Love’s Execution

the flower fair in brown mud grows

the candle bright in darkest night

and among the thorn there hides the rose

so love come in with beggar’s might

rags disguise the rays of light


virgin shamed for worldly gain

honor bleeds where lust runs dry

lust the love that seeks to claim

no one hears the heart’s own cry

no one cares that love might die


to take o’ercomes the will to give

progress dresses up the sin

love has lost the will to live

jealousy poisons from within

the tender shoot that might begin


there is no cure for broken heart

with pieces not allowed to fall

the wound that festers from the start

won’t allow the heart to call

consumes the hope in love at all


A love story, part one

A bit of background – these are characters from my soon-to-be-published (hopefully!) novel, The Blood that Binds. It’s a bit of character development that unfortunately will not make it into the final story, but who doesn’t love reading the letters between a young prince and his betrothed – a princess in a far away land?



You were completely wrong about the train – it is so too being built, and when you come to visit I will even take you on a ride on it. Papa says it should be ready by then. So there!

And teacher says that a letter has to be more than three sentances, so I guess I can tell you that my ornithopter is almost ready. It would be ready now except politics and stuff. Papa got busy, and mama won’t let me work on it myself. Honestly, I only passed out once, and that was an accident! My brother can get away with murder, but me?

Oh, I got some new books – there’s even one about all the strange little laws that kind of get forgotten about. Did you know that technically it’s illegal to cross the Sylvan border with a duck on your head? I really want to know why that had to be a law, it seems so silly.

Well, now my hand is cramping, so that’s all you will get out of me this time. Write back soon, because by the time this reaches you I will need something else to read.

Kily, crown princess of the Artificer Empire

p.s. I will also outrank you when we are wed, so there.


Crown Princess Kily Keandra,

I Jace, prince of Sylva, send you greetings. I’m sure there must be more rules for this sort of thing, but I don’t know them. Please don’t be mad.

I wasn’t completely wrong about the train – it was not built by the time we had that argument, so it didn’t exist. I’m not sure riding on it is such a good idea though – runes kind of tend to explode around me. I don’t want to break your train on my first visit.

I like it when you don’t pass out. Well, I like you, and, uh, yeah, just please don’t die, ok? But what is an ornithopter? Can you send me a picture? It sounds interesting. Except I would probably explode that too. Runes don’t like me much.

I’m sending you my favorite book – I hope you like it. I even wrote down some of the stories my mother used to tell – they’re Canyith, so it’s kind of different. If you like them I am sure I can get her to tell me more that I can send you.

And I should probably stop writing before I embarrass myself even more.

Ever yours,



On Space Cats

…because we just need more cats in space. Preferably with jet packs and laser eyes. Just imagine if instead of creepy, tentacled aliens invading, it was baskets of adorable kittens that landed outside of old lady’s houses and from their staged their ultimate invasion? Think about it – they are fed and cared for while plotting the ultimate demise of the planet, all while we go about our lives none the wiser, watching their antics with amusement. Of course those antics are really them adjusting to our different gravity and physics while waiting for their jetpacks to arrive.

And the cat videos – millions of seemingly innocent videos that are slowly encouraging us to see our future feline overlords as benevolent and adorable instead of the bloodthirsty tyrants they are.

And when the real invasion happens, who among us would shoot a basket full of kittens without hesitation? Of course all they need is that one moment of hesitation before they release their laser beams and destroy us utterly.

And this might be the last time I accept a writing dare from my little brother.

Fantasy Cyberpunk test scene

Drey pulled out with a grunt and threw the gold-plated linkup hardware across the room. Meg dove to catch it before the delacate peices hit the ground.

“Cyberspace was not made for dragons,” Drey growled. She snorted, nearly catching some papers in the corner on fire.

“I designed this system, of course it’s made for dragons,” Meg answered. She cradled the headset and reformed a bent wire.

“Then it’s not meant for mages. I’ll have a headache for a week now,” Drey grumbled. She prowled to the corner of the room and flopped down, sprawled across the small space. Meg moved her tattered wing and reconnected the headset, running diagnostics.

“I’ll find more gold at the next swap meet. But did you at least get what we needed?” Meg asked.

“Probably. You go check genious. I had to pull out in a hurry. Spiders.” Drey turcked her head under a wing and glared through the slits.

“Did Gigabyte contact you?” Meg asked.

“No. Too many watchers. You need to redo the portals. Again.” Drey lifted her head as the delecate sound of hoof-steps approached. Meg opened the door and laid a hand on Celeste’s side, guiding her blind friend around the mess of equipment.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Meg said.

“Not anymore. The mission didn’t go so well?” Celeste asked. She rubbed her horn across her foreleg. Drey huffed.

“It didn’t go horribly. Only nothing went right,” Drey said.

Meg rubbed her forehead. “I’ll go in myself in the morning. We need those codes, and I’ll have to erase our trace.”

“I can run back end if Drey is comfortable with the computers,” Celeste said.

“I’d appreciate the backup. Drey?” Meg asked.

“Hey, if the unicorn wants in, I can push a few buttons. Just let me sleep first.” Drey curled up, and was snoring within seconds. Meg rolled her eyes. She’d never seen anyone else fall asleep so fast.

“We will find him,” Celeste laid her head on Meg’s shoulder. Meg reached up and scratched her ears.

“I’m just scared we’ll be too late,” Meg answered.

Squishing Tomatoes

Tomatoes are annoying – they are so soft, you can squirt juice across the kitchen without even trying – but without a sharp knife the darn things refuse to cut. An onion you can muscle to your will with a dull blade, but for tomatoes one wrong move and you have ketchup. Which is great if you wanted ketchup, not so great is you wanted neat slices.

There was a metaphore in there, somewhere. I think it was supposed to be about thick skins and squishy insides, and then somehow relate back to writing, but…

Salsa. A book is like salsa – there are lots of different ways to make it, but nearly every one involves tomatoes.

No, that’s not right either. My favorite salsa is Verde, which uses tomatillos, second cousin to the tomato.

Editing – that was it. You need a sharp knife for editing a novel – no, don’t cut the pages up (although I have literally done that once. Do you have any idea how many paragraphs there are in a 50,000 word manuscript? A lot.) But if you try to brute force your way through editing, you end up with novel ketchup. And then it just turns into a mess and you need to start all over and wash the cutting board…

Well, that was still a very stange and probably ineffective metaphor. I think really I just hate cutting tomatoes.

On Beginnings

The blank white page can be terrifying. Its bright expanse taunts with the promise of perfection – a perfection that can never quite be met in reality. Ideas perfectly formed in thought tend to get lost as they transfer to the page and you are left wondering what happened.

Yet it is better to fill the page with idea half-formed than surrender to the tyranny of the blank page. A blank page paralyzises, but words, however malformed and imprecise, are the tools that transfer thought from one mind to another.

Better to begin and fail then never to begin at all.

On that point – welcome to my blog! Forgive the mess, sometimes to start at all one must start badly.