• Fiction,  Poetry

    Poetry and Fiction Masterpost

    Consider this your all-purpose directory for works hosted on this website. I’ll update this as more stories are written. Currently updating stories are up at the top.

    Feel free to shoot me a message via Twitter DM or email if you’re looking for something and can’t find it or if you have any questions.

    Ghost Ride, two sisters on an eerie jaunt through an uncertain apocalypse

    The Poison Path Series (It’ll help if you’ve read the first book.)

    Short Stories


    *Patron-only locked posts are indicated by an asterisk

  • Chapter Fic,  Fiction

    Ghost Ride, ch. 1

    This story is now finished and is available as a short novel wherever you find your books. Here are some links for easy access.

    Two sisters on an eerie jaunt through an uncertain apocalypse. Brought to you by my love of Supernatural and @a_long_drive, the road trip bot on Twitter, probably.

    It’s cold here in the deep desert. The AC crapped out miles ago, ditto the heater, so it’s nothing but windows down for them. Alexis pushes her face into the breeze.

    She can smell the ocean from here, even hundreds of miles from the nearest shore. It’s the damnedest thing. She thinks of the ghosts of thousands upon thousands of sea creatures buried beneath their tread. She thinks of smelling the salt of an ocean long gone, faded away into flakes of salt and nothingness.

    The wind stings her cheeks and blows the wet right out of her eyes.

    Moriah slaps Alexis’ thigh idly, never taking her eyes off the road. “Get back in the car. You look like a damn dog.”

    Alexis flips her off. She keeps her head out the window for a few seconds more, partway to annoy the crap out of Moriah and partway out of genuine enjoyment of the sensation. Eventually she does what Moriah says, hauling herself back in the little red car with a small huff. The smell of diesel wars with the scent of salt. It smells like home, and Alexis settles back against the car seat with a happy sigh.

    Moriah slants a glance at her. “You done communing with nature?”

    Alexis shrugs. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

    “I could eat.” Moriah glances at the rearview mirror where there’s nothing but dead space that winks out into nothingness behind the red glow of their tail lights. “Don’t think we’re going to find anything out here though.”

    “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

    Alexis unfastens her seatbelt and leans over the seat, reaching for her bag in back.

    “Hey! Hey, sit your ass down.” Moriah swats at her ass, and Alexis ignores her. “Gonna make me fucking crash,” she grumbles.

    “Sit your own ass down. You’re a better driver than that.” Alexis glances at Moriah archly over her shoulder, giving her a grin. “Although not by much.”


    Alexis swings back into the front seat holding her prize. She takes her sweet time rebuckling her belt. First, she unzips her backpack and digs around until she finds two smashed PB&Js. She tosses one into Moriah’s lap, keeping the other for herself. She unzips the top of the ziploc and pulls her sandwich out, taking a big bite and licking the jelly that oozes from the corner onto the web of her thumb. She tosses her bag down into the footwell.

    “I don’t suppose you’ve got a bag of chips in that magic sack of yours, boy scout?”

    Alexis chomps at her sandwich, flicking her backpack open with the toe of her shoe. “Nope. I’ve got—a bottle of warm water, a pack of fruit snacks, and not much else.”

    “Ugh, fine. God, I’m sick of peanut butter sandwiches.”

    “Me too,” Alexis says, drawing the words out with relish. They’re almost as good as the feeling of finally having food in her belly. She wishes there were more. Just in case Moriah really wanted chips, she adds, “We’ll keep our eyes peeled.”

    “Yeah,” Moriah says. She sounds troubled, enough that Alexis glances over. She traces the frown on her sister’s face, the pinched line at the corner of her mouth.

    Alexis opens her mouth to ask about it, but Moriah cranks the stereo all the way up. She does it on purpose, to cut her off.


    Alexis settles back in her seat, pulling her sunglasses off the dash and settling them on her face, shielding her eyes from the night. Her sunglasses are white, cheap plastic and gaudy, $4.99 from some gas station she can barely remember. Moriah says they make her look like a douchebag, and Alexis says good—they’re supposed to. They’re just what she likes.

    She crumples up her sandwich wrapper and throws it out the window. It’s destined to become part of the doomed landscape, just like them all. Guns N’ Roses pours out of their little car’s speakers, streaming desperately into the night.

    Alexis closes her eyes, and Moriah drives.

    * * *

    Alexis doesn’t think she sleeps, but she wakes up sometime before morning. The sun is just starting to stain the horizon blush-pink, the whole world lit up in tones of soft-washed grey. Alexis can still see the stars as faint pinpricks of light if she looks up. The driver’s seat is empty beside her.

    She yawns her way out of the car, snagging the hoodie that had been crumpled under her head and shoving it over her shivering body. It’s still fucking cold in the desert. She can see the faint white puffs of her breath. She slams the car door shut, and Moriah looks toward the sound, just for a second, before turning her gaze back over the canyon. She’s perched at the edge of a cliff face, nothing but a fathomless plunge below. Alexis can’t see the bottom, even when she walks over to stand side by side with Moriah, close enough that their shoulders brush.

    It looks like an ink wash drawing painted in hues of bruise, livid violets. Caput Mortuum. She glances over at Moriah, the thready black hair whispering across her face, trailing out behind her in the breeze. Her sister is beautiful, Alexis thinks. She studies the proud, crooked line of Moriah’s nose in profile, the serious set to her generous mouth.

    She looks back at the canyon. They really drove all night.

    “I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up,” Moriah says. Her voice sounds strange. Smaller, Alexis thinks. It’s strange to think of anything about Moriah as small. She’s always taken up all the room there is in every room, every hallway, every outdoor place.

    “You could have woken me.” Her voice does it too.

    Maybe it’s not her voice, Alexis thinks. Maybe it’s this place, a place too old and big for the both of them. Maybe it’s swallowing them up, the sounds they make sucked into the violet dark below. If she were the reverent type, she might care about walking on hallowed ground, but the only altar she knows is her sister.

    “Nah,” Moriah says. “You looked like hell. Figured you could use the sleep.”

    “So could you,” Alexis says. Then she says, “Thanks,” belatedly. It’s awkward. Gratitude always is, between them.

    Moriah shrugs. “You feel up to driving?”

    “Sure.” Alexis holds out her hand and only has to wait a second for Moriah to slap the keys into it. The jagged corners sting her palm.

    She doesn’t say that Moriah never lets her drive. She doesn’t ask if she’s alright. The answer is so obviously no.

    Next ->

  • Monthly Updates

    Next Steps for The Poison Path Series (and my fiction in general)

    Last time I talked to you, I was working on Angeline’s story. I shared a summary that I was excited about. I’m still excited! I spent several weeks working on that book before hitting a wall that was probably inevitable. You see, Angeline’s story is the story of the Old Country. It’s the story that takes place approximately 20 years after the events of The Poison Path. Which is to say, it’s the story of a changed empire, and I can’t tell her story without telling the story of the world she lives in.

    So I went back. I picked up Serafina and Mag’s story where we left them last. I got about 3k words in and then—another wall. Because it occurs to me that while I’m deeply invested in Mag and Serafina—while I love them and want to tell their story—their limited vantage points can’t get me where I want to go. Not quite.

    I want to tell a bigger story, filled with many different voices. I want to tell a story from all sides, which potentially means I want to tell a lot of littler stories. I sometimes say that all I want is to write fanfiction of my own stories, my own worlds, and a conversation with a friend reminded me that I can do exactly that.

    I’m self-published for a number of different reasons: because I want ultimate control of my work and the way it’s presented, because I’d rather share stories than have them tied up for years in pitches, because I think it’s a business model that makes sense in this day and age… but I think sometimes I forget the sheer, dazzling amount of freedom that comes with that choice. I want to keep telling the story I began in The Poison Path, but the next steps forward don’t need to be books if I don’t want them to be.

    Always, I want to serve the needs of the story first. I realized that what I wrote for Mag and Serafina stands up well as a short story. I realized I can tell the story of the next twenty years in the Old Country through a series of vignettes and shorts. I can post them here, and I can collect them in an anthology. Angeline’s book will absolutely be a book, but for now, maybe this.

    So I’m excited! I’m excited to tell this story I’ve lived with for almost ten years now. I’m excited to explore this world and share it with you, one little piece at a time, the way I love to tell stories best. (What can I say? I’m a fic author at heart.)

    So stay tuned, and consider joining the party on Patreon if you’re not subscribed yet. I think I’ll probably post these short stories as patron-only posts, and we’ll go from there. Thank you, as always, for your support. Thank you for being here. <3

  • Fiction,  Short Fiction

    Sunny Afternoon

    I’m participating in Whumptober this year, which means I’m writing one fic 500-1,000 words, each day for the month of October. I like doing these fast-paced challenges because they test my ability to consistently produce work, and surprising things often come out when you’re writing a story every single day.

    Much of what I’m writing is fanfiction, but I’ve done two original fic prompts, and I’ll likely do a few more before this challenge is over. I love visiting my characters. It’s like seeing old friends. This time I visited Galahad and Iseult in a little missing scene from The Deep Woods.

    prompt: support

    “I’m too sensitive—you know it’s true.” Galahad throws the words down like a gauntlet, but he refuses to meet Iseult’s eyes. He stares out the window instead, eyes fixed on the horizon, toward the sea he can just barely see past the tops of the trees.

    “I know no such thing,” Iseult says. “You are how you are. Do you begrudge me my nature?”

    “No,” Galahad says at once, turning around at last, the shock of Iseult’s words prompting him to meet her eyes. “Of course not.”

    “Then why would I begrudge you yours?”

    He looks away again. He hates it sometimes—how reasonable Iseult is, how calm and measured. He’s the hot-headed one of the pair of them, he knows, but even he can bite his tongue when need be. He doesn’t say it. It wouldn’t do to repay Iseult’s kindness with his own ill temper.

    He looks out the window instead, eyes drawn to the shout of their father’s men in the courtyard below. They’re sparring, fighting in chalked circles, grappling in close quarters. They use real swords, blunted though they may be. He’s momentarily blinded by the glint, a blade catching the sun and throwing it into his eyes.

    He feels a light touch on his shoulder. “Gal.”

    He shakes his head. Iseult’s hand falls away after a time, but she remains at his back, watching the soldiers at their rough play. Galahad flexes his hand as he picks a man to follow and silently critiques his fighting technique. His hands, too, are callused now.

    The summer air is warm and thick. It would bring him to drowse, if he was of a mind to allow it—if his nerves weren’t strung to a tense key. It’s quiet between them.

    “Do you remember how it used to be?” Galahad asks. It’s a common question between them—a maudlin one when he says it.

    “Of course,” Iseult says immediately. “Endless summer days with the wind in our hair and dirt beneath our feet. Those were halcyon times.” She looks down at Galahad where he sits perched by the window, a soft smile creasing her face. “They can be happy times still.”

    “Can they?” he asks, meaning for once to be convinced. He looks to her—Iseult, tall and fair. Her clear blue eyes are at once old and young, the mirror of his own, he knows, though his doubts his eyes contain half her concealed wisdom. He wants so desperately to believe what she says.

    “Of course,” she says again, her voice soft and sweet and filled with mercy. She reaches out and touches his face, and Galahad leans into the soft silk of her hand.

    He closes his eyes and lets himself feel. For an instant, they’re in the orchards again, the scent of apple blossoms and damp grass rising all around them. For a second, it’s vitally important that he not tip his head too far this way or that, even as he runs, lest he undo the work of Iseult’s hands braiding flowers into his loose hair.

    He opens his eyes, and it’s all gone again, but Iseult remains. She studies him with kind, curious eyes, and Galahad brings a work-roughened hand up to clasp the hand she keeps cupped around his face. He catches her fingers in his and brings her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the flat, smooth shell of her palm.