Category Archives: Short Story



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*Via the magic of 3DS Streetpass and Twitter I’ve managed to secure a paying job writing about videogames. Indeed. You can catch me writing copy over at GamerTell now. I’ll be doing news, previews, reviews, and the occasional feature.

*In a similar vein, I’ve started up clickbliss with a few friends. We’ll be looking to write about games, technology, music, and culture. At the moment the site is still under construction and without content, but we’ve set our Twitter, Facebook, Youtube, and Soundcloud up for action as well. I’ll be acting as editor-in-chief, systems manager, social media editor, as well as doing art and all the techy nonsense. So basically this should prove to be a lot of work. Material will be rolling in soon.

*I’m working on two tarot based projects in my spare time:
-One is a card game that I’m the process of fleshing out the rules to. After there is a solid foundation I hope to create some cards and playtest it.
-The other is a set of stories titled THE FORTUNE TELLER which revolve around a lot of mythological elements. While I initially intended to write it as a set of poems in the style of “From the Mouth of the Stars” the plot and backstories are starting to become detailed to the point where I’m considering writing it instead a set of stylized short stories. So far there are many moons, civilizations rising and falling, nymphs, the world tree and all manner of nonsense going on.

That’s all for now. I’ll be hoping to be updating this with more detailed progress reports and previews of my work, and perhaps some more art or comics soon.
As always you can look for me on all the nonsense social media channels, which are also annoyingly attached to the sidebar on the right there.


I can never hurt him. I throw my fists at him, kick him, swear and yell until my chest is stinging with sharp agony. Nothing. He stands and laughs in the haze of half memory, looking down upon me. His arms are against my shoulders, knees to my legs and his body pinning down mine. I’m slip my shoulder. I ‘m going to take my swing. One last ti–

“GODDAMMITTHATFUCKINHURT!” I wake up sitting straight up in bed, fist outstretched, shoulder hot with anger and pain. Cass is straddling me, face turned away, hands grasping at her jaw trying to contain the pain. “Damn, V. You could have just told me you didn’t want to get up.” She turns back to me and her expression softens. “Having the dream again?”

“I think so. But who knows, maybe my body was just reacting to you trying to rape me.” She smirks at me and I grab her wrists and twist her under me. “Shame on you, trying to take advantage of a girl while she sleeps. I think maybe I should show you what it feels like.” She mockingly mouths horror at the idea before slipping out of my grip, collapsing me on my side and punching me in the boob as she rolls out of bed.

“Nice try, Evangeline, but last time I checked you didn’t have the equipment, or the balls to do it.”

She slips into the hall and I give chase, following her to the kitchen where breakfast is have laid on the table. “Neutral ground!” she sputters from the other side.


I pin her between my arms against the counter, rattling the sugar jar as I press my forehead against her and lock my gaze onto her sky blue eyes.

“If you two are going to waste my effort making your mornings incredible, at least behave yourself for a moment so I can get some sugar for my tea, yeah?”

Cass peeks out from behind me as I turn my head to see Jean steeping a bag of earl gray with a look of amusement. He moves to grab the sugar jar behind us but Cass intercepts him, hopping back onto the counter while simultaneously moving her arm into his way then wrapping her legs around me to ensure I can’t clear his path. Jean I exchange looks and she moves in for the kill, nibbling at his neck. He clamps her down between his neck and shoulder before moving away. “Sweet,” he remarks before smirking and raising his hand to reveal a sugar cube, then plopping it into his tea and taking a long, exaggerate sip. “Now let’s eat, hmm?”

We sit down, with Cass serving up the dishes while forcing me back to my seat while I try to help.
“Cass, I’ve been living her for a half year already. You don’t need to keep treating me like a guest.”
“Maybe I like spoiling you. Ever think of that?”

She makes sure to lay down heaps of bacon and waffles in front of me.

“You seriously think I’m going to eat all of this?”

“You can certainly afford to,” she sneers, pinching my arm. “You’re skin and bones.”

“Maybe my frame can take it, but my poor heart won’t.”

She leans in and sets her hand on my chest. “I’ll just have to be sure to give it a tough workout.” My heart jumps. A playful look flickers from her eyes and into the golden light reflecting off her hair. I can’t help but glance down her shirt at her breasts. She catches me and I blush.

Continue reading TWENTY ONE.

twenty one years, three months.

Over three months ago, before my  twenty second birthday, I came up with an idea for a story that dealt with some subjects I keep a bit close to my heart.

Initially, I wanted to create something full of dialogue in order to work on what I perceive to be a weakness of mine. In order to this I needed to populate the story with a few characters to interact with each other, as opposed to the more introspective or intimate character dramas I tend to focus on. As I created these characters and their situations I started to veer towards topics in my subconscious, bringing them out consciously to create a subtext to the story that I didn’t initially set out to create. The end result is a story focusing on a twenty one year old girl, her unorthodox living situation, and her interactions with the people around her. I specifically wrote the character from a female point of view because I’ve always felt uncomfortable doing so. That said, I didn’t want to simply write a character and make then slap her gender on. I didn’t want to create a story that focused entirely on the aspect of her either. What I wanted was simply to create a story with a dialogue around the character that would also give some insight into what it was like to live as her.

I eschewed a lot of the more detailed and poetic language that I typically use as well. It felt unnatural to do so if I was speaking from a character’s point of view. I used simple descriptions of actions, attempting to make them as direct as I could, and left out statements that I felt gave to much insight into a character’s mind or state instead opting to attempt to make that clear through the dialogue. While I’m unsure if I was able to create an illusion of personality for each character, the end result does feel much more eventful and interactive than my typical work.

The full version should be up within the day, or the next.

sweet child.

What people forget is that children are cruel. Openly, undeniably, and wrathfully cruel. We treat them as innocent, honest, and open-hearted little things to protect. What we forget is that size aside, what really sets them apart from us is that they are simply naive.

In grade school I remember how they would make fun of him. A boy who memory tells me was Bosnian or some such, with two of his fingers cut off into stumps at the halfway point. It didn’t matter why. It didn’t matter if some cruel bastard had cut them off, if some accident had taken them, or some war brought him to that state. All it matter was that he was missing something, and that made him different, that made him unacceptable. He’d often throw in with an Indian kid in the class, stick up for him. A scrawny, near silent kid with a greasy patch of hair on one of his arms that he’d be tormented for. I don’t think I have any memories of him ever talking, but Bosnia made sure to stick up for him instead. They had to stick together to survive, because they were different. Everyone laughed at them, but now those two are one of the few that I’ve bothered to even remember. Continue reading sweet child.

a story in three acts.


I am at the radio station waiting for the DJ to finish his set. A big time personality, listeners love him for his charisma and practiced speaking style. He’s not quite as big as the other DJs, on the account of him missing out on the big promotional events for the station. He’s still undeniably better than the rest of them however. I’m nervous.

The radio in the meeting room is naturally turned to the stations channel. I hear him expertly fade out of the last pop love song and transitions into the latest single by an up and coming independent band. It’s a bit less accessible lyrically than most of the music the station plays but it’s catchy melodies and pop flavored beats captured an audience despite that. Most people I’ve met agree that he’s likely the reason the song’s had this much exposure. Some even tell me that he might have made the band with it.

The song ends and I hear him fade out and say his goodbyes once again to his audience. Despite being on the air for years he somehow seems to find a way to make every intro and outro feel personal. The door opens. I stand up to greet him. He stares past me, not noticing me. He almost walks right past me. I speak up. “Sir, I…?”

He turns to me. “Ah, I didn’t notice you there,” he remarks, “which is impressive I suppose, considering how keen I am to the people around me.” His eyes are a glassy steel blue. His hair is a mangled mess of curls, his lips pale against his speckled dark skin. He’s dressed in a casual white button up and blue jeans. Plain, very plain.

He chuckles. “You’ll have to forgive me for ignoring you. You have my full attention now.”

“Yes, I um—what I mean to say that I’ve been hired to be your new assistant.”

“Fantastic! Let’s do lunch and get to know each other then, shall we?”

His gaze is unnerving, his eye contact is off.

“Yes sir.”

“No need to be so formal, my boy. Now, could you show me to the door?”


We do lunch. I placed I picked a across the street a block away. Sandwiches and panini. This is more agency than I’ve generally been trusted to have. We talk.

“Now, if you’re to be my assistant I’m going to be trusting you with a lot of decisions, but considering you found this great place on the first day of the job I think you’ll be be a fine fit.”

“With all do respect, the place is right across the street. I mean you walk out the door and it’s right in front of your–”

I stop. Horrified. A moment, then he laughs a deep, hearty laugh.

“You meant to say it’s right in front of my face? Don’t be shy, boy. It’s no fun if you can’t make a few jokes at my expense.”

I sulk for a bit. Despite his good humor I still feel like an inconsiderate idiot.

“Let me tell you something,” he starts to speak again, his voice immediately grabbing my attention, “ all my previous assistants, they’d always go out of their way to please me. Drive me halfway across the city for a meal at some restaurant they’d heard had great ambiance or some incredible dish. You? You took me right across the street for a damn sandwich!”

“I’m sorry, I–”

“Don’t apologize! See, this is exactly what I want. An unpretentious, easy food. Grab the damn thing and maybe dip it into some sauce and take a bite. No need to worry about table manners or dressing up for the occasion.”

He goes quiet for a moment, then takes a large bite of his sandwich.

“Despite having both their eyes working, none of those others could ever see it. I’m just happy to be a person, sitting here and enjoying a meal. It’s that simple.”

Continue reading a story in three acts.


Originally written for the Destructoid community. You can find and comment on the original post over here: DRIVE. OUTRUN.

“How far are you going to take me?” my girlfriend asks, brushing her blond hair to the side as the wind whips it back. I give no answer, but turn my eyes back to the road, its asphalt arteries flowing to the vanishing point of my vision. I’m not sure where I’m going, or why. An overpowering wanderlust consumed me, and I found myself on the highway, with no consideration to her. The formations of the canyon rise from the horizon, their storied cliff faces a tepid rust colored blur in my the periphery of my vision. Dry heat and sunlight trace the curves of my Enzo as I weave in and out of the slipstreams of the vehicles ahead, pushing the meter past 250 km/h. An ‘89 recording of “Who Are You?” blares out of the stereo, the Enzo’s engine humming along.

I spot another Ferrari down the road, an old rival. Catching his slipstream I match his pace and give him a sly wink over my girlfriend’s shoulder, then shift down, lean in the Enzo and hear the tires squeal as I cruise sideways through the hairpin curves. We match each other through the turn; I pull up close enough to catch his expression, then give him a smirk and a salute as I right the wheels, shift up and leave him behind. My girlfriend pumps her fist in delight. It’s a hollow gesture, a move that meant more in my early days, back when I was first taking my dad’s sunlight yellow Dino 246 GTS for joyrides at the streetraces to earn my own ride and impress the like of Clarissa and Jennifer. Now here I am, girl at my side, driving cross country.

As we approach the next checkpoint I can feel dread creeping upon me, as if a countdown were nearing its final moments. A brisk afternoon chill cuts through, washing away the feeling. The horizon gives way to snow saturated mountain paths. I pull my jacket tight as I overtake the next curve, my girlfriend leaning into my shoulder.

Minutes, or maybe hours later, we begin to approach the outer limits of the space station launch pad, another checkpoint down the bend. As the road straightens out a convoy of trucks emerges just from the edges of my sight. The Enzo chokes as I release the gas and drop the brake, sending the car into a spiralling course between the trucks and right towards the concrete barriers of the highway.

I jerk the wheel away, but not far enough to keep us from colliding with the wall, upheaving the vehicle and torpedoing us through the air. The car lands upright with a sputtering of the engine, the anthemic “Who Are You?” still blaring. “Are you going to give up?” my girlfriend shouts at me as I shift the gears back to first in an attempt to crawl towards the next point. Night has come down on us and the distant ambiance of the city points skyward to a star-filled sky, streaked with meteors. I can feel what I’ve been trying to outrun creep upon me and the Enzo stutters forward.

4… 3… 2…