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

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.