I’ve been writing since high school, and as I’m sure most of you know, getting published isn’t easy. Whether it’s worth the work isn’t a statement I’m going to make here, but I’ve had some success self publishing, and that’s what I have to offer.
I view writing in a broad band of Speculative Fiction, and worry less about what sort of writing is going on. The point of writing is to ask a question and then explore it. If you enjoy my works, consider plunking down a few coins for ’em, or purchasing a copy for your preferred reading device via Smashwords or Amazon. My original works are also available in paperback.
Soft Hearts, Hard Memories
Confronted by a young unionized prostitute who asks for protection from a violent client, Aaran claws her way into an industry bent on protecting its own interests while the local government turns a blind eye. As the well deepens, a forced full body conversion cyborg pleads for assistance locating the group who stole her body.
“That is horrendous. Does this sort of thing happen frequently in Whitegraft?” Akane asked in a spontaneous show of consciousness as we plummeted into the valley of garbage bins and waste processors behind Range’s disposal facility. The lag didn’t nail her awareness- it just curtailed her responses, and I’m pretty sure she let it.
“More than anyone likes to admit,” I remarked with a gesture at an empty side street. We made our way across the road and followed the sidewalk for a while. “Krimp’s pretty normal when it comes to child prostitution, but the snuff ring is a small one with few waypoints. They’re illegal, but hotter than Registered Slaves. Allied cops hate ’em.”
“They do not hate the prostitution of immature girls?”
“Depends on who they are, and what they like. Digital brain access doesn’t make enforcement any easier.”
Akane was really quiet. These were hard realities, that a child could grow up and die selling their body to sexual predators, and never know self worth, or personal liberty. Whether she hated me for not shutting Krimp down… ever… I didn’t know, but did care… for a change. It’s the power I didn’t have that I wanted.
Every One Fight
Masurani was set to run professionally when her father dies in a terrorist attack. Between puberty and grief she pursues the martial arts only to refuse an invitation to join the government backed KnightsMage. Entrapped by a devious street fighter and forced to turn professional, Petulant promises to reveal the nature of her father’s death, but can she survive this match and learn the truth?
In the end I was so frustrated and ready to go I guess I would’ve torn up anything that smirked at me. My heartrate jumped up plenty and my vision got real clear as we circled in the ring of smashed tanks. It was my arrogance telling me how brief this fight was going to be.
“Gonna do more’n slap ya down!” I raged, voice echoing against scrap metal.
I tore his blasted cybernetic arm off and beat him with it. It broke off like a dead branch, cracking with a good twist. Told ya, I have no class. Nobody stopped me, they seemed rather amused by my wanton brutality. When he stopped moving, I clued in it was over.
Sector Bomb
Was it a bomb or magic? Sector 9 is leveled, hundreds dead, thousands injured and in dire need. While the Alliance of Courts decides how best to curtail costs, Representative Castlegar of Whitegraft charges ex-cop Aaran Coates and android associate Buddy Namiki to prevent another attack.
Aaran had called but not explained why the first aid kit was such a high priority. There wasn’t a scent of war in the air. The Alliance seemed to trust peace. Maybe they thought it was enough that the whole surface of the planet had been burned twenty years ago.
Eighteen years ago?
I was supposed to be able to remember facts with perfect clarity, but I’d been damaged. No telling to what extent. The voices of the wounded mixed with the approach of sirens and emergency aid. Aaran limped out of a sea of unending dust with patches of mud on her casual jacket, ripped and ruined.
Her copper-blond hair was a matted, tangled mess on her head. She scanned me with those unusual silver eyes and smirked. Her fair skin was scraped and bruised in numerous places. Surface injuries, thankfully.
“You’re a mess, Buddy.”
Bold Curves – A Short Story Anthology
Aaran has a problem with her other self, and overcoming this individual somehow results in her becoming entrusted with the lives of many who cannot otherwise protect themselves. In a post-apocalyptic world survived by a handful of cities and off-planet colonies, Aaran is beset by constant threats against her and her closest allies. She will not be put down, however …
“You did. I thought you might.”
I started, momentarily frightened. Was my voice really that sultry? Sensual? Sexual? What the blasted frame was I thinking, talking to people like that? She was behind me, naturally, so I turned and drank deeply. She didn’t seem to mind much, but then I was treating her to the same show.
“A flakkin’ sword… ” I breathed. In a scabbard as detailed as the billowing half-plate breast armour, underneath a variety of chainmail and a dense looking white fabric between metal and skin. Eye contact; piercing silver brimming with mistrust and hope. The tone of her muscles conflicted with the shapeliness of her figure, but the way she walked told me she knew the blade well; just as I did.
“Yours a weaving of energy, but a blade. Your skill the equal of mine, and perhaps the training? I wonder if you have paid for the skill as I have.” She put herself within cutting distance in a neutral stance. “This eye is not mine, but an expert crafting, and my heart… I will say that without Davlid my thread would belong to she who weaves in silver.”
David… Davlid. Funny. “My right arm and left leg were made by a guy called David. This is pretty bent stuff. You from some kinda mirror universe or something?”
She smirked confidently. “Kre^sten spoke well of you, then.”
“You just about vaped him!” I flared.
A Thief at the Gala
A mysterious crown claiming scrolls, a monster with a taste for ponies! How will Doctor Whooves and Forelock Holmes unearth the truth behind the threat? What is Vallade’s real target and why is he so fascinated with Ditzy Do?
Luna gave a start, lowering her horn as a warning to the pair of intruders, heaped upon each other like loose clothing. A cloud had passed over the moon, obscuring them from direct moonlight. They cursed and groaned in the attempt at disentanglement.
“Your scarf’s ‘round my leg!”
“Can’t you tell your sleeve is over my head?” snapped back a muffled, very male baritone. “Now off with it!”
“You’ll stretch it! Be careful!”
As they bickered the moonlight returned, availing the viewers to much desired details. There were two ponies: One chestnut colored with a salt and pepper mane, the other a light blue with black mane in errant disarray, tail to match. The chestnut fellow bore a distinctive cutie mark, an anchor with snakes entwined symmetrically around the handle topped by wings. The latter’s cutie mark was hidden by a long pin striped nightgown.
In the midst of tussling, the blue pony took notice of his surrounding and company. “Oh dear. Princess Luna. How embarrassing.”
Starlit Ruins
What if Sailor Moon were sent to the war torn, magic rich Earth of Palladium’s Rifts? What if a new player replaced Beryl with brutal new tactics? What if a new team of young heroes filled the gap left by the Sailor Senshi on Earth? Can a rag-tag group of magically gifted individuals protect Japan? What will it take to defeat the new, more visceral approach of the Negaforce?
Saying nothing, Usagi retreated from the room. This woman, this light offering hope, one destroyed when they arrived here, when it became clear their situation, was an odd creature. There was a silhouette of death standing beside her, a dismal shadow drawing Usagi short of confidence. It had been hard to give up. To submit to the Splugorth Slaver. No, that had not been difficult. When it came down it, they never did. What had it been? Painful. To watch her friends as their strength failed, as their training faltered. To see that Luna and Artemis were gone, that she could not reach Mamoru again, that he could not protect her, nor touch her again.
That was the most dramatic point. Fear. Of everything.
‘Usagi-chan? What did she say?’ Ami’s voice and language of body spoke of her demure nature, as ever, yet there was an additional anxiety to her. Usagi waved her off, sitting with mildly graceful motions in a small circle of cushions. Silently, she bid the others join her. Slowly, they did, each in a varied state of a theme in mind and soul.
Makoto, as the fury and strength of the Sailor Senshi, looked beaten, as the others, yet she remained unshaken, powerful. To Usagi it was clear that she would be the last to fall. Ami’s battered form – slender as a cat, despite any mistreatment – betrayed her nature: The intellectual whiz kid with brains where brawn was inappropriate. In comparison, the two made a sharp contrast. While the Ami seemed to be faring well, she was far from the most resilient of the Senshi, and was the first likely to crumble. Watching the fire and heart of the team, Rei and Mina, it was plain they had been hurt. Why she placed the two together did not occur until she noted that they spent more than coincidental amounts of time exchanging shamed and scared glances.
