Musings 1: Notebooks

Welcome to the first of my musings. These will be posted regularly alongside my short stories. I encourage all readers to let me know their opinions on every topic, because that is all these are: my opinion.

Notebooks. In the writer’s community, beautiful notebooks are seen as these holy objects, to be collected and then never touched. Whether you write by hand or on a computer, chances are you have a collection of cool-looking notebooks from Target or WalMart or gifts from friends.

It is a very well known unofficial rule of writing that we are not to mar the pristine pages of these tomes with our unworthy pens. And so they sit, countless pages on countless shelves in countless rooms. Untouched. Unused.

So here I confess a secret. I have broken this rule. I have committed the ultimate sin by bringing my pen to paper inside the faux-leather cover I spent twelve hard-earned dollars on. And not only will I continue my heathen ways, I hereby encourage every writer of every age and skill level to do the same. Gather closer, dear reader, and I will tell you my secrets.

This rule that we writers follow stems from our own insecurities. We don’t want to Ruin the beautiful notebook with our half-baked plots and unoriginal characters. We don’t want to risk leaving it half-filled and forgotten. We want to save it for the Perfect Story that will come in some far-off era, when we have transcended human error and can write a perfect novel in its first draft.

This line of thinking is absolute trash.

There will never be a perfect moment, a perfect story. Waiting for one will only end in dusty notebooks. I am of the opinion that it is far more heinous to deprive the notebook of its purpose, and is, in my opinion, the highest form of reverence.

More than that, the simple act of allowing yourself to use the notebooks you pined over in the stationary aisle is in itself a divine experience. Pulling each one from the shelf to determine which one fits your story, which one matches the elegant setting, or the rugged, sarcastic main character. This is what the notebooks are for. Using your hoard turns the very act of writing into an even more wonderful thing. And your writing, however crude or amateur, deserves a beautiful home. You are adding to its magic, not defiling something sacred.

Yes, the notebook may end up torn and bruised and full of writing you never want to be seen by another pair of eyes. But you have made it yours. You have unapologetically made your mark on the world, and that is commendable. To write is to put a piece of yourself on the page. Such an act deserves the gift of beauty.

Do not worry about the story within being complete, or perfect, or even legible. This tome is yours, to share or hide or tear. Do not limit it to a single story if you think that will leave it unfilled. Break the rules. Burn them, scatter them, and build something new. This is what we do when we write. To trap ourselves with arbitrary laws that protect no one is to go against our purpose as writers.

I leave you with this: it is not a sin, not blasphemy, to use your notebook hoard. It is not irreverent. If notebooks are holy, they are only that because of the beauty they will eventually hold.

To Breathe

Inspired by Leigh Bardugo’s Language of Thorns. Written 31 July 2020

She knew, as all children did, that toys could will themselves alive in a way a child’s imagination couldn’t. True, the dreams of a child filled their chests with air, brought movement to their stiff limbs and opened their painted mouths. But a child cannot give their toys a will of its own, only impose theirs upon it.

Her aunt told her of the little soldier she had loved in her youth, who had willed himself alive and, in time, outgrew her. She told the story wistfully, like she still loved the soldier, but did not begrudge him his freedom. Armed with her aunt’s story, she promised herself to never will her toys to love her.

Many children lose the power to wake their toys as they grow. They forget the breath they once willed into dolls and trains and plush bears, and so they forget how. She did not. Her aunt was there to remind her.

She kept a small handful of toys, ones she thought might someday wish themselves alive. She wondered if her will would help or harm their chances.

It was a cold night when she awoke before the sunrise. Her window was cracked open, and the wind cut through her blankets. Having woke from restless dreaming, she rose, shivering, and crossed the smooth wooden floor to close the window. Her room was illuminated dimly by the moon, draining the color from the world and softening all its edges. As she did on all such nights, she pulled the dolls from the shelf above her bed, and, one by one, sat them in her lap and asked them questions in a low whisper.

“Are you awake?” she asked the thin dancer in a pale pink gown and silver corset.

“I am,” the doll replied softly.

“Are you a dancer?” she prodded.

“For now.”

She sighed. “Will you dance with me?” The doll grew to a head above the girl, and twirled her around a pale pink ballroom filled with the dancer’s sisters, each of whom arrived as she thought their names.

Soon, though, her will shrank, and she was in her room once more, holding the doll in her lap. Returning the doll to its place on her shelf, she turned her attention to the soldier her aunt had given her on her birthday, the same day she first told the story of her own soldier.

“Are you awake?” she asked.

He arose and saluted. “Risen and ready, my lady. What are your orders?”

“Do you have a name, general?” at the question, he lost a little of the life in his eyes, his features returning to brushstrokes.

“You know me, my lady.” he said.

“You may return to your post, general.” she replied, lacking the will to invent a battle for him to fight.

“Are you awake?” she asked the little horse. It whinnied and let her ride it through the stars, but when she loosened her will, it shrank into her lap once more

Her eyes pricked as she cradled her oldest toy in her lap. Once, he had been a bright and perfectly painted boy, smiling with mischief and floating on mechanical wings. But the paint had chipped, the wings dented, and his smile was barely visible. Still, his wings fluttered and his coat shone earthy green when she asked, “Are you awake?”

“I am here, Yana.” he said.

“You remember my name.” she said with a soft smile.

“Yes.” he said.

“Do you know your name?” she whispered.

His head tilted as he thought. “You called me Theo first. Then Rainer. Once, you said I was Prince Wesley.”

“Are any of those your name?” she asked, pushing down her hope.

Confusion crossed his pointed face. “They are when you say they are.”

“And when I am gone?” her fists balled in her nightgown. The window latch fell open, and a breeze made the pair of them shiver.

“When you are gone,” he paused. She held her breath. “When you are gone, I am smaller. It is… Harder to move. And I miss you.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“I’m not sure. It is… Brighter with you.” he shook his head. “No, that’s not right. You only come when it is dark outside.”

“Is it because I help you breathe?” she asked, wilting.

“No,” he answered. “I breathe without you.”

She started. “You do?”

He shivered again, and crossed the room to close the window. He walked lightly, practically floating, and she noted the small scales that covered his spine. “It is cold tonight.” she nodded. “You have not called on me for some time.” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t see me move.”

Her head snapped up. “When did you move?”

“I have left the shelf every night since you lost your book downstairs.”

“Where did you go?” he stepped in front of her, and mirrored her position on the floor.

“I went to find your book, at first. It was behind a chair.”

“And after you found it?” she leaned closer to him.

“I explored. I was… small, at first. I didn’t leave the house. But when I could be tall without you, I went into town. I flew above it, at first. I thought being seen would make me shrink again. I watched the festival from your roof. The night after that, I hid my wings and went to the night market.”

He continued, telling her of each of his adventures spent away from her shelf, until morning light brought color back to her room, and hardened the edges.

“Why did you come back?” she asked, looking at him with awe.

“I missed you.” he said simply.


In answer, he stood and pulled her up, wrapping his arms about her waist and fluttering upwards. “Of all the people I met those nights outside the shelf, I found I still wanted to experience things with you.”

I wanted, he said. Her aunt had told her that those were the words that brought will to a toy. I want. It was what children used to wake their toys, and, every once in a while, what a toy used to wake themselves.

She smiled. Grinned. Laughed. He spun her, not in a ballroom or a barrack or among the stars, but in the small, cramped space of her bedroom, above the row of unasked toys still on her floor. And when they finally set their bare feet on her wood floor, he pressed his lips to hers, in an act so unexpected she knew that it had been his will and not hers that made him do it.

“I love you.” he said, taking her hands in his. His fingers were long and thin and pale, and she pressed them to her lips in answer.

“What is your name?” she asked, and he grinned.

“I don’t know yet, but we can find out together.”

Frozen Folk

Prompt: Their home was cold, their hearts were winter, and they spoke in frost. Written 24 May 2020

The child walked up the steps to the large home. He shivered. Elsewhere, it was early summer, but here, winter ruled. It was their way. Their home was cold, their hearts were winter, and they spoke in frost. And he needed them.

Clenching his jaw to stop the chattering, he lifted his fist and gave two loud knocks. The door swung open and he stepped inside.

Everything was covered in ice. Even the fire crackling in the fireplace exhaled snowflakes, glowing blue. The surprising part, however, was not the ice. It was that the building was empty.

He entered cautiously, an apology ready on his tongue. But no one came to scold the intruder, even when he walked through the kitchen.

He wandered through bedrooms and studies, walked the library and the dining room, but the building seemed deserted.

When he found the throne room abandoned, he yelled. He screamed and swore at the frozen folk, who left at the worst possible time. He urged them to come teach him a lesson, and threatened to place himself on the throne.

At this, the air stilled and true silence fell. Nothing rustled, whined, or scraped. He stopped. Turned a circle around the room. Took a step toward the door.

Then came a high, trilling whistle, and a breeze pushed him back towards the throne. Now he noticed a staff leaning against the back of the throne. Prodded by more wind, he walked up to it. The whistling turned into a light melody, and it led him still closer. The music flooded his mind, drowning out his thoughts, and he reached for the staff. He took it in his hand, and was flooded with cold. It froze his veins, frosted his eyes, and drained him of color. His vision went white, then black.

When he woke, he was surrounded by the ones he had been looking for. They crowded the room, kneeling to him.

“You have passed the test and proven yourself.” said one, who he found he knew to be the source of the whistling. “Welcome home, my king.”

At his words, the boy shuddered, and saw the lives of kings and queens before him. His quest was wiped from his mind and he held his head high.

The Matchmaker

This story does not have a prompt, but was inspired by the matchmaker scene in Disney’s animated Mulan. Written 9 June 2020

She sat quietly as her mother combed her hair and her sister painted her face.

“Don’t be nervous. The matchmaker is fair.” said her mother. “She isn’t cruel.”

“She’s quite judgmental.” her sister noted.

“That is her job, isn’t it?” she replied. Her sister giggled.

“She has to be, dear. If the men are unhappy with the match, it affects her livelihood.” their mother said. The girls looked at each other and shrugged.

Her mother and sister finished at the same time, and she stood. She was given a beaded necklace and a carved belt to pull her robes in at the waist. The many layers trailed behind her, and her mother gathered them up to keep them clean as they walked outside to the waiting carriage. She hugged her mother and sister, then stepped into the matchmaker’s carriage.

She said nothing during the ride, and only broke her silence to thank the servants who helped her out of the carriage. They led her to the matchmaker, who was sitting cross legged at a low table. She was a wiry woman, wearing layers of light fabric in muted colors. Her eyes made their way slowly up her gown and over her painted face.

“Sit, child.” The matchmaker beckoned in a reedy voice. She was careful to keep her back straight as she gently arranged her skirt under her. “Tea, please. For myself and you. Milk, no sugar.”

She obeyed, pouring the tea and leaving her own unaltered.

“No sugar?” asked the matchmaker.

“I prefer to taste it plain first.” she replied, taking a sip.

The matchmaker seemed pleased. “What sort of husband do you wish for?” she asked.

She started. She had been under the impression that she had no choice in the matter. “I merely wish to please my family.” she said.

“A diplomatic answer.” she mused. “Do you fear me, child?”

“I think I would be a fool to not be nervous.”

“You seek to impress me.”

“I seek a good match, nothing more.”

The matchmaker nodded. “Are you aware of anyone wishing to court you?” She held out her cup, and the girl poured her more tea.

“No, madam.”

“Are you practiced in magic?”

“Small charms and enchantments, madam.”

“You sew and cook?”

“Often, madam.”

The questioning continued, all the while she served the matchmaker, keeping her hands in her lap at all other times.

Eventually the matchmaker stood. “We are done. You will be sent home in my carriage.”

She stood as well, bowing to the matchmaker before turning to leave.

At home, she was pressed for details over dinner, and she did her best to sate their curiosity. She and her sister cleaned up after the meal, and when that was done, she told her sister she was going for a walk in the garden square.

“Don’t be too late!” her sister called after her.

She skirted the well tended labyrinth and made her way to the edge of the forest as the sun began to set. She squeezed through dense brush into a hidden clearing, where a broad man waited, pacing. He rushed to her as she entered.

“You went to the matchmaker today.” He said as he embraced her.

“I did.”

“Did you tell her?” he asked.

“I told her I knew of no one wishing to court me.” he smiled.

“And your preference of husband?” he prodded.

She put on a sickly sweet face and said demurely, “Merely one that will please my family.”

He grinned. “It is a good match.” he assured her.

Her smile wavered. “And if it doesn’t work?”

He took her hand. “No matter what happens, I will come for you, my love.” They embraced once more, and she hurried out of the clearing to get home.

The Pirate

Prompt: “It’s going to be so awkward”//”Just find a hot pirate to hit on to pass the time” Written 20 February 2019 Note: This short story is not one of my preferred works, but I felt I should include it anyways so that I could get your feedback, and know how I can improve.

“Ok, I’ve got to go in and make this deal alone. I need you to stay here until I’m done.” he said, pulling his bag off his shoulder. I slumped.

“So I have to sit here and mingle with shady looking strangers? It’s going to be so awkward.” I complained, grabbing his arm.

He laughed. “You’ll be fine. Just find a hot pirate to hit on to pass the time.” he pulled out of my grip and walked inside.

Huffily, I muttered “It’s only fun to flirt when it’s with you.” But I sat down next to an adventurous looking fellow, and altered my posture to seem more inviting.

The man looked me over and smiled. “Quite the partner you have there.” he said. “How’d he end up traveling with someone like you?”

I eyed him quizzically. “Why don’t you use your imagination?” his encouraged look wasn’t nearly as fun as Seren’s gentlemanly blush, but I continued. “Anyways, what brings you to this oh-so-mysterious establishment?”

He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Selling stolen valuables.” I laughed.

“Well, that’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Places like this aren’t where you share secrets, love.” he replied.

“And where does one share secrets, good sir?” I asked, bringing my face closer to his.

“Come with me and I just might show you.”

I feigned offense. “Sir, I am a lady.” I whispered loudly.

“And I am a pirate.” he grinned.

The City that Forgot

Prompt: By noon, the flowers had reached her knees. Written 9 July 2020

Everyone is warned to avoid the attention of the Fair Folk. They are volatile, fickle, and nigh impossible to understand. And they don’t like being seen without permission. If you are born with the Sight, you must live carefully or risk being blinded. Only fools and heroes seek to gain the Sight, risking far more than their eyes in the process.
Women and children are especially at risk of being taken, and are thus usually kept within the town or otherwise escorted and protected.
But these are rules long forgotten in the town where our tale is set. The town has sprawled into a city, and is surrounded not by the forest home of the Folk, but by wide, open meadows on which one can see for miles. Those who remember believe themselves safe here. They are wrong.
It is now that I direct your attention to a girl of no consequence. Her name is not ours to know, nor her age, nor her family status. She leaves the city at midmorning, unchaperoned, and with little more than a basket for picking flowers and herbs. The sky is clear, the sun is bright, and the morning dew has dried. These are not unusual details. In fact, this is not an unusual journey in any aspect save one.
Our Girl of No Consequence has been instructed many times to travel as far as necessary to gather the proper specimens. Today, though, she finds they are harder to find. By the time she finds her elusive quarry, she has left the city so far behind she can hardly see it on the horizon. She does not note this, or fear it, as she has not learned to do so. She also does not note the gathering mists that pull at her steps, or the stalks that follow her path as they would the sun’s.
The flowers reach for her, gradually, and this she almost sees, but decides it must be a trick of the light.
When the pipe’s music bounces softly along the wind, she hums over it without a thought.
By noon, the flowers had reached her knees, and she struggles to pull free of their grasp. She sees, all at once, what she had not cared to notice before, and the pipe’s tune grows frantic. Her heart speeds its tempo to match and she tries to pull free still. She is held fast by mist and magic.
When a figure appears on the horizon, she calls out, not seeing he had come from the opposite direction of the city she once called home.
He gets closer, and now she can see the pipes pressed to his lips and he smiles. Everything in her shrinks back from his pointy smile even as she is pulled toward the music. His stride is steady, even, and slow, yet he reaches her in only a moment, warping space and time to turn miles into steps.
She trembles as he reaches her, so close his pipes nearly touch her chin. The flowers loose their grip, but the music holds her fast. His playing jumps and spirals, rises and falls like the breath of a living thing. Her mind fogs and spins.
He is handsome, she sees. His teeth are not monstrous but beautiful. His hair is light and airy like soft down feathers, and she longs to run her fingers through it. His eyes are the color of the meadow she stands in, and they are beautiful. She reaches her arms out to embrace him.
As I said before, this girl is of no import. Her name is not remembered, nor her family.
And so, being a Girl of No Consequence, there is no prince or knight or sorcerer to ride in from the horizon and save her as the beautiful stranger sinks his sharp teeth into her neck and feeds until he is sated. What is left of her he gives to the flowers for their aid, and he leaves to tell his brethren of the city that Forgot. For those who are not armed with the rules are easy prey. 

The Emperor’s Bride

I did not use a prompt for this short story. It was initially a concept for a longer work. Feel free to ask me any questions if any part of it confuses you. Written 25 December 2019

Teagan sat in front of her mirror, one servant braiding back her hair, another brushing pigments on her face. She took several deep breaths in an effort to steady her nerves. Her engagement to Emperor Anselm would be officially announced at the start of the ball that night, and so she must be dressed accordingly. Her gown was comprised of two main layers: a split tunic that reached her ankles, and a circle skirt, both made of rippling pale silver silk, the skirt painted with so many different flowers Teagan thought it must be an entire garden’s worth. His Majesty the emperor would be wearing white and gold, she knew.

Another servant entered, holding a small box. “My lady, His Majesty sent you these, requesting that you wear them tonight.” Teagan waved her over and opened the box. She gasped.

It was a full set of moonstone jewelry, set in white silver. There was an armband shaped like a coiled dragon, a choker necklace, an anklet, and a delicately braided circlet. “These must cost a fortune. I’m nearly afraid to put them on.”

“I assure you they are quite durable.” came a voice from the doorway. “May I come in?”

“Of course, my liege. I am perfectly decent, if you would excuse my bare feet and unfinished hair.” Teagan replied.

The emperor stepped in wearing robes even finer than Teagan had previously seen him in. The white was almost creamy, pure and seemingly soft as down. The gold that rimmed the sleeves, hem, neck and opening flowed like liquid. His feet were also bare, the jewel-encrusted slippers dangling from his right hand. The robe hung open and left his chest bare. Teagan turned back to the mirror and bid the servants continue their work.

“I don’t suppose you plan to tie that robe for the ball tonight?” she asked, and one of ther servants struggled to hide a smile.

“Would it bother you if I left it open all night?” he replied with a boyish grin.

“Well, I do believe your courtiers would have a fit. Maiden Sasha might just faint.” The sevant coughed to hide a snicker.

“I suppose you’re right. Will you wear them?” he closed his robe and gestured to the box.

“Of course. They’re exquisite.” she said. lifting the armband. The servant finished her hair and moved to help with the jewelry, but the emperor stopped them.

“You’ve done wonderfully, ladies. May I take over from here?” the women curtsied low and left without a word. He took the armband from Teagan, a strange, soft look in his eyes.

“I can do it myself, Your Majesty.” Teagan protested.

“Yes, you can. But I wished to have a quiet moment with you before we went in.” he explained. Teagan nodded and offered her arm. He slipped the band on, then the anklet, the choker, and finally the circlet. “I will go in first, after the guests have entered. Then I will announce my engagement, and you will enter. From then on, you will be at my side unless I am needed where you are not.” she nodded, and they stepped into their shoes.

They walked down the hall together until they reached the ballroom. Emperor Anselm gave her hand a squeeze before letting go and stepping inside. Teagan heard the music die down and the emperor start his speech.

“As I am sure everyone here is aware, I have been searching for a Maiden to make my wife and consort. It is with great joy that I may now announce that I have ended my search. My trusted court, I present to you my future bride, former Maiden, Lady Teagan.” She stepped out, curtsying to the emperor, then facing the now-applauding audience. She nearly jumped when he intertwined their fingers.

Emperor Anselm led her down the steps, and the music started up again. They danced until she forgot her nerves, and when they stopped, the Maidens were the first to flock to her, flooding her with questions and congratulations.

“Will you do one more dance with us, Teagan?” Maiden Sasha asked. The others took up the cry and she relented with a laugh. They made a circle on the dance floor and Teagan melted into the music, noting how much she would miss dancing with the Maidens.

The Reed Pipes

Prompt: “The marshes stank of rot and old magic, smothered beneath the fresh scent of spring Written 20 January 2020

She hadn’t wanted to go to the marsh today. It was misty and that meant that the Fair Ones would be watching her. But her mother needed the herbs, and so Asura took her basket and her sturdiest pair of boots and hiked through the forest to the marshes. They stank of rot and old magic, smothered beneath the fresh scent of spring.

Her boots squelched, and she moved ahead slowly, turning to either side to check for prying eyes. The hem of her skirts were damp and muddy, and she huffed as her hair fell in her face. Still, she crouched in the muddy water and felt around for the roots she needed.

There were few flowers in the marsh, and even less color. Everything was muted browns and greens, turned gray by the mist. But she felt the magic, like an old man breathing down her neck.

Her task was half done when she heard the reed pipes. They whistled hauntingly, begging her to follow them to their source, dancing across the water carelessly. She froze.

“I am terribly sorry if I have offended you.” she called. “My mother is the village herbalist, and she sent me to gather roots for her work. I will leave if you wish me to.”

There came no answer besides the sound of the pipes, which had become more insistent.

“I cannot follow you into Elphane, Good Neighbor. I am needed here.” A soft trill followed her statement. She hesitated. “I trust you not to hex or enchant me, and to let me return to my village before the week is out. Do you agree to my terms” The music bounced around her happily. “Alright then. I come with the understanding that I have been invited, and am thus under the protection of hospitality.” she stopped to set down the basket, then lifted her skirt and trudged onwards.

When she entered a copse of trees on firmer ground, she felt the gaze of many and the weight of old magic around her. The air smelled of damp soil and dying roses. With a deep breath she brushed off her skirt and unlaced her her boots, tying them to her belt. The ground was soft and mossy, and she found no discomfort in walking barefoot. Still the sound of the pipes pulled her along, and she found herself wanting to dance the rest of the way.

Her journey ended at the bottom of a waterfall, where a slender man with pale hair and bluish skin sat on a boulder, playing the music that had led her in. His eyes were closed, his expression serene. Asura found herself wondering what his lips would feel like against her skin.

He seemed to register her presence as soon as the thought crossed her mind. His eyes opened unhurriedly, and a kind smile warmed his face.

The fairy boy wore a tunic and breeches the color of wet pebbles. His feet were bare, and one foot stretched lazily into the water. “You are a wise one, girl. How did you learn to interpret my music?” he asked, with the look of a cat napping in the sun.

“Your intent was clear, my lord.” she replied.

“Your faith was the intent behind my music? Could it not have deceived you?” she shrugged.

“The Fair Folk are not capable of lying, and even human music is the most honest representation of one’s spirit. You mean me no harm, I could hear it.” she said.

He tilted his head. “You believe I am no danger to you?”

“Not yet.” she said, smiling.

He laughed, a high, trilling laugh that vibrated across the forest. “Come sit with me, girl. I called you here for company. You will lose no time from your realm while you are here.”

A Changeling’s Sister

Prompt: she felt the weight of the world on her shoulders, and the weight of her sister in her arms. [written 29 September 2019]

“Evie!” she screamed, stumbling as she ran to her sister’s side. When she reached her, she fell to her knees, cradling her head in her arms. “No, no, no! You’re gonna be okay, Evelyn. I’m gonna get you home.”

“Cadence.” said the voice in her head. “Cadence, can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” she croaked. “I can hear you, Toby.”

“What happened?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” she sobbed. “One minute I’m fighting, the next Evelyn is on the ground.”

“Can you get her out of there safely?” She looked around. The only enemy left in the clearing was Mordecai, the one who’d been attacking her before Evelyn stepped between them. Cadence tried to tamp down her fury, but the air still crackled with heat around her, and her eyes blazed white.

Mordecai took a hesitant step towards them. “I… I didn’t mean to… She jumped in front of me. Is she..?” he stuttered.

She shot him a glare. “What did you do to her?”

“I don’t know. It was meant for you, to bind your magic. This shouldn’t be happening.

She ignored him, carefully picking up Evelyn as she stood. “She’s a changeling, you bastard. Her entire life force is her magic.” she growled. “And if you ever come near her again I swear on everything sacred in this world that I will kill you.”

“Cadence” Toby warned.

“I understand.” Mordecai said, head low. “Go. Take her home.”

The fire in her eyes dimmed a little, and she nodded at him. “Mordecai.” His head lifted hesitantly. “If you ever cared for either of us, I won’t see you on the battlefield again.”

She walked away, with the weight of the world on her shoulders, and the weight of her sister in her arms.


Welcome to Pen Name Not Found, home of daydreams and flights of fancy. Before we get into the fun stuff, I think some introductions are in order.

There is magic in a story. Joining the characters on their adventures is exciting, and I learned that the only thing better was creating those adventures myself. But the thing that makes a story magic is that it touches people. A story is meant to be shared.

So here I am. I have a backlog of short stories starting from around December 2018, and those are what I’ll be starting with. Each post will include the date the story was written, but they won’t all be posted in the order I wrote them. Keep in mind that most, if not all, of the stories will be completely unrelated to each other. My longer works aren’t ready to be presented to the world. Yet.

Thank you for joining me at the beginning of our adventures together