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Primarily a playwright and poet, I am completing my first novel (YA supernatural post-apocalyptic fantasy) this month. I’m also a homeschool parent, foster parent, and theatre educator. I love video games (sucker for Final Fantasy), blues music, and Mediterranean food.
I write about immortals.
I love good world-building, strong character arcs, and well-paced plots. Some authors I enjoy (not an exhaustive list) include: Neil Gaiman, Maggie Stiefvater, Laini Taylor, Libba Bray, Brandon Sanderson, Philip Pulman, Kiersten White, and Anthony Doerr.
Anything gratuitous, whether sex, violence, or otherwise.
The Winged, glorious and terrifying titans of fire and lightning, descended from the heavens and obliterated mankind. Six billion people died not knowing what they were: aliens; fairies; gargoyles.
Angels.
Determined to find her older brother in Winged-occupied Primum, seventeen-year-old Caelum has spent the last decade in the hellish human stronghold Bastion earning enough trade for passage. But when her life’s savings is stolen, Caelum agrees to take one last high-paying job sneaking three infiltrators through Bastion territories. Caelum soon discovers she and her passengers have more to worry about than border patrol. They are being hunted by the Winged.
Caelum learns one passenger, Will, is the last Nephilim, and she must choose between sacrificing her dream to reunite with her brother and possibly ending the Harrowing once and for all.
People come to the Clearing to get their bearings in an unimaginable world. It’s been my home for the last ten years. Tomorrow I leave it for the last time.
A gust lifts the corner of sheet metal roof on a makeshift shelter. It rumbles like last night’s thunder as it crashes back down onto the boards. The breeze is a reprieve from the humidity but circulates a stench of wet animals and manure. There are also sweet smells: wild garlic in the pasture and roasting flesh of God-knows-what-kind-of-meat impaled upon a grill spit. A new group of outsiders arrived in the night, and the Clearing is abuzz with activity.
My feet sink slightly into the damp earth with each step as I drag my palm along the chicken wire running the length of a refuge. The metal is coarse from a coat of rust, and my fingers bounce up and down as they might read an arcane Braille. For the first time in years, there is silence in my head. I close my eyes. The cattle lows. Dogs bark. Horses nicker. And so many voices.
A thousand voices.
“Excuse me.”
This voice belongs to a person just over boy but not quite man. He’s around my age, with wavy golden brown hair cropped close on the sides. A faint red marking is stamped above his brow in the center of his forehead. A scar, maybe?
He has a bit of hair on his chin I can’t distinguish between a lack of shaving or the careful cultivation of stubble most boys anxiously accept as the consolation prize for enduring puberty.
“Can I help you?” I ask politely. He did say “Excuse me,” after all.
I am plotting a sequel to my current WIP and nearly half way drafting a MOV dystopian sci-fi action story.
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