Bi-lingual Because you are my friend-poque tu eres mi amigo

I wrote this bilingual poem for an old friend of mine, once again it's not fantasy related, but those will be coming soon. I also recently published a new short story called Guise Markets. Over the next couple days it should become available through Short Story Press as an eBook, I'll keep you posted on that. For now enjoy the poem.

AutoBiography

First if you follow this blog regularly thank you for doing so and continuing to do so. If not thank you for visiting. I realize my busy state has gone on for months and I've been posting nothing. Partly I became disillusioned with my writing career since it has seen little to no success, second I've been drowning myself in the election lately, and politics has been my primary focus. Finally, my "real job" has also taken time away I've recently taken on a position with more responsibility and it has also taken more of my time, not to mention energy. Nonetheless I have not given up on writing, and i hope you have not given up on me.

I have also started a new project. I am still working on Epic War, though i cant say when it will come out. Between having too reset my computer without backing up my files due to spyware and viruses, and a terrible case of writer's block, it has been a difficult undertaking. Nonetheless some of us writer have weak attention spans and so will engage in multiple projects as once to combat the anxiety and boredom that often accompay the task. I have decided in addition to my  fiction to once again make another attempt at writing an autobiography. It's just a story about my life, who i am, and how I have become that way. I will make the prologue available below gratis'

Prologue-I Am a Paradox

To describe myself in one or even a few short words would be an impossible task and a ridiculous one no less. To even make the attempt would be a waste. I have indeed deemed it necessary instead to do so in a book. The individual is essentially the sum of his or her experiences and choices. Sure there are traits we’ve inherited: personalities, physical features, and so on. It is equally true that much of who we are is learned or acquired from others, either our parents or our peers. Yet there are always exceptions to the rules. There are kids in small towns and good families who go bad. Then there are young men and women who despite years of abuse and irresponsible indoctrination, choose to follow a new path and do what’s right. I am not a fatalist, nor do I believe we are the sole masters of our fate. It is true that the choices of others can have an impact on us, and that we can choose to be and to do as we please despite them. I think it is then safe to say that our experiences define us, and so do our choices. To try and blame society and culture, education and upbringing or to credit one of the above is simply complicating the situation. There then we will have the temptation to engage in a fruitless battle of semantics.

   What about me then? What about my choices and my experiences? There are truly too many to even put into one book. I have also found that the greatest challenge in writing an autobiography is that it keeps getting longer. Before I’ve reached the end I once again find myself at the beginning. Herein then I can only make the attempt to define myself based on the major experiences and choices. I can include only those that have made the greatest impact on myself, and those details of who I am and what I’ve done. Who I am now, however, will not be the focus, but who I was and who I have become. More importantly I will take you on the journey through those choices and events that brought me here today.

   If I had to describe myself in a paragraph or two I would say many things briefly. I am emotionally unstable. I am confused. I am unique and creative. I am passionate. I would not currently describe myself as successful but only time will tell. Most of all however, I would say that I, like many people, am a paradox.

   I have loved and hated with equal passion. I have experienced many tremendous failures, with many small successes. I have at many times felt a joyous ecstasy and vigor for life. I have gone through frequent spells of depression, and reached the point of utter despair on many occasions. I both love myself and hate myself.  I am faithless and cynical and I am idealistic and deeply spiritual. I am a true believer and a true skeptic. I am color blind and I love diversity. Already you can see just a few of the many paradoxes. I have delved deeply into the question of who I am but I have not even reached the tip of the iceberg.

   Perhaps the greatest paradox here is that I seem adamant about telling you who and what I am, but that is not my goal. This book is more of a personal journey. I have many hurts and many hang-ups. I have struggled to forgive many people, and have still not even begun to forgive myself. I am loving and even love someone now as I type, yet I am incapable of true love. I prefer to wall myself in to avoid the many hurts pain that life has given me along the way.

   I often ask myself why can’t I love. Why can’t I be a good friend? Why can’t I be at peace with myself and the world around me? Why do I have no dreams and no aspirations? Why can’t I make a solid decision and stick with it? Why can’t I pursue my dreams? I love writing, it is a deep part of who I am. Yet I am forcing myself to sit at this desk and type these words. It is a painful experience and an ironic one. I am painfully forcing myself to do something I love. I have all the symptoms of clinical depression, some of the symptoms of ADD and anxiety. I even exhibit some of the traits of one with what’s called Borderline Personality Disorder, though much of that part of me has died, the insecurity and feelings of inadequacy are still there, creeping around my subconscious as I try to repress them from my waking world. Why, I still wonder, have I pushed away the people I love the most, and continue to attract the ones that I despise?

   In the endless rant, however, I have not asked the question. The goal is to explore my past and relive the memories, both painful and precious. Perhaps by finally experiencing the past again I can overcome it and endure the present while seizing the future that lies ahead. The question I ask as I continue to fail both professionally and personally is, why? More importantly, How Did I Get This Way?  

Epic War Fantasy Ebook-Birth of Mulgy

the next chapter as promised, announcements will be made when the full book is available.


The Birth of Mulgy
The frigid winds of the north blow eerily. Snow is blown in piles like dust. Yet the pure white snow is stained by the blood of warriors. Only one lone warrior remains standing in the field of blood. He’s soaked with it himself. It stains an otherwiseblond beard. A grim but stoic look rests on the hardnosed face of a massive, muscled warrior. Stern blue eyes stare out at the horizon, which is mostly white but growing grayer with clouds. He is a member of the Tribe of The Bears.
He shows no mercy.

His heart pounds and his breaths are deep and rapid. An axe, soaked in blood rests at his feet. Feet covered in large fur boots crunch through the early morning snow. The stern look on the warriors face does not shift even slightly, not once. His eyes remain fixed ahead and reveal no fear. Even as he passes bodies, many mounted on spears, heads rolling, and fields of blood, he is feels nothing. He knows no emotion for he is a Bear. What little remorse he may feel is overshadowed by pride. He is the last warrior standing; the final survivor. It is a glorious day, and a sign of favor from the gods, especially the god Ranu’k the god of war and king of the bears. This means he is chosen and destined to be a great warrior, and to bear a mighty son. Standing the sole survivor of any battle was a great sign indeed, but in a battle this immense, must be an omen of epic proportions.

He returns to the camp silently and stoically. Many tents made from the thick and skins furs of the beast greet him as he approaches. He passes through nodding solemnly in greeting at a few
warriors who pass him. They see the blood on his axe and beat their chests to show their respect. He raises his axe to them in return as if it is a traditional toast. He sees a few campfires on his passing, and a bonfire in the very heart of the encampment. The winds pick up, blowing clouds of snow with them, but surprisingly they fail to extinguish the resilient flames.

In the center a great tent stands marked with a proud flag on the top, and bearing a round shape to encircle its spot on the ground. The tent is larger and more elaborate than the others, which merely serve as homes. This tent serves as a home to the tribes greatest leaders. Mulgy sets his axe to the side at his feet and kneels.

“I serve cause Ranu’k. I bathe in the blood of our enemies. I offer my axe to the king of the bears.”
Then he stands up with a low grunt of roar. The other tribes may find their traditions strange, but none may enter the tent without reciting the prayer and the battlecry at the end. The tent is a sacred center of spirituality, government, and military leadership. There the chieftain resides where he leads the tribe and lays the plan for war. The council of elders take care of most of
the day to day business of running the settlement, and settle disputes between the Bears. The High Shaman, however, is the true leader of the tribe. To defy him is to defy the gods and even Ranu’k himself.

The man kneels in tattered brown robes, covered in dirt and dampness. His white scraggly hair flows down to the bottom of his neck as he moves his stick-like arms to stir the wooden ladle in the black cauldron.

“I smell the stench of blood and sweat. I hear the heavy breathing of a warrior.” A trembling and hoarse voice greets the warrior without even standing at first. Slowly he stands after muttering some indecipherable prayer. He turns a white and scruffy bearded face to greet the warriors. His eyebrows are thick like caterpillars, and the bags under the weary blue eyes distinguish him as an aged and seasoned priest who often spends endless nights without sleep, and sometimes weeks without fasting. The red in his eyes only compliments his rugged features.
“Rorlick, right? How did the battle fair? Are those miserable wolves still howling in the night?”
“They are slaughtered. Their entire army has been vanquished.”
Two wrinkled and trembling hands come together in applause as the old sage produces a grinning of rotting and missing teeth. “Excellent! You have led the men well, in time you may succeed the chieftain.”
“Only if you outlive me.” An even larger man than Rorlick appears massive clubs for arms crossed. His head shines in the dim light of torches, and many scars are visible on his scalp, a
proud battlewound he has born from capture by the wolves in his younger years.
He no longer flinches in agony recalling how they ripped his hair violently from his head. Instead he smiles proudly now, and his smirk grows to hear the news of their impending demise.
“That is not all I am afraid. We have sustained equal devestation. I was the last man standing!”
The aging shaman’s eyes widen in and he gasps in awe. “You…you were the sole survivor then?”
“Yes!” Rorlick answered.
“In a battle so immense? Yet I should not be surprised. This is a prophecy of our tribe. That one man shall wipe out our greatest foe, the wolves, and after…”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” The gruff voiced chieftain asks, narrowing his eyes
suspiciously.
“You will slaughter the rest of them Rorlick, their settlement. You will do so alone. If you succeed…”
“I will succeed shaman, and I will not fail my people, and all that remains of the wolves are women and children, maybe a few elderly leaders and unskilled laborers, but not warriors.
As for you Chieftain, no matter what the prophecy says I am your warrior. I shall serve you as I always have, as long as there is breath in your body.”
“Fear not Rorlick, I would not be ashamed to serve you, and if the prophecies declare it, I would be a fool to defy the will of Ranu’k. If it comes to that perhaps I could serve as an advisor of sorts. You will need guidance.”
“I would at that.”
“But Rorlic,” the chieftain tells him. “You have more pressing affairs. Your son was born while you were away. Your wife awaits you in your tend. Do not allow us to retain you.”
“As you wish!” Rorlick falls to one knee and hunches over slightly, beating his chest with a mighty grunt and a roar. “For the glory of the bears!” he cries.
The Chieftain beats his chest in return and the shaman lifts both hands and pushes out his chest.
“For glory of the bears!” says the Chieftain
“For the glory of Ranu’k!” cries the shaman.

The sturdy warrior exits the tent and returns the chill of the camp. A bitter wind picks up, and flurries of snow descend from the sky. The warrior quickly shelters himself from the storm by entering his own proud tent. There he beholds the face of his beautiful, though weary wife. She lies down on a bed fashioned from a pile of furs and pelts. She holds the infant in her arms.

“Rorlick, my mighty warrior!” she greets him warmly. Her smile lights up the tent and the sound of her voice warms his heart. Rorlick falls to one knee to kneel by his wife. His eyebrows raise as the eyes behold a beautiful baby boy. He retrieves the tiny child into his
massive arms. He rocks him back and forth. The baby begins to whine and whimper slightly. Rorlick’s smile turns to a scowl. His eyebrows drop and his eyes narrow. He returns the baby to his mother with a huff, and stands to his feet. Crossing his arms, he turns his back to the woman and his son. He groans softly with his head turned downward and his face distraught.
“Has he not pleased you my husband?” she asks.
“He is weak.” The man answers flatly. “As his father you know it is my right to choose for him a name.”
“Yes my husband, you have a name for him?”
“His name shall be Mulgy.” He uses the word from an old form of the barbarian language. It is mostly used as a curse word, particularly when one stumbles. The word means, “Mistake”.
“You cannot mean that!” the woman gasps, almost sobbing. Her eyes water all the more as she waits for him to answer, but only receives cold silence in return.
After a drawn out moment he finally speaks. “Tomorrow he will be taken to the ancient burial ground, given back to the ancestors in accordance to our traditions.”
“We will…sacrifice him?” her voice is cracked with tears. “You would endorse such cruelty to your own son?”
“He is weak. To allow the child to live in this world be a cruelty of its own.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The winter winds are harsh and bitter as they beat against the tent. The sudden roar of the blizzard awakens the woman from her restless slumber. She lies beside her muscled husband. Slowly and cautiously she lifts his large, sinewy arm from where it rests around, and slips away from his warmth. She stands to dress herself in a cloak and winter robes. She falls slowly to her knees to retrieve the infant. She cradles him, and then holds him close. She wraps him in a thick blanket and quietly exits the tent.

The camp still seems somewhat lively. A small group of warriors sits around the fire. She flinches at the sight of them. They roar deep laughter, slapping their backs and turning their smiling faces to the clear and starry black skies. Drunk on mead, and shouting slurred speech, they hardly seem to notice her as she strolls past the campfire.

The stars are surprisingly visible for such a snowy nights, as are the four moons. It feels surreal. The red moon of the south, the silver moon of the north, the green moon of the east, and the gold
moon of the west command the reverence of the stars that dot the skies landscape. She gasps in awe at the beauty, scarcely having stopped to admire it before. She looks to skies wondering what lies beyond her world of blood and tears. She can find no answers, for it’s all she’s ever known.

She continues her cold and unpleasant journey as the winds whistle and beat against a chapped and paling face. She shivers from the cold, holding her child tightly and hoping he is warmer than
she is. After some time she reaches an entrance to a large patch of woods, and a trail that seems to cut through it.

She stops and collapses to her knees, weeping. Where will she go? What will she do? This hostile and frigid land has no place in the wild where she can survive the harshest winters, and from whom will she receive help. The lands of the north are inhabited by many barbarian tribes, all sworn enemies of the bears, who have earned few friends through their warmongering and bullyboy tactics. She is hopeless. She and her child will die out here if she stays, but he will die if they return. She suddenly begins to sob inconsolably. She is helpless and desperate. Why? She wondered why. Was she cursed to have a love so deep for such a beautiful child to grace this world, only to lose him to the breaking of her heart? What a cold existence this was indeed.

She then seems to lose control and begins to pray. She prays not Ranu’k or to any of the other gods of the Pagan Tribes, but to a god she knows not; a god greater than all the rest. She feels him somehow. She looks up to the sound of mighty flapping wings, and gasps in wonder. A great white dragon flies above, only passing by.
“God of all,” she prays, bowing her head again. “Please forgive my Mulgy. Ignore him not, but use my Mulgy for your glory.”

A blinding beam of light suddenly ascends from heaven, illuminating the area, and landing at the entrance to the forest. A mighty and muscled shirtless man approaches, his chest and back hairier than any she has ever seen. Yet only the top half is a man. Her jaw falls, and she covers her gaping mouth with one hand in wonder. He approaches her slowly with the mighty legs and lower half of a horse. The coat is brown and shiny, shimmering the light. The curly-haired man with tiny horns smiles bright as day. “You are a centaur!” she exclaims. “I never thought the tales to be true, but…” she stammers in spite of herself. “But why have you come from the Misty Planes beyond the Mountains of Veil?”
“Your prayer is heard.” He speaks with a voice smoother than any man’s she’s ever heard. His tone is soft and soothing to the ears. “I shall take your child. He shall be used for the
glory of the Most High.”
“You…you will take him from me?” she asks suspiciously.
“I will raise him as my own. I will teach him strength, but also cunning and compassions. I will teach him things your kind has yet to learn. I will make him great. He shall be my ward.”
“I have no choice but to entrust you with his care. Please see that no harm befalls him.” She says.
“He is far too important for me to do otherwise. I promise you this, though you may not live to hear it, the world will one day praise his name.”

Conflicted Love-Yet Another Unrelated to Fantasy Poem

Your love is not unrequitted, simply misunderstood
My soul is simply numb to love It was never that you weren't good
I am fragile, I am afraid, and full of suspicion
I am hollow, yet I am solid like a stone...
Though I want to know true love I also want to be alone
Sometimes in bed I shiver from the cold
Wondering if I will still be here when I am old
Yet it frightens me less, enjoying the comfort of having it for myself
Though i often long and groan for true loves true worth
I also wonder if God has made me chaste from birth
I know you want my undying love and true devotion
But I cannot acquiesce
You know I wish from you for patience
But it's not a fair request
At an impasse, but not a deadend
I still have you as my friend
It is not a hopeless love
But conflicted...

Epic War Introduction

Original cover by Daniel Beaver
Reworked by Rachel Bostwick

This will be the first chapter of the book and serve as an introduction to the conflict ahead, I will also make the next chapter available on the blog, but after that you will have to enjoy the final product. I will keep you updated on my progress occasionally on the blog, but if you want more frequent updates feel free to follow me on twitter @worldofdiamic. Enjoy



Sadasé Anok, The Demon King
“I am Sadasé Anok. I am the demon king. My name means, “his power will come!” It is the battle cry of devils and demons. It is I who leads the armies of the dark lord into battle, I who pierces the hearts of angels, and I who corrupts the hearts of men. I am the nightmare that never ends, the scourge of heaven, and the bane of Gabriel.”

-From the Book of
Anok, the Dark and Unholy Scriptures

The demon king grins while beholding the carnage around him. With the thrust of their mighty curved and crudely beaten swords he and his armies pierce the hearts of the many angels and send them to their dooms. It has been said that demons and angels cannot die, but they can be banished to separate planes of existence, or they can be imprisoned and powerless, helplessly held in an encasement of stone. The angels begin to fall like flies from the heavens. The goal is clear and in sight for the demons. Soon Diamic will be there’s. Soon they will convert the mortal realm to another circle of their kingdom. Diamic would become the ninth hell.

Sadasé is not prepared for what occurrs next. He beats his sword relentlessly against the blade of Gabriel, as if he is pounding the angel into the ground. Gabriel breaks a sweat, staggering back helplessly with every strike. Sadasé grins as if he could feel the angels strain and licks his lips as if he can taste the despair of the guardian angel who nearly relents.

With a blinding flash and a deafening low-pitched ring, a beam of light ascends from seemingly
nowhere. The light covers Sadasé who growls and releases a low shriek as if the light burns him. He can barely move, except in slow motion. Sadasé will forever remember the smug smile he sees next, just before Gabriel sinks the sword deep into the demon’s heart. When the sword comes out Sadasé feels the stone encase his body. His feet grow heavy and his legs burdensome. Then his chest constricts, feeling tight and heavy. He can barely breathe as the stone spreads upward through his neck. If he could move, he would have shiver profusely from the numbing cold that runs through his body. One final deep gasp, and even the demon’s head turns to stone. The statue falls far, plummeting to the world of Gorka.

The statue lands with a deafening crash that shakes the world of Gorka, and leaves a massive crater on its face. Bits of flaming earth fly everywhere, and land nearby still burning in the night. The crickets and owls in the woods nearby seemed unfazed, still singing and embarking on their nightly adventures.

The sun will rise before the demon king regains his consciousness. He finds himself
hovering, trapped in the vicinity of the statue. He is fully aware of his surroundings, but is too weak to leave the statue behind, or do much of anything. He even swears he feels himself growing weaker and being pulled away from the statue. He fears what will happen if the unseen force succeeds. He clings desperately to consciousness, and wonders if the legends were never true: maybe angels and demons can die after all.

All he can see is the area around the crater and the broken up earth surrounding it along with some woods across a plain of grass in the distance. The skies are gray and dim, but otherwise mostly clear. A few rays of light to slip through the cracks in the sky. The smoke is just clearing by now. He hears naught but the sound of birds singing along with a gentle breeze as it strokes gently past the statue. He then hears footsteps, crunching through dry and charred earth. Black robed figures approach. Some of the dirt has been turned to glass from the heat of whatever made impact with their world last night.

They examine the statue curiously. Many of them gasp as they chatter in their strange gurgled tongue, which seems primitive and consists of many low grunts, groans, and growls. Sadasé tries to understand the mortal language by attuning his empathetic skills as a spirit. They seem to be talking about some kind of prophesy. Within hours they load him onto carriage and bring him back to a dark and secluded temple. There they lay him on an altar. Sadasé still remembers the first creature to reveal his face. He is a young, green-skinned orc, maybe twelve. His ears are pointed, and his teeth sharp and jagged, like tiny tusks. They're like ivory but tinged with spots of brown. His nose and other features are flat, and his eyes orange and yellow like the color of fire. Short black hair lies sleekly on the young orcs head, and shimmers in the light of the shining sun.

Sadasé listens to the sounds of a great wolf growling and clawing across the earth as it pulls the carriage. The wheels bump gently against the cobblestone roads, and Sadasé enjoys the ambience. Most of all, however, he enjoys watching the eyes of the orc boy. He is weak and innocent. He is vulnerable.
If Sadasé could regain his strength through a mortal, it would be him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The young orc male kneels before the statue. His eyes are filled with tears, but the rest of his face along with his hands are covered in blood. The corpses of his black robed brethren are scattered and lying about like discarded rags. He opens his eyes only momentarily to look up at the majestic demon statue on the altar before him. It matches dark gray walls of stone around the room, and seems to go well with the black marble floors beneath his knees and all around. The statue towers over him, considerably. His whispers of prayer echo throughout the halls. “My master, please do not leave me in the silence!” he begged softly. “I have done as you commanded. I have obtained vengeance. Yet they told me it was you. The torture, the pain, the beatings, and the unspeakable acts they committed against me when I was still a child. They said you commanded it. The lies, the blasphemy, the arrogance, oh how their clever tongues slandered you! But I cut them out.” He holds out a hand presenting the various bloody and sinewy objects on the altar.
“I gave you all that you asked for. Their hands, their hearts, their teeth,their eyes, I offer them all to you now. Please! Leave me not in silence, but speak again. What am I to do next?”

Slowly and with a low rumble the stone cracks and trembles. Piece by piece the shards of stone fall to the floor, lightly ringing and shimmering as they linger on the black marble. With a roar that reaches heaven the massive creature shakes the remaining stone free and spreads his arms and sinewy dragon-like wings. His flesh resembles the color of blood, but with steam and glowing red mist exuding from it. His eyes ignite like the pit of a stirring volcano. His mane of black hair wavers as he shakes his head free of the shards of stone. He reveals a face with mostly flat and bullish features. With fine, but razor-sharp teeth he produces a sadistic grin then a ferocious roar as he turns his head to heaven, calling to his minions.

The orc stares up at the creature in horror. He tries contain the terror, knowing this is his god,
the one he served. He remains on his knees with his hands folded. Another grin and the beast sinks his claws into the back of his neck. He screams in agony, though none can hear him.
“Please master! Please! Have I not served you? Are you not pleased with me?”
He picks the orc up who kicks bare and dusty feet in the air, screaming gruffly to be released.
“You have pleased me!” The demon huffs and snorts, speaking with a low growl. Loud but strangely muffled, the voice resembles many rather than one, and is so intense it strikes terror even in those who hear it miles away. The orc screams sucking his chest in and out with every desperate breath. “And now for your reward…I will end your suffering, I make the you the first rather than the last die in Gorka!”

Floods of flame erupt throughout the world. Massive explosions wipe out thosands, and the
fires spread even further. With thousands of demons swooping overhead the orcs are helpless, trying to defend themselves. Women and children run in all directions screaming for their lives. Many are swooped down upon and taken into the air where they are tortured and tormented before they are killed. Most of the men hold bows and arrows and axes trying to kill their opponents in the skies and on the ground. They are no match for the overwhelming power and might of their massive and formidable foes. Within days the face of Gorka will be engulfed in flame, and the orcs will fall to their knees in surrender. That day Gorka becomes the ninth plane of Hell.

The demon-king is pleased, but not satisfied. He remains too weak to go into a world outside the planes of hell, and he cannot send his demon minions alone. Nonetheless he sets his sights on the world of Diamic. The orcs are weak but by mortal standards he has never met opponents more fierce and determined to defend their homes. It would take a few generations to mold the orcs into what he wanted them to become, but through torture and other “reeducation” techniques the demons employ they can be corrupted and made to forget who they are in time. They could be stronger and deadlier in battle, and they could be easily molded into what he wanted them to be. They will be valuable soldiers in the coming war.

He grins as he shakes hands with his generals, who he has been previously separated from. It
is good to be back in charge.
“What will we do now?” his top general asks.
“We will wait. This generation cannot be so easily tainted, but a few more generations and they will serve us well. They will be pawns in our war against the people of Diamic, foot soldiers in our glorious carnage. Diamic will be ours, the tenth kingdom of Hell.”
“It will be a difficult war, and a bloody one!” the general grins as well.
“Indeed! It will be a bloodbath like none of the worlds have ever seen…it will be an Epic War!”

Epic War Book Cover

I bought this picture from my brother, he has a lot of issues and is very confused about some things in life, if he has to go away i want him to remember that i at least value his picture enough to pay money for it, because he's talented. As a fellow artist i understand the value of that. It makes you feel good. Daniel P. Beaver no matter what happens to you i want you to know i valued your art, you are talented, you are unique, you are special in God's eyes. i hope you discover that someday and abandon all negative perceptions you have of the world. Once i finish this Ebook, as I hope to soon, i will dedicate it to my brother who is struggling alot right now. Im prayin for you dan, great picture, thanks for allowing me to use it...

Announcing Two New Releases

Hello everyone I am sorry I havent posted for so long, i've been working on several articles in my freelance career, but even better I have been able to publish two short stories that are now on the market through Ebook format. They are available through a company called Short Story Press who releases short stories as Ebook through several websites including smashwords, amazon, and barnes and noble, for a very low price, usually under a dollar.

Anyway I have been paid for two stories I've written over the past two months, and you can find them on any of the websites I've mentioned above.


Squire Ryanus
‘Squire Ryanus’ follows the tale of a young man who’s been a member of the Order
of Majestic Truth most of his life in pursuit of the dream of becoming a
Paladin. There he has given up childhood, friendships, and family in pursuit of
the dream to gain a title in the order. After years of strife, he finally
receives an invitation from the council to finally gain his title. Becoming a
Paladin will consist of more than a mere knighting ceremony, however. Instead he
will embark on a journey alone in order to obtain the Shield of Light, a
powerful artifact that has been stolen by the forces of evil. Initially alone,
he must track the beasts to their lair and fight to retrieve the shield,
possibly shedding his blood in the process. Along the way however, he will meet
a cast of quirky and colorful heroes to aid him in the quest. An unlikely bunch
to follow a Paladin around, the mad wizard, shifty ranger, and sneaky rogue will
join him at the fortress of the gnolls. If he survives, he will achieve his
dream of becoming a Paladin and no longer go by the name of ‘Squire
Ryanus’.


Mage Finals
The story of Mages Final revolves around Keldon, a dedicated student at The Academy
of Magical Arts. The honor student often spends late nights studying and most
of his life revolves around his books. More than anything he wants to be a
great wizard, and will sacrifice the human pleasures of fun, fellowship, and
even sleep to achieve that dream. Things grow worse as finals approach. The
pressure is on and Keldon is studying more than ever. As he will find, however,
no amount of studying will prepare him for this. The headmaster decides to
administer a more practical final in lieu of tests and essays. Instead Keldon
will have to journey to a dark lair where many undead abominations await and he
will ultimately have to battle a dark and powerful necromancer in order to stop
him from achieving his sinister dreams of immortality and lichdom.
In
order to pass his test Keldon must not only survive by defeating the
necromancer and his undead minions, but also by displaying selflessness and
virtue. Perhaps he will be his own worst enemy as he faces a dark temptation.
Will he survive and pass the test become a mage, and someday a great wizard? Or
will he ultimately fail and face the possibility of defeat and oblivion?


As I said these lovely Ebooks will be available on amazon, barnes and noble's website, and other. I dont get royalties, only an upfront payment, but it will look good for my image for those who choose to buy, and IF you do decide to pay less than a $1 for these stories, as they are priced, Please leave a kind and positive review, which will help even more.

Thanks for those who have followed me and been faithful despite my lack of posting lately. God bless, and always enjoy your adventures to come