"Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the internet." Cyrus Farivar

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

Its been a while!


For those of you that still read this blog, or skim its contents, thank you for continuing to read here.

If you're wondering what happened to me, well, I went off to college to focus on my writing and become a better writer overall.

And I've also changed blogging locations.

Same blog name, I'm just over on Wordpress now.

Wandering Cellar Door is where I've been writing my newer thought pieces to give me practice writing non fiction, and where I've been writing comic book reviews.

Anyway, please feel free to move to that blog for more current things. I might eventually return here to dump drabbles, but as of right now, I'll remain over on Wordpress.

Thank you for sticking with me all these years!


Tuesday, March 12, 2013


I'm terribly sorry for the long hiatus! I've been so busy with school and college applications. But I promise I have been writing, I just have not had the time to post anything here. So hopefully you will get more regular updates of my backlog. 



            She peeked around the door. The saw was going again. Her mother said it was his job; that he wanted to please everyone.
            Other men made chairs or wardrobes. A passing gypsy carved whistles and little toys, selling them for pennies. But he built boxes. He’d ask questions, listen and nod. People would come to him all the time. Only then would the saw be powered on and the noise would start.
            “Charlotte, come away from there!” Her mother’s voice rang out. Startled, the girl ran up the creaking stairs and on the porch.
            “What have I told you about watching Uncle Owen?”
            “He only makes those boxes, mama,” she said, glancing back towards the wood barn.
            “It’s his job.”
            “But boxes? I don’t ever see ‘em again. And others make cupboards or tables.”
            “Aren’t Uncle Owen’s boxes pretty?”
            “Yes, mama. They have pretty shapes and smooth sides.”
            “What’s got smooth sides?” Turning, the little girl grinned up at her Uncle and hugged his legs.
            “Your boxes!”
            “Charlie, do you like my boxes?”
            “Yeah! She nodded eagerly, giving him a wide grin.
            “They are very special.”
            “Those people keep special things in your boxes?”
            “You could say that.”
            “Can I have one?”
            “Someday, Charlie.  I hope I don’t have to make it for you.”

Sunday, January 6, 2013


            The Spare knew death was always a possibility. He knew that being a Knight of Cydonia – as they liked to refer to themselves – meant he would very well leave St. Benedict behind for combat. With skirmishes brewing in the Middle East, Parliament elected to get involved. They were joining other members of the UN to help calm the tides and provide security for ambassadors and citizens. James didn’t argue when his unit received their orders.

            It was the commands that got him here, staring up at the blue sky. His ears were ringing, as he shifted his head, seeing boots come in and out of cloudy vision. Someone was talking to him, inquiring words he couldn’t hear. The Spare felt himself growing tired, opting to close his eyes instead of follow the flurry of activity.
            Feeling a constant rush of wind, he opened an eye to see the blades of a helicopter. At some point they had put him on a stretcher, thoroughly strapped down as they rushed to the medevac.

            Adjusting his crutch, he started down the hallway. It was slow going, the prosthetic hindering what was normally a casual walk. He remained within the Palace at Latcharbour ever since his return to St. Ben. The media was pressing for an interview, but The Spare continued to decline, promising he would in the near future. For now, he just wanted to feel normal again.

Sunday, August 19, 2012


This month's challenge was to write an entire story arc in only dialogue with any number of characters. I wanted to try out using some characters from some earlier works.


Rose: “He won’t go to his appointments, Charlie. They just keep calling and all I want is for him to go.”
Charlie: “Devan…”
Devan: “I go and I’m home.”
Charlie: “Are you missing your office visits?”
Silas:Obviously, you don’t trust the chap. “
Charlie: “Answer me straight. Have you gone to Dr. Hansen?”
Silas:She shouldn’t be here in our space, in our home.”
Devan: “Me, bus, Hansen, bus, home. I talk and I bus.”
Charlie: “Rose, maybe you’re napping when he leaves?”
Rose: “You’d believe him over me? Really, Charlie?”
Charlie: “Rose… I’ll try and keep an eye on him.”
Devan: “She wants me gone. Away. Not here.”
Silas: “She wants you caged. Kept away from her.”
Devan: “Schedule is set. I go and I’m home.”
Charlie: “He’ll go to the appointments and he’ll be out more. I’ll drive him there.”
Rose: “Charlie… you know he doesn’t like me. I don’t like him here.”
Charlie: “Rose, he’s still adjusting to everything.”
Devan: “Normal with us, with this.”
Silas:She’s the cause. She’ll never understand.”
Rose: “It’s been months, Charlie. He should be done with this immature act.”
Charlie: “…Okay.”

Thursday, July 19, 2012

For Once

I seldom write poetry. In fact, I really think I suck at it. But I've been in somewhat poor spirits lately, so I'm sorry to just dump this here rather than leave it hidden in some spiral notebook for all eternity.

Saturday, July 7, 2012

With the Stars

Another Gamers with Jobs bi-weekly challenge has appeared! This time it was: Write a story from first person, without using the pronoun "I." 

401 words.

With the Stars

Friday, June 15, 2012


341 words.


            Charity balls were the last place he wanted to find himself. The only people that looked remotely normal were the wait staff. Slipping around the throng, he passed some god-like warrior with a menacing faux machete on his belt. He paused briefly to contemplate the two before he pushed forward.
            These tickets had come months ago, back when he was with her. Back when he was going to have a damsel in distress on his arm. Passing another couple, he frowned as his eyes remained transfixed on the woman head of him.
            It wasn’t that she was nearly nude that bothered him. Several of the guests were wearing less than a tea cozy. He was paralyzed by the sight of her. She still came; her date holding her possessively around the waist. A gruesome monster strolled in the space between the, blocking his view for a moment. Forcing his focus elsewhere, he found himself at the dessert table. Noticing the usual range of high class sweets, he took note of the extravagant rollercoaster cake, surprisingly untouched. For a charity, this was some rather expensive food.
            Hoping to distract himself, he grabbed a small plate and wandered away. His tail was a firm train as he pushed between people and planted himself as the wallflower. With the majority of guests in costume it was tough to determine who was who. All he wanted was someone to talk to, to keep his mind off of her.
            His mind had other plans, continually returning to her. She was currently feigning interest as her date chatted with what he assumed to be fellows. Recognizing them as big rats from The Nutcracker, he smirked, finding that image rather fitting. But as he observed them, his eyes returned to her.
            They had said it was mutual, that this was for the best. It felt like another of her mind-games. A simulation to prove he wasn’t over her; that he needed her so he would be more than just “that guy.”
            He didn’t want to be “that guy.”