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Because I'm feeling like some WORDS tonight.

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Not a Robot“Magic is a complex chemical reaction. It is created by a combination of genetic, chemical, and environmental variables. It can be replicated. I have mastered the technique. I have submitted the application for membership.”
The League of Sorcerers erupted in a chorus of protests. I analyzed each voice and filed them separately for later study. The strongest protest came from the Master of Ceremonies, a sallow faced man with a long beard. I retrieved the identfiles to address him by name. Human beings are particular about their monikers.
“Only when I am cast into the fiery pits of Zandara's Hel will this abomination be allowed to walk among the sacred halls,” Master Henry Boyle said. He tugged on his beard.
“I have no record of Zandara or Zandara's Hel,” I said, “I request clarification.”
“You are not welcome here, robot,” Mistress Cassandra Starlight said. She attempted to manipulate the atmosphere around me with a formula I h

Gravity     The images flickered on my television screen late that evening, a documentary on Animal Planet about the big cats consuming my background noise for nearly the past hour.  Presently, an image of tigers flashed back and forth on the screen, the camera shifting which feline it focused on.  One was seemingly enjoying the moment of the rain pattering down upon his beautiful striped pelt, droplets of water collecting on it and running down the individual fine strands of his fur and whiskers, he lifting his head ever so slightly to the rain as he closed his eyes, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, giving him a rather mesmerizing human quality.  Before I could get lost in the image much more, the camera focused on another couple adolescent sibling tigers playfully swimming in the river.  I did find it interesting that tigers were the only known feline species to love swimming, as it almost seemed contradictory with all the jovial stories I


AdoreThe shower drips hot down my skin and you come to me.  Each warm rivulet descends my body the way your fingertips have and I close my eyes, finding your smile behind my lids.  I can see you so clearly, brown eyes so beautiful that I never want to look into another set.  Your hair, corkscrews of mahogany I lose my fingers inside, never wanting to retrieve them.  Your skin trails beneath my palms, the warmth of your chest pressed up against mine.
Some people never know a sense of completion.  They wander through their lives as ghosts, never fully a part of anything or anyone.  They believe there is a safety in solitude, that somehow they are protected if they never completely give of themselves.  I think of you and become deeply aware of just how much of myself I have given you, but moreso than that, how much of myself I have found within you.  It is a sense of physical epiphany, the way a thought suddenly springs to mind and all makes sense, the w

Prisoner 1827“When she exploded, she left nothing behind.  Except she did.”  Trembling, his hands covered in Prisoner 1827’s last breath, Officer Daavie catches the Captain’s eye.  The man’s mouth is stern, cutting deep lines across his face.  This is the tenth time they’ve gone over Daavie’s story.  Not one detail has changed.  Not one detail makes sense.
“That… It just doesn’t add up, Officer.  People don’t just explode--do you see any brains or bones or other human debris splattered across the walls like paint?”
Daavie grimaces, reaching for a bottle of hand sanitizer on the Captain’s desk.  “No.  I know.  But she did.”  He depresses the plunger as he speaks.  Nothing.  After thirty tries, each more frantic than the last, Daavie flings the plastic to the floor and rakes his hands through his thinning hair.
“Okay.

Lady of the VeilEvery day she walks with me, her cool fingertips touching my shoulder occasionally; footsteps like raindrops on a forest floor. She never wanders or ambles, she is a graceful dancer whose movements shimmer in sunlight’s caress.
No moment is free from her watch, staring as I stumble and struggle with life’s annoyances and irritations. Her ears catch my whispers and trap them in cages that no key can open and she speaks only when she needs my attention.
She and I carefully meander our way through obstacles and barriers, strolling past distraction and desecration. Her scent of lilies greets my sense and I feel the magnetic pull she wields. She is a riptide, a powerful whirlpool who steals the willpower of those who wander upon her path. Most lose themselves on the journey but as she guides me past fear and desolation, I find truth. Her existence is unquestionable, her presence – unmistakeable. She dances up to many but strides with few.
If I lived for millennia, I would



retrospective challengeI've never thought I was pretty. Passable maybe, but never pretty. It's tough to have any sort of positive body image when you're over-weight, but even more so in a culture and family that starts ridiculing you for it at a young age. Some days I hate myself for not being thin and pretty, but fortunately they're pretty few and far between. The rest of the time I hide my insecurities behind an emotionless mask.
But I'm not lacking in emotion, not at all. I know that I often come across as an emotionless automaton or a stuck-up bitch, but it took me years to learn that mask. Some days it's all I can do not to scream, cry, laugh, and kill someone all at once, but mostly I learned very young to hide my feelings, wrap myself up in a blanket of numbness trying not to let anything get to me.
I only have a few outlets for my true feelings: riding, art, music, and most importantly, my friends. But I don't want to burden them with my past so I bottle everything up inside, buried away and forgotte

DawnThe night is silent for hours on end, its melodies having faded with the stroke of midnight. The chill is almost alive: a cold and unrelenting numbness that has swept across the hollow plains and the empty streets, right into the ambiance engulfing the sleeping homes.
The world is still, seemingly in a trance that nobody sees. The wind occasionally sways a leaf or two for a moment, but then that moment is gone as fast as it came, leaving the world stagnant once more.
Looks can be deceiving, however, for not all is still. Somewhere in the distance, a bird opens its eyes, shaking its dream-world awake. Its partner does the same, opening up its wings for a long stretch. Somewhere else, yet another is stirring—a gray flecked cat yawns and stands up to flex its slack muscles, the two kittens beside it let out an innate cry almost in unison. Close by, a worm peeks its head out of the soft ground of a well tended garden.
Something is changing.
Slowly, the dark gray night begins to grow

Mature Content

Under the Moons of Nozittum Chapter 1
Under the Moons of Nozittum
Prologue: Aboard Steamship Amazon
In recent months many have asked me to tell of my meeting with Victor Cogan aboard the steamship Amazon. Others have requested that I never speak of it, some for fear that his story wouldn't be believed, others for fear that it would be. For better or worse I set it down now.
I had taken holiday in South America for my health, on the advise of a physician. On the second day of a steamship journey down the mighty Amazon through foreboding and sultry jungle I began to conclude that my health would be no better for it.
I'd made the trip alone and lonely is what I felt. The other passengers, wealthy tourists and their offspring, made little attempt at pleasant conversation with the likes of me. Perhaps I looked unapproachable.
At noon I sat on deck, watching the tree-filtered sun shine down on the murky waters, broken sometimes by crocodiles and snakes. I must have been lost in thought because I didn't notice the young man sit d

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