Writing Sample

Sara did what she could to keep the tears back. Sitting at the edge of her king size bed, through glistening eyes she stared out the window to watch the cold purples and dark blues of dusk slowly give away to the dim warmth of the morning glow. Memories of the previous night, a sleepless night that conjoined both days into one tired stretch of time, billowed in her exhausted thoughts. Her fists clenched as she held back the tears. But, no more lying to yourself, they’ll come. They’ll come no matter how hard you fight them (read the rest of it here).

I’ve been a busy bee lately, so sorry for the lack of updates. Between setting up a Friday night D&D campaign, running the Saturday game, and working on several podcasts; there’s barely time to breathe, let alone update this website Read More


hmmmmIt seems that i’m still struggling to get anything out. I have finally hammered down all the “whos” and “whys” of my fantasy story… but now it has come to the fun part of turning the Outline into a full fledged story, with all the good stuff like words, and paragraphs, and character development; the whole time trying not to Sanderson it by expositioning-the-shit out of everything. Honestly, it is much easier (not to mention more openly excused) to blither on about writing than it is to actually dump words into the fantasy framework without seeming any but obtrusive Read More

The air was filled with an acrid stench as the Traveler pulled his heavy chains behind him. His heavy cloak, sodden with ichor from the innards of his subterranean refuge clung to his withering body as it left a slimy trail telling the miles he had traveled. (The Traveler)

The Traveler is a a “tome” from a series I’ve been slowly working on for several years. It is essnetially little snippets of history from a forgotten land with a very loose story tying them all together. This piece deals with the traveler, it isn’t finished, but it is a start. Take a look and let me know the flints and flaws in its structure. Read it here!

Hunched on the ground, his spine nearly twisted over his swollen gun, the gaunt man pushes his dirty hands into the plastic of a package. The grocery clerk, dark eyed and nearly seething with numbness, imagines the plastic to be the flesh of someone’s rib cage as his fingers, caked with grime, tears it slowly open. (Read the rest here)

Reworking this piece was almost like looking over the lost letters of a school shooter, and I’m pretty certain that at the point of writing this, originally, i was pretty close to getting to that point; hindsight and all. When I composed “the clerk” i was working for a grocery store which, until i finish writing my nasty little smear piece about them, will remain nameless (don’t worry, their name, along with true tales of sex, drugs, and good old American produce is pretty close to reaching its first pass); but let’s just say that its a pretty big deal here in North-Eastern Ohio. All in all, it was a nasty experience, one that drove a lot of my soul out of my body and nearly turned me into a placid, empty middle management vessel – thank the deep ones for “forced resignations.”

Anyway, if you want to read the full piece, just click the link above, or right here, or you can look for it in the writing menu above. Criticisms and comments welcomed and appreciated!


Think about your grandmother, how sweet she was, how much she truly cared about you and smiled at you (with fake gleaming teeth, or her own in some cases). Does that bring some warmth, warmth that you thought faded after they passed, only to then realize that the embers of her love were and are always there, keeping you from freezing. Imagine the opposite of that. The exact opposite.

oneeyedshitmonkeythumbNow here is a piece that i didn’t entirely intend to write. While working on a piece, long since tucked into the “meh, maybe one day” folder, i was trying to design characters that were foster children all tucked together in one house, with severely religious foster parents, that were all waiting, and trying, to “rotate out” (meaning that they would be shuffled off to another home, perhaps one with less rules or whatever). From personal experience, most foster children aren’t well adjusted and have less than desirable pasts (which is a subject all on its own, perhaps for that story which i should complete, nudge nudge), so i wanted to emulate this by throwing, what else, shitty parent stories in the mix; but i think i dug a little bit too deeply.

Now, for this piece, i’m not exactly positive on the context, but for some reason i had pulled this bit of text into its own file and worked on it quite extensively. I purposely aimed to make the prose thin, almost simple, and expressed in almost a casual way, almost as if i expected to chop it up here and there with quotations and threw in a few lines of what was going on around the teller of this story and the listener while the story is being told.

The story is pretty horrid, the concept alone still makes me cringe, being a bit on the nose and all, but hopefully i conveyed the simplistic storytelling that, say, some one of fifteen or sixteen with limited intelligence might convey.

Now you can read the whole thing BY FOLLOWING THIS LINK HERE, or you can DOWNLOAD THE PDF VERSION (for free) and read it later.