My Work.
The drum line creates the best Martian beat,
and those Martians dance, light on their feet.
Writing.
Writing Sample from "future book:" Death and The Cat
To Be Published in "The Monsters We Forgot" Anthology December 13th
“Say you, man. What brings you to my wood?” Mavros asked in a loud meow, not at all scared of Death, since he did not know it was him.
Mind you, he would not be frightened of Death even if he did know it was him. Cats do not fear Death; they have other things to worry about, like foxes, or footsteps, or vegetables.
Death laughed at the cat’s boldness. It was always refreshing to encounter a creature that was not busy cowering before him. It made for much better conversation, anyway.
Mavros flicked his tail. “I should say, sir, it is rude not to answer when called upon,” mewed the cat.
Death, in all his shadows, smiled. He then gave a bow to the small cat, the feathers of his cloak swirling around like grass in the wind.
“My apologies, oh cat,” Death replied politely. “I am on my way to the sea, to tend to a ship.” He nodded over Mavros’s head through the trees, where not half a mile farther, the sea rolled into the shore. “I’d like to use the wood trail, for I like the dark, as do you, I know.”
Mavros wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but he did know that the man still hadn’t answered his question.
“Who are you, say you?” Mavros repeated with another snap of his long tail.
Death paused for a moment, his bright white eyes glittering. “I am not Life,” said Death. “I am not Spring, I am not Growth, I am not Youth, I am not–”
The cat sniffed loudly and touched his paw to his tongue, then to his ear – the way that cats do.
“I dare say,” Mavros mewed, his tail tip twitching back and forth. “I said ‘Who are you?’ Not, ‘Who are you not.’”
To Be Published in "The Monsters We Forgot" Anthology December 13th
“Say you, man. What brings you to my wood?” Mavros asked in a loud meow, not at all scared of Death, since he did not know it was him.
Mind you, he would not be frightened of Death even if he did know it was him. Cats do not fear Death; they have other things to worry about, like foxes, or footsteps, or vegetables.
Death laughed at the cat’s boldness. It was always refreshing to encounter a creature that was not busy cowering before him. It made for much better conversation, anyway.
Mavros flicked his tail. “I should say, sir, it is rude not to answer when called upon,” mewed the cat.
Death, in all his shadows, smiled. He then gave a bow to the small cat, the feathers of his cloak swirling around like grass in the wind.
“My apologies, oh cat,” Death replied politely. “I am on my way to the sea, to tend to a ship.” He nodded over Mavros’s head through the trees, where not half a mile farther, the sea rolled into the shore. “I’d like to use the wood trail, for I like the dark, as do you, I know.”
Mavros wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but he did know that the man still hadn’t answered his question.
“Who are you, say you?” Mavros repeated with another snap of his long tail.
Death paused for a moment, his bright white eyes glittering. “I am not Life,” said Death. “I am not Spring, I am not Growth, I am not Youth, I am not–”
The cat sniffed loudly and touched his paw to his tongue, then to his ear – the way that cats do.
“I dare say,” Mavros mewed, his tail tip twitching back and forth. “I said ‘Who are you?’ Not, ‘Who are you not.’”
Writing Sample from "future book:" Fossil
A stone skeleton stands tall in a museum, immortal. Dead.
I gaze down on what could be prey if I still had flesh.
If I could still lunge, close my jaws around their soft, unprotected bodies. My teeth would slice through them like claws in fresh mud. The younglings stare, trill and gawk.
They are not brave; I am stone.
I stand in the cold hall, footsteps ringing against the walls, echoing through my bones. A bronze rail surrounds my feet, to hold me in and hold them out.
There is not enough air. It is too thin, too dirty, too dry. I need air to fill my lungs, but my lungs are gone.
...
Sunlight. Sand. Dust.
Warm rays bounce off stone, coating me in light for the first time since I fell. I wanted to look, feel it sting my eyes, but I couldn’t.
Sand falls between my body, into my head, sifts through my teeth.
Soft creatures grab at my deathstone, their paws so delicate. Brushes and picks chip at my insides like fleas, releasing my body at long last to the sun and wind, free from the earth.
White tarps cover me in my deathstone at night, blocking me from the moon’s view and the breath of the stars. The stars used to be so much clearer, so much brighter, so much more fatal. A star could kill you if it wanted.
The soft creatures try to find the life I was, poking at my stone with cold claws, flashing light over me, pulling me apart.
If I could just show them instead.
I would roar, sharpen my teeth on their weak bones. I would watch as their blood flows through my jaws, down my ribs, and drips beneath me, soaking into this hard, hot sand where I was sleeping. I would grow as their muscles became my own, and I would run. I would show them what I was.
But I can’t.
My arms are too heavy.
...
A stone skeleton stands tall in a museum, immortal. Dead.
The fossil was dug up a few months ago, one of the most complete of its kind. The news of its discovery spread like wildfire through the scientific and public community as both parties came to gaze at its massive form, its death another giant leap into the life that had walked so far behind our own time.
A stone skeleton stands tall in a museum, immortal. Dead.
I gaze down on what could be prey if I still had flesh.
If I could still lunge, close my jaws around their soft, unprotected bodies. My teeth would slice through them like claws in fresh mud. The younglings stare, trill and gawk.
They are not brave; I am stone.
I stand in the cold hall, footsteps ringing against the walls, echoing through my bones. A bronze rail surrounds my feet, to hold me in and hold them out.
There is not enough air. It is too thin, too dirty, too dry. I need air to fill my lungs, but my lungs are gone.
...
Sunlight. Sand. Dust.
Warm rays bounce off stone, coating me in light for the first time since I fell. I wanted to look, feel it sting my eyes, but I couldn’t.
Sand falls between my body, into my head, sifts through my teeth.
Soft creatures grab at my deathstone, their paws so delicate. Brushes and picks chip at my insides like fleas, releasing my body at long last to the sun and wind, free from the earth.
White tarps cover me in my deathstone at night, blocking me from the moon’s view and the breath of the stars. The stars used to be so much clearer, so much brighter, so much more fatal. A star could kill you if it wanted.
The soft creatures try to find the life I was, poking at my stone with cold claws, flashing light over me, pulling me apart.
If I could just show them instead.
I would roar, sharpen my teeth on their weak bones. I would watch as their blood flows through my jaws, down my ribs, and drips beneath me, soaking into this hard, hot sand where I was sleeping. I would grow as their muscles became my own, and I would run. I would show them what I was.
But I can’t.
My arms are too heavy.
...
A stone skeleton stands tall in a museum, immortal. Dead.
The fossil was dug up a few months ago, one of the most complete of its kind. The news of its discovery spread like wildfire through the scientific and public community as both parties came to gaze at its massive form, its death another giant leap into the life that had walked so far behind our own time.
Illustrations.
|
|
