Short Story Price Cut

My short story “Where We Go When the Summer Dies” has been reduced to $1.49.  Get it before the price goes back to $3!

Click here to buy on Amazon.



Life really is like an episode of “LOST.”

We’re basically stranded here, on occasion we crash.  We don’t always make the best decisions or we make decisions clearly not in another’s interest.

Some of us end up in wheelchairs, or win the lottery.  Sometimes our kidneys are stolen or we find polar bears randomly in the woods, and then we find an airplane in those same woods with lots of drugs, and if we’re already a junkie at that point then it’s like a jackpot.

You might come across a smoke monster that debates for a few seconds on whether or not it wants to eat you, and it probably does to spite some guy named Jacob.  And speaking of Jacob, you can’t talk to him even if you’re basically the most loyal pet and do everything he asks.  And why can’t you?  What about YOU?  Because…WHAT ABOUT YOU!?

If you’re lucky you’ll know a surgeon who can fix your spine and help you walk again, but he’ll have horrible bedside manner.  Or if you’re unlucky you’ll know a con man, but deep down he’s really a good dude who will split a coffee with you.

Come to think of it, life isn’t like LOST at all.

On Writing In General

When you sit down with an idea, how long does it generally take you to complete?

When you sit down with an idea, in which way do you work?  Is it planned completely or do you create plot points and allow the story to map itself towards those points?  Which part of the process do you love the most?

I’m always curious as to how others write.


It moves so many times, in the darkness.  This thing, some shadow passing the single beam of light that stretches across the top of the stairs.  Without rhythm or reason, it simply passes like a child playing a devilish game.  Fourteen times I counted it.  Fourteen.  Left to right without ever going a way opposite.  But then it changed.  The fifteenth pass, there was no pass.  The beam of light turned black, stayed black.  And when I saw its eyes, I knew it was here to stay.


The Short Story

I can’t help but to wonder why the short story has fallen out of favor with general readers.  Maybe it’s the lack of exposure?  Novels certainly gain much more attention, but even then how much attention does the novel really have anymore?  It seems that each year, someone is publishing a book that takes off and becomes a huge success and is turned to film (Whether the novel is any good is always a matter of discussion), but that’s simply ONE novel out of the thousands put to printed page in the same amount of time.

A lot of the disinterest is almost assuredly because of a narrowing in our attention span.  Things today have to be quick and to the point.  We need our coffee in three minutes or less, our internet browsers loaded immediately.  Our phones better be lightning fast or we toss them for a brand that can deliver.  But again, this brings us back to the short story, a speedy dive into some pool of imagination where characters live, die, win or fail within the context of ten to twenty pages.  When it all boils down, the short story is really what brought us here to begin with.  They are the tales passed through the years, the tales started a thousand ages ago to be in this time today.  So why do we suddenly neglect them?

New Mexico_Crocet

An excerpt

Currently, I am working on a novel.  While it is being labored over, I would like to share a very short excerpt with you, in an effort to sort of get the ball rolling.  A separate short story is also completed and may be posted at a later time while another is in the works.

You could say that this book is about the quest to save one’s humanity and the consequences we face, though at heart it is a simple tale of life circular.  A story of the relationship between man & creature.


“Evil coming,” Birdie whispered to no one in particular and there was no response. He saw the men lift bottles to their faces, saw a shadow run from a home opposite. The Mexicans stopped as one on his animal leaped forward to catch the man or the woman, the child could not know from the shape, and the rider slung his bottle at the back of the shadow’s head.

It let out a faint scream before falling into the dirt. The man jumped from the horse with the half broken slab in his hand and he began stabbing while the screams echoed until the sound had faded, the Mexican kicking at the thing to make sure of its death. He walked to the older and looked down.

“You see my face, old man?” but he neither spoke nor moved.

The Mexican returned to his horse without the slab and he wiped the side of his face with a sleeve before addressing the others.

“Boss says we go back ahead north. Burn everything. Destroy everyone.”

They hollered again and cheered again with loud, foreign tongues and some pranced in circles with bottles once more to their faces while others grinned or reloaded their shooters yet still more cursed and sang tunes inaudible.

“And the boy?” asked another.

“Keep north. All he says,” The Mexican replied. He turned from the group and disappeared as they followed suit until it was silent again and again the child saw upon the earth only fire and hell and smoke that clotted the face of the moon.

Birdie and Floyd took their horses when all had gone though they did not exchange words nor glances. They passed the old man in the street who was black from the night. He did not move. They reached the shadow and stepped over it one after another without the need for setting sight upon it’s soul, the truth in their minds that it was dead and had been dead as they knew others were and would be too. Floyd thought of this place as satanic and it would always be so. He thought of the child and the boy’s life as Birdie spit out into the breeze and Floyd regretted that the child likely would feel the same or that the kid felt the same already, that this was and always would be a pagan ritual, a land of paynims and heathens.

They rode towards Santa Fe, through towns more splintered, more burned, passed others stripped of barbarous roots and villainous stature. Those they saw were beautiful in their colors with strange looks given upon the two whites, all defensive but without confrontation. They had savage eyes, the lot, few black and few emotionless, each crossing into territory unknown but knowing their reasons while perhaps knowing their fate. For moments they are one and the same, human and monster alike, children and men suffering by lack of repentance. They are Godless, all. To survive, it is their way.