your Sol
“Follow Your Sol.” Sarah ran her fingers over the engraving. She had read those words again and again over the last three years. There hadn’t been anyone to teach her to read; her mother said that written language was inefficient and caused confusion. Confusion led to conflict. And when she said conflict, she meant the end of humanity and the deaths of billions of good people. Reading was a relic of that lost world. Now they had to learn how to live in the new world. She didn’t know. She hadn’t lived it. All there was were stories.