Starter Story

It came from the Devil's Mouth

Mathias P Wilson was a decorated soldier in the Union army, now he's just another drunk, broken and disillusioned by the harsh realities of war. That is, until something staggers our of the desert one day and challenges everything he thought he knew.

Download the story here.

Short Story

The Clockwork boy

Gibby and Tinsley Rathersack share a strong bond, and as brother and sister, are rarely parted. They toil in Milleneau Textile Mill, an unyielding and dangerous place, risking life and limb to keep the mill's many mechanical parts oiled and moving.

Download the story here.

Short Story

Despair and Deliverance

Bishop was a sailor in Her Majesty's Royal navy. Now, he's just a crippled man trying to survive in an ever-changing world. His quiet, colonial life is disturbed however, when the lifeblood of the city, its docks, are suddenly, and inexplicably abandoned.

Download the story here.

Short Story

Infection

Infection is the story of Jacoby, a young man struggling through the realities of deep space mining. He is trying to meet his quota, keep his young wife happy, while enduring the cold, deep dark of space. But that isn't all he has to deal with, not anymore!

Download the story here.

Screenplay

The Catalyst

The Catalyst is the beginning of a post-apocalyptic screenplay. It starts out with a middle aged man, Gordon, as he picks through the remnants of a ruined life, searching for something...

Download the first scene here.

Short Story

The Mirror

The Mirror is a short story about the concept of personal loss, the distance that can form between family, and the power of love. I would love to revisit this world, and further realize the characters and the story, as it is one of my wife's favorites. I hope you enjoy!

Download the short story here.

Short Story

The Breach

The breach is a two part short story i wrote a year or two ago, detailing a calamity aboard a large space station. Brad is a repair technician, trying to enjoy a little downtime, when disaster strikes.

Download part one here.

Download part two here.

Short story

Raven's Conception

Raven's Conception is a short story I wrote while finishing up my B.A in English. I love the story, and Raven's potential as a strong, female protagonist. I hope to someday return to her story and explore her world in a little more detail. I hope you enjoy the free download.

Download the short story here.

Flash Fiction

A pure heart

     Bobby hung back at a safe distance, watching the other children mingle. He hid because they mocked and ridiculed him. They hated him because he didn’t talk or dress like them. It seemed to make them feel better to poke their fingers at him while walking by. They all liked to call him “odd”. One of the boys moved and Bobby finally saw what had interested them so. A car had hit a rabbit trying to cross the street in front of the school. The group laughed as the animal flopped along pathetically, dragging its limp legs behind it.

     One boy came forward and kicked the rabbit. They all moved forward in turn, stomping on the injured animal until it stopped moving. Bobby watched as the children moved off, seeking amusement elsewhere. He ventured forth once he was sure they were out of sight. Bobby dropped his backpack and scooped the mangled rabbit up in his hands. He propped up its head and held it with tenderness. He sang the animal his special song, his fingers weaving through its soft fur. His hands grew warm and he felt a flutter in his chest. A moment later the rabbit stirred. It sniffed him affectionately and hopped down from his lap. The hurtful words and cruel jokes melted away as Bobby watched the lively rabbit bound off into the park.


Gothic Poem

Jekyll


They call me doctor.

 

I live for a purpose, to untangle, and comprehend.

My attempt is just, and my honesty proper.

To unravel the deepest of mysteries, through and through.

I have peered into the darkest of pits, and inside found my own madness.

 

I sit in a heap, distracted by all, yet focusing on none.

Thoughts strain against meaning, only spirit can define struggle.

It always starts as an itch, and then a twitch

Pulling at the corner of my mouth not once, not twice, but thrice.

I close my eyes and fight against him, but I am tired, and my constitution weak.

 

So long I have studied, and so long I have failed

To find an end to my division, my fracture without mend.

I swipe my hands across the desk, sending books into flight.

My focus on notes, and dalliances no longer held, like a string without kite.

I am moving now, it is a journey without motion, but a distance traveled still.

 

My skin tingles, and my head starts to ache, through my hair my fingers to rake.

Pulsing veins do throb, nails splinter and break.

My skin becomes mottled, and yellow and poor

My focus has changed, from the fight, to the door.

 

I stand as I am, not him, but me.

I am always here, watching, and waiting to be

For my opportunity to run, and unravel, and strangle.

I am not the one who seeks meaning, but only the end

To everything, in my time I will rend.

 

 

They call me Mister.


Held back by a page

A poetic memoir

I have been writing for so long that I almost can't remember how it all began. It started in frenzy. Keys "tapped" and fingers "danced" a fevered jig to the tune of creative desperation. That frenzy has died down now, replaced by the calm, calculated, and retrospective demands of an editor's scalpel.  I thought the days of cutting and pasting, rewriting and rethinking, were over. But as I sit here, waiting for concept art from an ocean away, I realize that my work is not yet done.

I've crafted a story, made up of more stories, but am not happy with the end. I know that the end speaks volumes, or in this case, the cessation of one volume at least. I delete, and rethink, and delete some more. There is no remorse for the lost, only hope for what is to come. I start to write, but then stop. I start to write again, but seem to go nowhere. The words I form now have no life, no soul. They are a wispy insect, doomed to live a single day. A day passes, then two, and before I know it, a week. That week turns into two. and I am still trapped on that page, like a prehistoric beast frozen for an age. I try all of my usual tricks, but none spring me from the trap. I can't  help the emotional slide that slaps back.

"I've written 800 pages to get here, just to be defeated by a single sheet of paper?" I growl.

Oh how it's true. Starting a project is so much easier than finishing one. Frustration drives me away from my keyboard, and for a time I let my mind wander.

"Graze, gallop, and be free. Learn to be an imagination again!"

I think about school, my wife, and my two beautiful daughters...anything but my story. I watch the television that I had so long denied myself. I give in to the distractions I felt that I could not overcome. But, wait. Something...

It happens when I least expect it, when I'm lying in bed. In that moment when my active thoughts drift away, and before the blissful currents of dreams sweep me into their folds, I have a revelation. "Ding!" It is dark, but I force myself up. I pad through the house, stubbing my toes on door jambs and stepping on dolls. I flip on the light at my desk and turn on my computer. Anxiety wells up inside, bubbling forth and threatening to steal away all else. It is not fed by my inability to write. Oh no, hardly that. It is given form out of the fear that this new idea will float away before I can tie, no, nail it down. The computer glows to life, and my fingers crawl over the keys. In just a few short moments my sleep addled brain does what weeks failed to provide. I slam the laptop closed, and flip off the light.

My task, my story, is finally complete.