Novels
Semper
As beings of impossible might vie for control of all existence, historic grudges between the mortal Viyal, the immortal Irimiae, and all of their creations come to a head. Follow our characters’ journeys as they struggle for power and identity in a complex landscape of spirits, deities, and gods.
Progress and Scope
Semper is an ongoing epic-fantasy project that is projected to be a four-book series of approximately 1 million words. The first draft of the first book has been printed and is currently being proofread and edited, and the three following books have been outlined.
Whispercloak
In a world of perpetual night, where all sources of light have been banned by royal decree, two urchins dream of life in the warm pageantry of the court. If they can only find a way past the monsters guarding the gates.
Progress and Scope
Whispercloak is meant to be a standalone fantasy novel–although not enough has been written to form a proper estimate. The book’s worldbuilding is nearing completion, and an outline of core conflicts, plot points, and character arcs will come next. Whispercloak is expected to be approximately 200,000 words.
As The Heart Slowly Closes
A young man from an oppressed village creates a new religious doctrine that he hopes will create a lasting peace and civility that transcends the lifespan of governance. Millennia later, that religion’s foremost authority struggles to align the restrictive, xenophobic zeitgeist of his powerful caste with the original intent of the religion’s creator.
Progress and Scope
As The Heart Slowly Closes is a realistic fiction novel that offers commentary on the frequent co-opting of radical, populist, idealism by authoritarian and fascist leaders. It is currently still in the narrative-building phase and is expected to be a novel of no more than 100,000 words.
The March Toward Stagnation
In the far future, where all but the heat-death of the universe has been conquered, Shem Nezara is dispatched to investigate the disappearance of a Utopian researcher in the Century Shell. As one of few remaining humans in a vast society of alien species, keeping a low profile proves to be impossible.
Progress and Scope
The March Toward Stagnation is a science-fiction mystery novel that winds through a complicated society of aliens, GAI, and organized crime. As the characters uncover more of the mystery, the audience must deal with the core questions of such an advanced society: What does it mean to be human, what does it mean to be alive, and what is the purpose of any action in a universe that must one day end? The March Toward Stagnation is partway through its worldbuilding phase and has not yet progressed to outlining. It is expected to be a novel of approximately 200,000 words.
Poetry
Silently into the Cold
They thought to make it last forever,
To carry dreams they’d lost,
To bear the weight of time and weather,
Resist the wear and rot.
O, joy that they no longer reached,
Their loss too hard to mask,
Their battered hands and bleeding feet,
Bent all into the task.
At last, they place the final stone,
At last, it is complete,
Protected by a forest sown
Of sweet and fruiting trees.
And though for long it did hold fast,
None can comprehend,
How long forever truly lasts,
After a people’s end.
Ten million years, a mountain range
Appears without a sound,
It towers over what once were plains,
A lesser, lower ground.
The people now are much the same,
But think in different ways.
Coddled by the hearth and flame,
And longer, warmer days.
And so it is, the world betrays
The folk who conquered time.
A rift emerges, intent to claim
That ageless, ancient shrine.
Eons that their work achieved,
By earth is now enwreathed,
With none to know that they should grieve
What slowly sinks beneath.
Into Little Pieces
I wish that I could fall apart…
Into little pieces
Then you’d walk in and take my heart…
Hide it away and keep it
That way I’d know that I’m still yours…
Without the cost of feeling.
Yes, closing all the open doors…
Blue sky replaced with ceiling.
A room with all the paint removed,
A life devoid of color.
Safe from the cold and swings of mood,
No more the warmth of summer.
Squeezing shut these eager eyes,
For fear of all the darkness.
Close up my soul against the cries,
No matter what I might miss.
It’s easier than holding all,
The care I’ve carried with me.
I’ll shake it off and let it fall,
And truly become care-free.
Hollowed out though standing tall,
Just another dead tree.
Yet for all this I’m clinging on,
To my precious memories.
I can’t accept those times are gone,
Forever out of my reach.
Tears on the Face of the Earth
And what do we cry for?
Tears fleeting and fine.
When all that will be will pass in its time.
And what remains is no more
Than a blot on the page,
Or a blur to the words.
Which given due age,
will toil and turn…
to vapor.
So what, then, are we,
The masses, the surf,
But saccharine tears on the face of the earth?
That long to be seen,
Yet show ever softer.
That are destined to be,
But droplets of water,
A smudge or smear…
on paper.
The Tangled, Frayed, and Fraught
I gaze upon my hand, where drape connections I have wrought
The few, the far the in-between the tangled, frayed, and fraught
Those who with my own intent I deliberately severed,
And survivors trailing out of sight who as of yet stay tethered.
Intensity of love is just the thickening of the chord
It wears and snaps so easily when stifled and ignored
And each slack among those strings another debt that’s left unpaid
A reminder of a life and joy I could easily have made.
I wonder who next will tire of me, will snap, will I let go
I’ll toil away in pondering, as it’s impossible to know.
Ghem’s Lament (from Semper)
Whispers in my head
Imagining you’re in my bed,
Wholly hidden beneath the covers
Our hands so close to one another’s
No sum of time could ever clear
This dream of mine that you’re still here
My love who waits around the bend,
A specter, though my dearest friend
The gods I’ve asked, I’ve bribed, beseeched
How do you hold what’s out of reach?
Ghem’s Bar Song (from Semper)
Here I am, pent with a fury no meter can measure.
For contact’ll not soften your hex that voids pleasure.
Three beasts and a pest, a quartet raw with volition,
My great anger, grief, love, and self-inhibition.
When a scream is one syllable, do you know it is stressed?
When it goes on without breath, what stands out from the rest?
When can I look at my life and know it is mine,
and not just the legacy of another’s design?