So I’m going to Shawnee National Forest to camp this weekend along with my brother(s) and Marty and his brother Mikey. I’m so incredibly excited. Furthermore, I’ve sent my book out to a bunch of people (6?) that are kinda unlikely but mostly not. I’ll be taking pictures while I’m there so eeeeveryone can see what goes on in my head (okay. Maybe not).

Sketched half a landscape for my client. It’s a pretty incredible drawing, to be honest. I’m very impressed with myself. Only spent an hour on it, and it looks like a powerful piece already.

Talked to Aun-Drey for about two hours last night. It was great catching up with everything going on in his life. He’s fun, and apparently I have an open invitation to go play D&D with him anytime. He also opened my eyes to the idea of my Reverberant series being the background of a D&D game.

Had the image of an angel that had its skin melting off going on in my head; it wasn’t a gory thing. Moreso, a take on the burning bush of Bible fame. Her skin kept melting off, but beneath it, she had an unscarred, porcelain body. And, she was flying down a busy street of New York.

Could be a book idea. What would happen if sudden, irrefutable proof of either the divine or the supernatural popped into existence, with thousands of eyewitnesses, film footage, and everything? What would the Republicans do? What would the Democrats do? Would there be an insurgence of Christian converts? Would there be a holy war on our nation? (This is a tiny tweak from my Worldtree idea. Where the Worldtree universe has schools of magic, this idea would not).

Who knows? Cygnus is tearing P1 apart with critiques. It’s pretty awesome.

Okay. I need to shave and pack for the weekend. Hope everyone does well. And if you live near me, I hope you stay cooooool.

Yeah. Groovy.

That being said, he believes the Don is all about running away from his problems, making something larger than what it is to make it seem much more important, and being incredibly depressed to his lot in life when he’s in some of his more lucid states.

I believe the Don never runs away from his problems (albeit, he runs from what society wants him to be: heavy-handed, rich, proper, with his head out of the clouds), slowly and steadily gains a following of people who begin to understand his dream, and sees an overall boring, backward society (and world) as an incredible, powerful place to live.

I’m bringing this to light because I believe both sides are justifiable, arguable ones. Has anyone else read Don Quixote? I’m inclined to believe those who see society as a helpful, nurturing thing will tend to believe Don Quixote as delusional and in denial, while those who see society as a status quo and statistics will tend to believe Quixote is recreating the world in a much more meaningful way.

Now, my brother says that everything the Don sees is fantastical and delusional, and this frustrates me because he clearly didn’t read the book; the Don rarely turned something into a fantastical thing, and tended to refer more to the person’s personality more than the person’s ability. People who are there to run him out of his unpaid-for bed tend to be brigands, and women of impeccable look tend to be princesses.

To the contrary, he fought for his lady for a long while, even though he had never met her, and had no idea what she looked like. When they finally met, he found her the most beautiful thing in the world, even though she was worn by years of working in the field, wore rags, and was overall a negative thing to look at. He saw the inner beauty–not the fantastical, let’s-be-royalty-for-the-day beauty.

He would often do things like attack the captors of abused criminals in chains, usually being beaten to within an inch of his life. His actions would usually come back to haunt him, with the criminals returning to rob him blind at a later date. Did he run from his problems? No. Did he create many problems? Yes.

Quixote was a revolutionary without a revolution. He fought for a more organized society that disregarded caste and wealth, and he saw all people through the same lens. Furthermore, he slowly gained followers not because he turned everything into a fantasy, but because he began convincing them he saw a better life–and that Dulcinea would reward them. He had become the purveyor of fine romance, of masculine strength and humilty, a bard and a storyteller, all the while walking a road only he could see.

I do not believe he ever was in denial, in spite of what many of the characters–and the writer of that Wiki–said. I believe he cut through the outer shell, the physical. He was rarely safe, spoke out of turn often, and was confused quite often as well. He was usually enraged by his society’s lack of understanding, and their disbelief, and sometimes grew depressed and saddened by how simple everyone around him lived.

But this is my argument. I can’t speak on Brian’s behalf because I’m certain he’d pick my word choice apart, and create an anthill out of a mountain (read: I might put words in his mouth), so I won’t write of it.

I’m fairly certain most of you have never even picked up the complicated, convoluted book, much less read more than two chapters. And I understand that. Regardless, I’d like your opinions. ~x

Watched The Last Airbender last weekend with the brothers. All I can say is, I’ll keep the cartoon as my secret loveslave. Thank you. The only redeeming aspect of that whole movie was the casting of Aang. The little kid was perfect, and awesome, and believable. Everyone else was just kinda… Posey and odd-looking. Especially Sokka. He has crazyeyes like whoa and can’t portray emotion if it was to save his life. “This is my happy look.” ”This is my angry look.” ”This is my sad look.” Yep. All the same. Just blowout-your-face-with-intense-glare look. Yeah. Not good at all.

The cartoon, at least, was compelling.

Anyway. Moving on. I have acne on the back of my head. This means I’m eating greasy food. This means I ate some Cheetos yesterday. It’s amazing how easily thrown off my body is when I even touch bad food anymore. It’s like… Jesus. Stop being so emo, body. It’s just some happyfoods.

Who am I kidding? It coulda been the ice cream, the eighteen ounce AMAZING BOMBSHIT AWESOME steak, the popcorn, the gratuitous amounts of soda, etc. I’m not exactly a pinnacle of good eating. But, I’m getting better.

I’ve been reading a fantastic writer by the name of Robin Hobb. She’s got this incredible ability to simply write a character’s story without making the plot seem obvious. The first-person narration is perfect to flawless; he’s interesting, he’s unique, dynamic, and of course very flawed. Other than building up super emo world-falling-apart settings at the beginning of her books, she’s perfect as a writer. Now, the messages she has about society, the world, and particularly the United States is not too tasty to the greater population, and the fact that she made her character a fat-fat-fatty will of course lose that whole Harry Potter/Twilight/Eragon daydreaming crowd, but it’s so compelling. Anyway. My love life with the words is coming back. I would like to read more literary quality work, but this is certainly a book I can get into.

I believe my youngest brother Lucas is a walking example of Don Quixote. My other brother probably wouldn’t agree, but he’s just a fuddyduddy (and he reads this, so I’m going to be nice and not call him an asshole). He’s also an asshole. Lucas even has the beard and moustachio to prove it. His dream is a possible one. Hahaha.

Finally! *drumroll* one scene left until I’m finished with the rough rough of P1. This means, all the scenes are there, and the major story (and then some) is mapped out as well as I possibly can. There’s some bits and pieces here and there, but it’s nearly entirely finished. As I had written in the previous entry, the last scene is a sex scene between Melody and Darion, and I’m not sure if I can wrap my mind around writing it.

It has to be seductive, vulnerable, and mindmelting. It’s going to require a different kind of inspiration to handle it, I think.

Weekends are finally free. Cardinal’s Game on the 17th. I should check up on the old high school friends Martithin, Tommy, and Phil. Dude’s getting married and I haven’t even congratulated him yet.

The fantasy bug is, I think, once more making a comeback to the mainstream. With the serialization of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy, the marketing of the Harry Potter series, and even the (unwarranted) success of Paolini’s Eragon, American culture is beginning to embrace the power of the fantastic.

The latest fantastic explosion is of course Avatar, and its 3D syrup-covered pancake success. Most everyone that has seen it said the reason for seeing it was the 3D of it, and even the most avid fantasy reader has understood the storyline was crap. It’s not for movies to make good storylines, though. Movies are for visuals. Just like food is primarily for taste–you can make it look as nice as ever, but one bite sells or fails it. Books are primarily for characterization and plot. Movies are for scenery and extravagance, external characterization if warranted. I’m not talking about works of literary merit, or movies of literary merit, or foods of… literary merit. I’m talking about the pop culture need-as-it-may sensationalism.

Nuances are too nuanced. Anyway. I digress.

I’m incredibly inspired by the use of the universe as a staging ground for a resurgence of interest. As ever, fantasy is growing into a beautiful and incredibly developed niche – much as Noir and romance had its place, its turn, now so does fantasy.

I’m loving what I’m seeing.

Wrote around fifteen pages in P1 today. I’ll probably write around five more before I find my way to sleep. Finally, this story has the second layer being added: the real. Although it isn’t finished with its first layer, the second layer is coming along quite nicely. The two “cults,” one religious and one corporate (not at all different from each other) are finally in place, with champions from both. Okembe is finally doing something behind the scenes. I don’t know why it was impossible for me to write these aspects in the first place. I believe it’s because I was too anchored in the ethereal and metaphysical to be able to write of the real. The moment I began writing of it, it turned into something meta.

I have my lack of internet connection to thank for my recent writing splurge (currently running on “wireless broadband USB plugin power”). Landlord promises a phone jack by Monday noon. Which is cool. He also took a bit off my rent as recompense.

If Cygnus gets the job she has an interview for, we will finally both have weekends off. And an opportunity to go to Six Flags. And see family in StL. And perhaps even go camping.

My client for P2 hasn’t been in communication with me much; it’s been about a month since we talked about the project. I’ve been working on it, off and on, in the meantime, constantly laying out the groundwork for everything. But I do need direction. I hope he gets back with me soon. He had been hospitalized with a viral sickness of some kind, and was given military leave to the US for a few weeks.

Went to Taste of Champaign last weekend with coworker Whitney and her son Malcolm. He’s an incredibly intelligent boy. The Taste was pretty much a drag, given the humidity and the fact I didn’t bring any actual cash to the event. Vendors can’t make change with a credit card. Heh. It went well, although Whitney seemed awkward. She likes Bethany, and I hope she doesn’t get fired. It seems she’s got some serious challenges going on in her life. Eh. It’s nice to have friends around here; LIKE PAUL! hahaha Hopefully he still reads this.

Well. I’m back to writing. I might dedicate this book to Don Quixote. It seems fitting. “To Don Quixote, for his dream was a possible one.” hahaha

Oi.

NOT Homesick.

The past few days have been miserable for me. I’m not sure what brought it about, but I have a pretty solid feeling it was the leftover taco pizza I brought back from my parents. It was left out all night and morning at their house, in the garage, when it got 79 degrees outside. I brought it home, a 3 hour drive, and then put it in the fridge. I then took it to work with the intention of eating it, but it was too messy to do while driving so I didn’t. Left it out for another four or five hours. Then came home, heated it up in the oven, and ate it. Hilarity ensued. It wasn’t even all that awesome. Now, Chicken Alfredo pizza with French sauce is incredible (Hence the Uppercase)… but yeah. I was an idiot.

Now my throat is swelling up, I can barely swallow, and I cough up… nothing. Which means I’m having an allergy attack. RUN.

I haven’t written anything readable for a bit; I’ve been working on hanging out (Springtime makes me inspired like a crazyboy, but I’m always inspired around 10:30, where I’m driving like an idiot. Now, of course, I’m sick, so no inspiration here). As usual, I want to be published. I want to have my book out for all to see. I want to finish proofing AK again, finish P1, and get some kind of proofing finished on Mindgames, which will be incorporated into the Worldtree universe. Oi. And the gunslinger side-story. And the brothers zombie side-story.

Anyways, I’m frustrated at something. Perpetually, really, but I’ll find out what it is, exactly, and push through it. Perhaps it’s complacency. I’m at a place in my professional career that I’m happy with my job(s), and I’m going to be able to make a lot of headway with savings and the like. It’s just… yeah. Something.

Probably just the fact I haven’t written chapters in months. I wish I weren’t sick. I’ll try and write on Saturday while Cygnus is at work.

We’re talking about getting tattoos. Hahaha. Two shark’s teeth.

And. Just bought fuzzy seatcovers for Hobbes. Real FUR! hahaha

The more I want to write on my books, the more I don’t. I believe I’m starting to get writer’s block. I want to write all the time, while I’m at work, but the moment I get home my head goes empty. It’s so incredibly frustrating I can barely contain myself. Anyway…

(Politics rant incoming)

I’m reading random crap on Facebook about punching Pelosi in the face. I assume this has to do with you being a republican and not wanting to get our taxes lowered. I’ve watched the politicals. I’ve heard the arguments. I’ve read the propaganda. Now, all I’m looking for is someone to actually explain why the healthcare reform is bad. Or unconstitutional. Or unAmerican. While I understand the GOP rides on fear and Who Is This Other, I can’t help but BEG someone to explain to me why this is bad. I hear vague rhetoric about something Socialist and something Unconstitutional, and leave it at that. I’ve even heard some Murcan go, “It’s Socialist. You aren’t a Socialist, are you?” to which I replied, “What’s a Socialist?” “Damn N***** that steals our money and gives it to someone in his family.” Yes, this is an extreme example. But at least he gave what he thought was a well-educated answer. It’s more than I can say for my GOP friends.

And since being Socialist is basically being a Terrorist (same with Marxism, and Naziism, and being Muslim, and Middle Eastern… oh. A pattern. To be a Terrorist is to be the “Other.” Fear.), it’s no surprise every fundie and rightwing brainwasher (all extremes in themselves) are having a holocaust with this idea. (Holocaust means an offering to God, in case anyone ever wondered what that word came from) Yet, it’s not just the extremes that want to “Punch Pelosi in the face.” It’s the majority of the GOP. From what I’ve read, it makes a lot of sense to have this kind of healthcare system… Considering when we compare our system to most second-world countries, our is worse than theirs, I’m quite surprised over how upset everyone is getting.

Which leads perhaps to an explanation of my pattern within the pattern thought. If the GOP is throwing around “YOU SHOULD BE SCARED OF THIS PRESIDENT!” while backing a man that easily wasted fifty times the money Obama has, perhaps they themselves are afraid of change. I mean, that’s pretty obvious. Change is bad for the GOP. Change means standing up proudly and saying there’s something that needs fixing. Yet.

It’s just strange how this whole system works. I mean, everyone at the top is corrupt. You have to be to get the backing to get there. It’s mostly high school homecoming court, from a whole societal structure, and not trying to find the best man to run the country. But I read somewhere, too, “If you are too intelligent to bother with politics, you will be governed by those who aren’t.”

Yes. It makes sense to care. To bother. We have an incredible country. The value of life here is much higher than the majority of the rest of the world. I just don’t like how extremist this country is getting (Not that they weren’t before. Heh) over the simple selection of candidates.

This new healthcare thing won’t send this country under. The war(s)? Possibly. The lack of interest or involvement by more intelligent (?) people such as myself? Perhaps. It makes me grr.

And this entry had nothing to do with what I wanted to write about. Hahaha

That being said, I just picked up my first freelance writing contract with a high school friend of mine. He’s just leaving the military and has asked me to jump on board with a project of his. Actually, it’s more of a dream of his. He’ll be settling into San Francisco after one final 5 month stint in Afghanistan, and I’ll be working with him (I’d assume) around fifteen hours a week on a secret project of his. I’m stoked. I’m getting paid. I am, once more, doing what I love doing. AND GETTING PAID.

So I’m all smiles from my side. I’ve got some good things coming down the pipe. I’m as happy as can be with my life’s direction.

(Now all I need to do is get published. Grr. Grr.)

Today’s my dad’s birthday. My brother got accepted into Rolla. His birthday’s on the 9th. We have lots of stuff to celebrate this weekend. That’s for sure. Now all I need to do is make it to StLouis with the 5:30 AM schedule I have. oi.

Unfortunately, you don’t get to know about this project. Know I’m writing fantasy. I can’t post anything, simply given the nature of it. And, I can’t talk about it. Sorry. More Worldtree in the near future, perhaps? Heh.

            He walked by a waif of a girl, barely taller than him and dressed sparsely in leather. What skin he saw was discolored in black tattoo patterns. She leaned on a black stick that reflected the purple light outside. She sat silently, looking into the room of sleeping kids, and her presence reinforced his calm.

            But his eyelids were thick and heavy, and he found his bunk among several. He untied his shoes, pulled them slowly off and placed them on the trunk at the foot of his bed.

            Clothes for the next day were set on the same trunk beside his shoes, a matching set of the comfortable clothes he wore today, only with a slightly different color. Green instead of red, still with highlights of gold.

            His bed was soft, pleasantly warm, and he slid in quicker than he had done in a very long time; there was no fear of nightmares tonight. He had seen no sign of Jack the entire day, as he had walked through darkening and ambient purple lights.

            He wanted to talk to Constance more. She seemed much more interested in the circus games. Why wouldn’t she? He asked. They were free, and you could win candy, toys, knickknacks. And, again, they were free!

            His thoughts dissolved into mist as he settled on the shape of the walls in the Leviathan greatroom, a soft and smoothing slope he couldn’t help but touch as he walked past. He slid, as softly as he had gone to bed, into a dream of shallow waters.

            He followed a crow on the beach, a large black thing, that hopped over the sand and rhythmic waves to peck at shells and eat the tiny crabs. It was well aware of David’s path behind it, and as he passed some of the empty shells, he saw mirrored reflections within them. Like staring at the sky, he surmised, through the sand.

            A wave came and washed the mirrored shells away. And he walked.

            From a copse of trees beyond the beach, a woman with dirty hair ran toward him. He felt sluggish in this place, as if moving deliberately and slowly in spite of what something inside his head told him to do.

            Run.

            She stopped in his path, the crow flying off, heaving. “The storm became at a quarter past ten,” she said with trembling voice. “A stark drum thrum and a broken-key dirge. And it grew through the forest with night-jaunt speed a violin’s timbre and jagged trills—it became a sculptor’s hands and the crowd awoke trembling.”

            She nodded once as if looking for his acceptance, and ran into the surf. She dove, and in diving, she changed into a dolphin. The waves accepted her, and as she splashed in, the waves turned dark as if an ink spilled from her skin. She disappeared, and the setting sun cracked on the horizon.

            No! He cried in.

            The sun split open, cracked in several pieces, and sank into the water. The sky darkened. Behind him the crow-picked shells glimmered in the water like a single constellation. It looked like an oblong star with one point longer than the rest. Being the only light, he turned and walked into the center of it.

            The sand parted. The sky disappeared. And he fell with sickening heart. He fell into incredible darkness. Yet he did not wake.

            He felt cold stone floor beneath him and echoes of his breathing in a great chambered room. It felt familiar after a fashion, but he could not remember from where. A single light flickered down a tunnel to the right of him, and he saw he lay in a pit. Stairs surrounded him, but he could not see above them.

            Then, a sound. An echo of a growl, an echo of a distant sound. He remembered some of them from previous dreams, from when he was scared to look under his bed, when Jack sat beside him, between him and the nightlight. Scratches of bone on stone, and he knew what was coming.

            It was sickly, as candles lit down corridors he did not know existed and he stumbled to the stairs. He clambered up, growls of a hundred unseen things reaching his frightened ears. It felt so real. It was so real.

            Creatures rose like shadows, hints and reminders of his unforgotten dreams. His heart raced, his nostrils filled with sharp sting and a sickly stench of decay. Decay, yes, this was what he feared. That smell. That smell of thousand-year rot. The decay that did not dissipate to time.

            Yet he knew. He knew. This was not hell. This was not darkness intangible. This was a gutter of ancient places. This was their home; the outcasts. The ones forgotten but not removed.

            He saw he held a single shell between his trembling fingertips.

            A towering thing stood in front of him; he could not see it, except for the lightness of space beside it. He stumbled back down the stairs as the thing reached for him, missing his face by inches. All around him things crawled, stepped, even fluttered toward him. They spoke odd sounds, a language perhaps—to each other or to him, he did not know.

            A thing beside him pushed a shaded finger into his shoulder, puncturing skin and sliding in as easily as if he were shadow. He cried out in agonizing pain, his eyes pulsing with his heartbeat, and stumbled back. And all it had done was try to touch him.

            A crack like rolling thunder over the plains, and the room was briefly illuminated. It was filled with demons, perhaps, or simply monsters, or forgotten nightmares. The last thought made more sense than the other two. Forgotten, voiceless. Rotting.

            “Huuuuuuh!” something hummed. It was unmistakably female. Unmistakably human.

            Or, perhaps he mistook it for being unmistakable. It was still a something to him. A girl sailed through the air above him, a pair of blades pulled, a lantern hanging from a stick at her back. Her hair was black, tied back, and her shoulders were covered in thick leather. Her face was tattooed on the right side, a pattern of black bars that ended in points near her lip, a single long tattoo extending the left side of her mouth into a grin.

            Her blades met the towering thing that had scraped at him, sliding through shadow. The creature made a sound like a tree falling, and others hissed. David held his shell out, hoping to use it as a flashlight to the creatures at her back. The light burned through the air and wrinkled shadow to bubbling pits where it touched creatures’ flesh.

            The girl veritably flew through the oncoming creatures, sliding swords through shadow. Running to his left, she danced between attacks and parries, through sounds of releasing death and confused finality. The rotting invited the blade, he saw with confused disgust.

            She downed seven in the span of seconds; they seemed to have no defense against her weapons—and they did not even get close enough to brush by her skin. They were simply creatures of the sewage of the mind, he imagined, but dangerous and powerful nonetheless.

            They were unwavering in their onslaught. To the left of David were nearly fifty, and the hallways were filling with a considerable amount. The girl sliced through the legs of one, sliding her right weapon up between them, halving the thing as it stumbled down. David ducked as she came close enough to him that he could smell her sweat, ran past him, and impaled a small thing skittering across the floor.

            Sweat? His head was swimming. It smelled sweet, but he didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think at all. He dropped to his knees, holding his shell to his face. He looked in and saw only a blue lagoon within it. A blue lagoon? It was a strange thing to see in a shell, he thought, and it seemed he watched waves on a distant shore.

            She pulled him up, her face inches from his, her eyes calm and entirely soft, her irises a darkening red. Her grin tattoo confused his slurrying thoughts. Everything was falling to mist. Everything was darkening. “Stay with me,” she said with a strong accent. The nightmares were closing in. He could see nothing but the light of his shell, and only when he concentrated hard. She dragged him several feet, and with a grunt she flipped him on her shoulder, sheathing one sword.

            He held onto his shell as if it were the last thing he would ever do, and she cut a path through the creatures to the left and right and ahead. He saw her legs, saw the ground behind her, saw all the muck from all the dying things, and saw one single creature running up behind them.

            Using his free left hand, he reached down and pulled out her second sword. The creature leaped, and he lifted the blade to intercept its arc. The blade slid in its mouth, half-formed eyes growing wide with confusion. His right hand clenched on his shell so tight it cut through his skin.

            He glanced up, and the lantern blinded him.

            He was in his bunk, gasping with a heavy breath. He was groggy, dizzy, confused. A lantern blinded him as several people stood over. The tattooed girl stood beside him, sweat and dark liquid on her clothes and arms.

            “He fell into the Atrium?” A man asked, squinting at him. David barely understood the words. “How in the hells did he get there?” The girl remained silent, staring at him with her calm eyes. “Get him to the hospital. Get that wound looked at. What on earth is in his hand?”

            “A shell,” he whispered as another woman tried to pry his hand open. It was red with blood. “A shell.”

            “It seems a gift,” the woman said. She cocked her head to one side as David fought to hold onto consciousness. “Curious.” She looked at the girl across from her. “Make sure he does not dream again tonight. And D’halia, good work.”

            The girl nodded. “I won’t fear love,” was her simple reply.

            It confused David considerably, and was his final thought before dropping away.

SO!

While everyone else is posting their New Year’s Resolutions (I never got that tradition/fad, by the way. It’s like a diet of the mind? Why does the new year mean changing something you don’t change normally? If I find something I want to change, I do it. I don’t wait until January… Heh. But to each their own!), I will be posting every writing project I was dedicated to right here. I will give a brief description of what it is, and how far I got before I stopped working on it.

2000: Mindgames. Young adult. A harrowing story about five high school strangers who have to work together to survive the terrors of their worst nightmares. Literally. This was my Eragon-era book. Status: Finished, rough draft. 158 pages.

2001: The Reverberant. High Fantasy. A seven book series of a cast of nearly 80 characters leading up to the fall of a meteor to the planet Lorcalon. Develops the legend of the seven-stoned Reverberant, a mysterious symbol that not even the oldest scholars remember where it came from. Consists of an entire world and fourteen sentient races. Breakdown of individual books:

One the Thistle - Standard format Old Wizard picks up an Apprentice and goes on a Relic Quest. The wizard has alzheimer’s, they pick up some more wanderers on the way due to the destruction of the apprentice’s town, and they are in charge of a five year old child who can read ley lines. They are tracked (and hounded) by an assassin versed in the arts of necromancy. Status: 2/3 finished.
Two the Whistle – Surrounds the exodus of six Slethe, a magical race that undergo a physical change around when they turn sixteen years of age. Armies lay waste to the countryside behind them, and they trek from town to town trying to make it to their Mecca, The Gathering, an island far to the south. Of course, all of them are near sixteen years of age, and one-by-one they change into incredible creatures. Status: Halfway finished.
Three the Candle – Chronicles the sixth voyage of The Blue Life, a nautical ship that converts into a lighthouse when the winter hits the far south. They find ruins in the deep sea that has never been accounted for. Of course, several on board have nefarious plans, and several on board weren’t supposed to come at all… Status: Four chapters finished.
Four the Cradle – Focuses on the warrior caste of Noben, a nomadic dragon-esque race that migrates across the unforgiving wastelands in search of food and shelter. A message was intercepted to find their way to their ancestral homeland; great forces are at work, and the queen is summoned to power. Status: Two chapters finished.
Five the nightsurge – The book on hunting demons. When a badly beaten and abused Slethe slave falls into her sixteen year old change a month ahead of time, the castle she lives in becomes a castle of nightmare. When all of the castle falls into her projected and continual nightmare, its inhabitants begin to die. It’s up to a Troglin demon hunter to enter and end the nightmare, one way or another. Status: Layout only finished.
Six the Sunscourge – The book on a town reviving a dead language. While debating the implifications of speaking/learning a dead language, the Reverberant prophecy is found. A boy dies and the town becomes under seige. The city falls, and the survivors must find a way to take it back. With the help of the dead language as communication, they build an archaic weapon from its words. Status: Layout only finished.
Seven Setter – Bringing the previous six books together, chronicles the crash of the meteor, the great wars, and the appearance of a strange boy with a flying machine strapped to his back who finds out he’s the god of the Reverberant prophecy. Status: First two chapters only.

2003: Inhabitability: Of the Human and Humanity. Science Fiction. Book one of two focuses on a boy on Earth who finds out his planet is about to be destroyed by a civilization of aliens. On the positive side, he is given the opportunity to join the alien race. He’s stuck with a dilemma: die with honor beside all those he has grown to love and cherish, or watch it all burn beside a race of great creatures. He chooses to join the aliens’ side. The more he knows about them, though, the less he feels his decision was the better one. Status: Ten chapters from finished.

2005: Infallibility: Of the Human and the Humane. Science Fiction. Book two delves into the boy’s punishment for returning to Earth to try and save his family. His mind is wiped clean, and he is given a second chance; only he doesn’t know it. Walking around stunned on a commerce ship, he slowly begins to realize the truth. After meeting another human, they mistakenly decide they must find a way to get back to Earth, a planet they don’t know was destroyed. A space chase ensues only for the boy to find his father and learn the truth. They must try and escape the civilization in a seed ship–capable of cultivating life on a new planet–and a prototype space fighter through a black hole. Status: First four chapters, excerpts finished only.

2007: The Acorn King. Fantasy? A novel that surrounds the death of a mother, and the two sons’ reaction to it. One son is a child of war, while the other pursues academia; both are pulled inextricably into a complex web of myth, legend, politics, and intrigue, only to find secrets they couldn’t dream possible. Status: Rough draft and first rewrite/edit finished. 83k.

2008: i, pawn dreamer, stare. Horror. A book that envelopes the underlying connection between seven seemingly unrelated people. Haley thinks she was once a pile of organs, James is running from a past that never leaves, Darion is kidnapped and thrown into sleep deprivation, Melody must leave her bubble of comfort and friends behind, Soren is a drifter with a laptop and incredible insight, Catherine must depend on a seemingly godly person, and Okembe must hold his company and himself together in spite of his obsessive-compulsive needs. And beneath the characters, a dramatic comedy unfolds between chess pieces and two cults that have remained unnamed for a very long time. Status: twenty pages from rough draft finished.

2009: Worldtree. Modern Fantasy. A boy is accepted into one of the seven legendary schools of magic. This book follows his footsteps into the hallowed halls and all the great creations man has made due to the Library of Alexandria not burning. Oh, and the planet is host to eight trees that spread two miles into the sky that have been there since before man existed. Status: Layout, first chapter finished only.

2009: Philosophy of Unlife (working title). Fantasy play. Two brothers find themselves on a deserted island. After spending much time trying to find out how to get back to the mainland, they are given a chance to escape, only to find the mainland has been irreparably changed into a thing of horror. They must change their survival tact in order to escape the seemingly random infestation of undead, and survivors are just as apt to kill them as those who did not. Status: Two chapters and layout finished.

Of course, include with this a staggering list of poetry.

            I was still dizzy from waking up floundering. If it wasn’t for him, I certainly would have drowned. He was always the stronger one of the two of us. I believed his logic would win out regardless of the situation. It is logical to keep my head above the water, he would monologue. Therefore, keep your head above water.

            Logic just worked for him like that. He sat on the beach with his cargo pants, worn and faded, his t-shirt covering his upper body was soaked and sandy, the words, “Everybody Chill. I got this,” Quickly fading in the sun. He squinted, frowned, looked at me while I tried to focus on him, saying, “I hate the sun. You know how easily I burn.”

            It slowly dawned on me that he might be finding ways to deal with what happened the night before. Or. Three hours ago. The sun had barely rose.

            As a waking brain tends to do, odd questions came with instant answers: What did happen last night? How are we alive? Where are we? What the FUCK?!

            The last one came when Brian plucked some woman’s finger from the sand and investigated it real close before throwing it away. The dude had to be in shock. Had to. That kind of calmness does not come from an individual entirely in control of his faculties.

            “Where are we?” I asked in rasped voice. The salt had dried my throat out nicely.

            He shrugged. “On a beach.”

            Yes, Brian. On a beach. “How did we survive the crash?”

            “Beats me. I think it was because we were nearly landed when a large wave knocked out the engines. Otherwise, we would never have made it.” He scratched at his bald head, looked up and down the beach, and then back at me. “Are you alright?”

            “Recovering. But yeah. Why are you so calm about this? I mean you just tossed a woman’s finger into the waves.”

            “No point being all retarded about it. I’m alive. No point wasting energy on making sense of it just yet.” He shrugged again. Yeah. Definitely in shock. I had never seen him so calm before.

            Well. He was always this calm. But. Given the circumstances. Yeah. Unnatural even for him.

            “Tropical island,” I said, giving the obvious. “Or peninsula. Uninhabited. Reminds me of Castaway a bit.”

            He chuckled. “No volleyballs though.”

            “No volleyballs. Morning. I need water. Food. I must have drifted on that chunk of plane for hours. How’d you get here so clean?”

            “Saw the island in the morning sun. I just kinda… floated to it.”

            “Any gear?”

            “I got my wallet. A saltwater soaked phone. Um. I still have my wallet knife.”