“A STRANGE AND DISTANT FUTURE” (Original) (Part 1)

Here’s a sci-fi story I wrote! Pretty pleased with it, overall. I’ll probably post a revised version eventually, and that’ll be as a whole. But for now, this version will be in parts!

Enjoy!

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She walked down the wide, gray, empty streets, alone and lost in her thoughts, moving along at a listless pace. Her clothing changed its shape and colours, making subtle adjustments as she moved, reflecting her mood. It concealed her figure as, bitterly, she scorned the world around her, and blended with her environment as she wished for nothing more than to simply disappear. Her top draped loosely around her shoulders, like a shawl, and reached up to cover her face like a scarf. Her skirt reached down to her ankles, and flapped freely around them as she walked. Even her shoes – simple, white and inconspicuous – softened their soles to nullify her footsteps, easily heard in the near-total silence that pervaded this part of town.

She stopped, and stuffed her hands into deep, newly-formed pockets, just listening for a moment. Even as cars flew by, far overhead, there was scarcely any noise to be heard. She disliked the vaguely eerie near-silence. This was a city of millions, and yet, there were places that made it seem as though there was nothing alive on the entire planet. In places like these, she thought, it seemed as though a person could simply vanish. She leaned against a near-by wall, as pristine and colourless as the street, and looked up, watching the distant cars fly by in neat, orderly lines. They all moved at the same speed, and they were all the same, safe distance apart, as though guided by some kind of invisible railway. And, in a sense, they were guided by an invisible force, as human drivers had long since become a thing of the past. She watched them as they passed, totally oblivious to the streets below them as they made their daily journey to the myriad of skyscrapers on the horizon, and wondered, idly, if anyone would miss her if she did somehow disappear. Or if anyone would even notice.

She sighed and slid down the wall, sitting on the straight, smooth sidewalk and shutting her eyes. Places like these reminded her of how isolated, how incredibly alone she often felt. And yet, the crowded areas always seemed worse, somehow. Getting lost in a crowd of strangers, their minds and attention always far away, preoccupied with something far more interesting than walking, all marching, nearly in unison, to some mysterious rhythm that forever seemed to elude her understanding… It was an easy way to feel insignificant, irrelevant. Like one blank pixel in a spread of billions, all culminating in a titanic blank slate. Here, at least, she was an individual. Though, she sometimes wished she could be neither.

Abruptly, there was a noise. Though soft and somewhat distant, it was a strong and clear compared to the faint white noise of the cars. She opened her eyes as the scarf-like fabric around her face and neck folded over itself, slithering along the side of her face and forming a cup around her ear. She heard a man’s voice, though she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. There was also music, playing quietly in the background as he spoke. Startled and intrigued, she got to her feet and hurried towards the source of the noise, the fabric around her ear sliding onto her shoulder and simply disappearing into it.

[…]

“FEDERAL” (Original)

Here’s the story that previous post refers to! Maybe I’ll post a revised and/or extended version eventually. For now, though, enjoy!

————–

Upstate New York.
June 20^th, 2035. 5:00 PM.

He is painting again. He has been painting all day, but no matter how much time he spends on any one canvas, he can never seem to complete the picture. Two figures occupy his mind: An Eve, who commits the first sin and makes all men who descend from her sinful by nature, who must be punished for her unholy crime, and an Archangel, a vengeful servant of God come to cleanse mankind of its sins. And yet, even as they consume his every waking moment, they elude his vision. He sometimes sees them in his dreams, but as soon as he wakes, the clarity is gone. Sighing, he takes his latest attempt off the easel, and gingerly leans it up against the wall: Another faceless, colourless, vaguely feminine outline against an empty background, just like all the others. He hoists himself up out of his seat, despondent, and heads to his bedroom to pray for forgiveness and clarity. Before he gets there, however, there is a knock at his door.

He freezes. For a few moments, he remains still and silent, just listening. No-one has ever come to visit him before, not since he built this house, so many years ago. The knocking comes again. He wanders over in a daze, and opens the door. He is greeted by a young woman.

“Hi, um, sorry to bother you.” She says. “My car broke down just up the road from here, and my phone doesn’t seem to get signal out here. Do you have a landline or something that I can use?”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. The Lord, he thinks, has seen his struggle and sent him the clarity he needs. This girl shall be the Eve he has been searching for.

“Yes… Yes, of course. Come in.”

 

***

 

Federal Bureau of Investigation Field Office: Albany, New York.
August 15, 2035. 7:35 AM.

“6th Floor.” Chimes the elevator. “General Assignment.”
The doors slide open, and Jill Carter steps out. A long, wide corridor greets her, with doors to various offices lining the wall to her left, while the wall to the right is austere and white, broken up only very occasionally by a window or an unremarkable painting. It is still early, and the place is quiet, but the buzz of activity – typing, walking, talking, and so on – grows at a slow-but-steady pace as more and more people file into work.

She brushes the blonde bangs of her short hair out of the way of her blue eyes and straightens out her pristine, black suit-jacket as she walks, briefly disturbing the tiny, golden cross around her neck. She makes her way over to her office – which, like every other Special Agent, she shares with a partner – and is surprised to find him waiting there, leaning against the far wall, leafing through a folder. “Miller?” She says. “What are you doing here?”

Kazuhira Miller is a man somewhat older than herself, though he holds the same rank, and is very clearly of Japanese descent, though he was born and raised in Ohio. He is tall and fit, with short, black hair that is greying prematurely. He wears a black suit that is not unlike her own, but as always, he wears a rather conspicuous bright red tie along with it.

He looks up, and smiles wryly at her. “Pretty sure I work here, Carter.”
“Yeah, but you’re early.” She says, shutting the door behind her. “You’re never early. Usually you’re in at the last minute.” She chuckles. “Did your wife kick you out last night or something?” As she talks, she goes behind her desk and produces a key from her pocket, which she uses to unlock the top drawer. Opening it, she is met with the sight of her belongings: her sidearm, her badge and a pair of handcuffs.

Miller puts a hand to his chest and feigns offense. “How rude.” He says. “I got up early today because I’m as ambitious and dedicated as anyone else here.”
“Uh-huh.” Says Jill, flatly, as she retrieves her weapon. The weight of the black, standard-issue handgun is comforting, and she tucks it into the shoulder-holster that rests by her left side, under her suit.

“The fact that my neighbour’s dog started barking its head off at 4 AM and didn’t shut up until 6 has nothing to do with it all.” Says Miller.
“Purely a coincidence, I’m sure.” Replies Jill, snapping the badge onto her belt, by her right hip. The handcuffs also clip onto her belt, at her back.
“Anyway, unless you’re planning a one-woman raid of the Administration level, I assume you’ve already figured out that we’ve been assigned a new case.” He shuts the folder and waves it at her.
“Yup,” she says. “Lay it on me.”

“This is a suspected kidnapping.” He says, opening the folder back up. “Our victim is Natalia Marsh, 23, from Maine. Seems pretty ordinary: no record, no obvious connections to anyone with a record, decent attendance at school, lives at home with her folks… Says here she was taking a year off college, and planned to go on some road trips.” He flips through a few of the pages. “Doesn’t look like she went anywhere too interesting, though. Not on her last trip, anyway. The planned route she gave her family says she was only going to go as far as Wisconsin, though the last place she called her parents from was Vermont. She disappeared a bit less than 2 months ago, and the case went cold. State Police departments in and around Vermont are still running ads to get her face out there, but so far, no luck.”

Jill walks over to him, to read the file herself. “She didn’t bring anyone with her?”
“Nope.” Says Miller. “By the looks of things, she brought herself, her car, some cash, and whatever she could fit in the trunk.”
“And her parents just let her do that?” Says Jill.
Miller shrugs. “Apparently. The psych profile assembled by the initial investigators suggests she is, or was…” He runs a finger down the page, and starts reading aloud when he finds what he’s looking for. “‘Independent, and highly adventurous.’ So she probably insisted on going alone.”
“You’re skipping the part where it says she’s also naïve and trusting.” Says Jill. “Anyway, if the case went cold, what’s changed?”
“We got a tip.” Replies Miller. “An anonymous one, but still. It’s promising.”

 

 

Upstate New York.
August 10^th, 2035. 2:00 AM.

Ordinarily, Dean would not venture so far outside of town, and certainly not so late at night, but he owes money to his drug dealer, and Roberto is very scary when he is mad. Just slightly scarier than the thick woods on either side of the dirt road on which he now walks. He is hunting for a car, or more specifically, a nice hood ornament that he could sell to pay off at least part of his debt.

He jumps at every rustling leaf or snapping twig as thoughts of wolves, bears, mountain lions and even Bigfoot fill his paranoid mind. Old stories of “Butcher Bill, the mad old hermit” keep resurfacing in his mind. Wasn’t the Butcher supposed to live in these woods, just outside of town? Dean shakes his head, and tries not to think about it.

He knows how unlikely it is that he’s ever going to find a car out by in woods, but just as he is about to give up and go home, the clouds uncover the bright, full moon, and he sees an unmistakable shape in the distance: a car, pulled over by the side of the road. He makes a dash for it, but doesn’t get far. Faraway screams freeze his blood, and as he reluctantly turns his head, he sees a little footpath through the trees.

Despite being on the verge of wetting himself with fear, he makes his way down the path until he reaches a clearing, and sees a small, old house on a hill. He sneaks just a bit closer, equal parts curious and terrified, and the front door flies open. A girl falls out, bloody, screaming, and with ropes around her ankles. For just an instant, they make eye-contact. He sees the abject fear on her face, the immense desperation in her eyes…

And he runs for his life. But not before seeing the silhouette of a man, standing in the doorway behind her… Butcher Bill. Who else could it be?

 

Interstate Highway 87.
August 15, 2035. 11:35 AM.

“I can’t believe you’ve never watched it.” Says Jill. “It’s a classic show!”
Miller rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. It sounds kitschy and weird.”
“What’s with you?” Replies Jill, a bit defensively. “‘The X-Files’ was a great show. Shut up.”
He chuckles. “Why do you like that show so much, anyway? You weren’t even around to watch it. It aired in the 90’s, didn’t it?”
“It came back in 2016.” She says. “I caught the first few episodes, liked them, and looked up the original series online.”
“Don’t tell me you joined the FBI because ‘The X-Files’ inspired you?” He laughs.
Jill shrugs. “Well, that wasn’t the main reason I joined, but… Well, 16-year-old me was looking for a role model, and I guess I found one in Agent Scully.”
“Isn’t she the skeptical one?” Says Miller. “Wouldn’t that mean…” He motions to the cross around her neck.
“Hm? Oh, well, I haven’t gone to Church in years.” She says.
“But do you still believe?” He asks.
She gingerly takes hold of her necklace, and considers for a few moments.
“Yes, I suppose I do…” She replies, softly.

There is a lull in the conversation. Their inconspicuous, silvery sedan – an unmarked FBI vehicle – glides down the highway alongside a smattering of other cars.

“Anyway, let’s get back to the case.” Says Jill. “What were you saying earlier?”
“I was saying that our anonymous tipper went so far as to give a pretty good description of the woman he allegedly saw, and it lines up with all the information we have on our victim, Ms. Marsh.” He says.
“Too bad he wouldn’t specify where he saw her. What was it he said to the hotline operator? ‘No-one would believe me?’”
Miller pulls out a tablet-computer from the briefcase resting on his lap, and turns it on to look at the transcript of the call. For security reasons, the hardcopy versions of case files were not allowed out of the offices. “He says: ‘you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’ Looks like he says it a few times, actually. What do you suppose he meant by that?”
“Not sure.” Says Jill. “But I guess we’ll find out soon. This is our turn.”

 

 

Placidtown, Upstate New York.
August 15, 2035. 12:00 PM.

She pulls into a parking lot near the edge of town, and after a moment, they both step out. The town is so small that it’s possible to see from the North end of it to the South end, just by standing on the main street that runs through it. “Placidtown, New York, USA.” Says Miller, still holding the tablet as he walks around the car to stand next to her. “Almost exclusively lower-middle income residents, numbering only around 1500 people in total, and most of them are employed in forestry.” He motions behind him. “Hence the thick forests all over the place. So, where do you want to start?”

“I suppose the first thing we should do is check in at the…” She looks around for a moment. “Where did you say we were staying, again?”
He gives her a weary smile. “A bed & breakfast. Owned by a local family, as I understand it.”
“Wonderful.” She says, flatly. “And you spoke the local police, right?”
“If you mean the County Sheriff’s Office, then yes.” He says.
Jill sighs. She’s worked with County Sheriffs a few time in the past, and none of them have ever been particularly helpful. “Let’s go meet our hosts.” She says. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to start asking around.”

 

Placidtown, Upstate New York.
August 17, 2035. 3:30 PM.

The Monroe family, who owned the local B&B, were very nice people, though they quickly began trying Jill’s patience once they learned, to their astonishment, that she and Miller were federal agents. Both parents and their 3 kids kept asking her if she knew what really happened in Roswell, or if she knew who really killed JFK. The father, in particular, repeatedly pressed her for answers regarding various 9/11 conspiracy theories he’d heard. They never seemed to be satisfied with “I don’t know,” so eventually she gave them some ominous-sounding throwaway line about “national security” and “classified materials,” and they backed off for a while.

Interviewing the locals yielded mixed results. A few of them, when shown pictures of the missing girl, were sure that they’d seen her around before, right around the time she was reported to have vanished. A few of them had even talked to her. Apparently, she had stopped in town for a quick meal, and to stretch her legs. Nobody seemed to know what had happened to her after she left, however. Some said she headed back out, towards the highway, while others claimed they saw her heading in the opposite direction.

Mixed in with all the useful information was an unusual recurring theme, usually retold to her by drunk people or teenagers, but also occasionally by ordinary, sensible townsfolk. It was a local legend about a hermit who lived in the woods just outside of town. ‘Butcher Bill,’ they called him. All of the details, however, and even whether or not he was actually a human being or some kind of creature, varied greatly between retellings, so she didn’t put much stock in the stories.

On the 3^rd day of their investigation, as they were conducting interviews around the South end of town, they ran into a peculiar young man. He seemed to be about 19, and by the looks of things, he was quite a slob, and probably unemployed. He kept shuffling his feet, shifting from one foot to the other, stammering and looking all around – everywhere but her eyes – as she spoke to him. He said his name was Dean.

He was scared, he knew something but was hiding it, and he was on the verge of spilling his guts. All of this was as plain as day to Jill, and the only things she’d done thus far were introduce herself and ask if he had a minute to talk to her.
“Have you seen this woman?” She asks, showing him a picture of Natalia Marsh.

He freezes up, and his eyes fixate on the photo. “Uh, well, uh, I dunno…” He says.
She frowns at him, and her tone becomes stern and harsh. “Have you seen her, or not?” She asks.
He clenches his teeth for a moment, then sighs deeply. “Yeah,” he says, resignedly. “I’ve seen her. Just a couple of days ago, actually. I called it in, too. You’re not gonna believe me, though…”

 

 

Essex County, Upstate New York. Just outside Placidtown.
August 17, 2035. 4:00 PM.

It takes some time to get to where they’ve been directed. The bumpy, narrow path slows down their car considerably, and it is sometimes hard to see the road beneath the shadows of the many tall trees that flank it. Nevertheless, as they round another twist in the winding, scenic path, there is an unmistakable shape in the distance: a car, pulled over by the side of the road.

They pull up to it, and it is filthy, covered in leafs, dirt and bird feces. And yet, it is otherwise intact. The windows are unbroken, and the interior is untouched. “I guess nobody’s been out here in a while.” Says Jill. They check the car’s license plate against their file: it’s a match. This is the victim’s car.

They get out of their car, and while it takes a few moments of searching, they soon find the obscured footpath Dean has told them about. The strange, old house on the hill – more of a cabin, really – is right where he said it would be. “I’ll knock.” Jill whispers, as they approach. “You stay back. Be ready for anything.”

She walks up to the door, and Miller stands back, a few steps behind her, resting a hand on the gun holstered by his hip. She glances back at him, he nods, and she takes a breath.
“FBI!” She announces, pounding the door with her fist. “Open the door!”

After a moment, the door creaks open, just a bit. A ragged, middle-aged man peers out at them.
“Sir,” says Jill. She flashes her I.D. at him. “I’m Special Agent Carter, and this is my partner, Special Agent Miller. We’re with the-”
“You!” Says the man, beaming at her with wide eyes. His voice is weak and hoarse, and it makes him sound very old. “You’ve come! At last, you’ve come!”
She stares at him, blankly. “… With the FBI.” She continues, uncertainly. “We have reason to believe that-”
“Come in!” He says. “Yes, yes, you must come in!” He turns abruptly, and leaves the door open behind him.

She reaches into her jacket and tightly grips her weapon, then cautiously follows after the man. Miller walks in behind her. The house is dusty and very nearly dilapidated. The window sills are covered with dead insects, and many of the floorboards and warped and bent.
The man leads them into a small room. It is empty, save for the covered easel in the centre of it. Wordlessly, he pulls the blanket off the easel, revealing his latest work. As soon as she sees it, Jill’s eyes widen and she recoils.

It is a portrait of an angel, standing at the gates of Eden, with black, feathery wings spread out behind it, and a flaming sword in its hands. At its feet, being cast out, is a woman. Eve, battered and terrified. The angelic figure, with its blue eyes and a vengeful expression, isn’t looking at her, however. It looks out, towards the viewer. And this figure, this angel, looks exactly like Jill.

“How…?” She begins, breathlessly.
“It is a message.” Explains the man, proudly. “From God, of course.” He points to the tiny cross around her neck, which she quickly covers up.

She steps backwards, knocking open the door to an adjacent room. The room is as dilapidated as the rest of the house, but there is something different about it. It is crowded with paintings, stacked up on either side of the door, all portraying Natalia Marsh as Eve: speaking with the serpent, committing the first sin, hiding from God…

A faint noise alerts Jill to the fact that she’s not alone. She turns, and in the far corner, sees a woman. She is curled up, naked, cowering, and tied to an old radiator by a rope around her ankle. The girl looks up at her: she is Natalia Marsh.

Jill takes out her weapon and points it at the man. Miller does the same. “Put your hands up and get down on your knees!” Says Jill.
The man looks at her, confused. He starts to protest, but she doesn’t let him.
“KNEES!” She shouts.

As he starts to get down on his knees, she turns to Miller. “Book him. I’ll get the girl.”
He nods, and a second later, she rushes over to Natalia. “Ma’am, we’re federal agents. We’re going to get you out of here.” She takes off her jacket and drapes it around Natalia.

“You’re safe now.”

 

 

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION FIELD REPORT.
SPECIAL AGENT CARTER, GILLIAN K.
CASE No. 5331876.
Albany, New York.
August 19, 2035.

 

EXECUTIVE SUMMARY: Victim is Marsh, Natalia R., 23. Suspect is Logan, Benjamin T., 42. Suspect faces 12 counts of assault and battery, 3 counts of rape, 1 count of unlawful confinement and 1 count of kidnapping. Court date is set to be September 21^st, 2035.

[…]

ADDENDUM: Regarding the so-called “supernatural prediction” found in Exhibit C (suspect’s artwork): Medical examiners, in attempting to determine whether or not the suspect is mentally fit for trial, have determined that he possesses an eidetic – or “photographic” – memory. In addition, follow-up investigations conducted by the Essex County Sheriff’s Office and the New York State Police have revealed multiple witnesses who claim to have seen the suspect in town between the hours of 12:00 PM and 4:00 PM on the 15^th of August.

With this in mind, it is my belief that the suspect caught sight of Special Agent Miller and I as we walked through the town on the 15^th, and for whatever reason, clung to that image of me, which he then reproduced in his paintings. There is, therefore, nothing “supernatural” about this case at all, with the suspect’s actions being motivated by his severe and untreated schizophrenia, rather than any kind of Divine Intervention, as he has claimed.

Regarding statements made to police by material witness Thompson, Dean D., 19: Despite the witness’s anonymous tip leading directly to the reopening and subsequent closing of the case, due in large part to a detailed description of the victim provided by the witness, both suspect and victim deny any such escape attempt having occurred at any point in the week prior to our arrival. The witness, however, maintains that his given statements are all true.

I do not, at time of writing, have any explanation for this occurrence.

An Excerpt: “FEDERAL”

Wow! First real post! It only took me forever!

This, as the title implies, is a brief excerpt from a short story I’ve written, entitled “FEDERAL.” Specifically, this was once the beginning, but I cut it out and started the story from what was originally the approximate halfway point instead. I might post the full, revised story here eventually. We’ll see.

I quite like the protagonist, Jill Carter, and have thought about her character a lot. Hopefully, maybe one day, I’ll flesh her out completely. Maybe even in a novel…

Also, I know the tense shifts a bit. I have trouble sticking with exclusively Past Tense or Present Tense. Not sure why.

—————

By the time her husband wakes up at 7:00 AM, Jill Carter has already run half a mile and come back again. Then she had a shower, got changed, made breakfast for two and even started a fresh pot of coffee. Like clockwork, almost every single day, she was pouring herself a cup just as he was dragging himself out of bed. Of course, Jill was very much a morning person. She enjoyed waking up with the dawn and had been doing so for many years. Her husband, meanwhile, would very much have liked to have slept in to 10:00 AM or later. He despised getting up early, it was one of the main reasons he’d strived to be successfully self-employed, but he got up anyway. Given the long and often irregular hours Jill worked, the early mornings were one of the few guaranteed opportunities they had to spend time together.

He shuffles out of the bedroom, bleary-eyed and groggy, and into the brightly lit, open-plan living room of their quintessentially upper-middle-class condo. Its wide, clear windows held a nice view of the city, though they had both come to take it for granted. Jill puts the coffee pot down and sits at one end of the small, circular table by the window, which was where they ate most of their meals. She reads the news on her phone as she drinks. He passes her by without a word and heads straight into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
A few minutes later, Roger Carter emerges, freshly showered and mostly awake, but still scruffy and shaking off the last of the morning’s hazy feelings. He sits down across from her, pours himself some coffee and starts eating the simple breakfast she’d prepared: little more than cereal and toast, because between the two of them, he did almost all of the cooking.

“Morning, hon.” She says.
“Morning.” He replies, stifling a yawn.
“Sleep well?”
He sighs. “No, not really.”
She looks up from her phone, mostly concerned but also a bit self-righteous. “Again, huh? I’m telling you, it’s because you don’t do any exercise.”
“Yeah, yeah…” He grumbles.
“You’re just going to gain weight if you don’t listen to me.” She says. “And by the way,” she continues, rubbing her chin. “You could really do with a shave.”
“I’m growing a beard.” He says, defiantly.

Roger has a strong, very masculine jawline that, at the moment, is covered by a mess of uneven, scratchy, dark brown hairs. The trend continues along his sideburns and into the hair on his head which, while clean and recently brushed, still seems somehow shabby, much like the loose, white, hoodie sweater and faded blue jeans he is wearing.
His appearance stands out in stark contrast to that of his wife, whose bright, blonde hair is neatly arranged into a bob cut that is almost as orderly as the black suit she wears over her pristine, white shirt, accompanied by her black pants and deeply sensible flats, also black.

“Yeah, sure you are.” She scoffs.
He narrows his eyes at her. “You don’t think I could?”
“Couldn’t and shouldn’t!” She says. “If you grew a beard, I’d shave it off your face while you were sleeping!” She laughs at this, but he doesn’t. It takes a her a second, but she does notice.
“Oh, lighten up.” She says. “I’m just kidding. Besides, statistically speaking, men with coarse beards are more likely to be deemed suspicious by police.”
He rolls his eyes and grumbles “Oh, I don’t need another lecture.”
“I’m just saying, from a purely psychological perspective, it’s a pretty interesting phenomenon. Speaking from personal experience, I know-”
“For Christ’s sake!” He snaps, abruptly. “Could you leave Special Agent Carter at work for once and just be Jill for a while?!”

He frowns deeply into his coffee. She glares at him from across the table. The ensuing silence is long and uncomfortable, and during it, neither of them moves. Eventually, though, Jill stands up.

“I have to go to work.” She mutters, placing her cup – only half empty – down on the table.
“Jill…” He sighs. “Look, I just meant-”
“Who’s ‘Jill?’” She snaps. “I’m ‘Special Agent Carter,’ remember?”
“Hon, please,” he says, trying hard to keep his tone level. “I’m trying-”
“But if I see anyone with that name, I’ll be sure to let them know you want to see them.” She snatches up her purse as she heads for the door.
“Hey, come on-” He starts.
“God forbid I bring any habits home with me. Some of us actually have to leave the house to go to work! You know, because we have real jobs!”
“Jill!”
She slams the door shut behind her.

Hello, World!

Hello, I’m Shane P.
Welcome to my blog!

Watch in amazement as I slowly figure out how the heck this whole “blogging” thing is supposed to work, or else abandon that entirely and just do what feels right!

My plan for this site is, at the moment, just to post some instances of my Creative Writing projects and/or companion pieces for said projects and/or maybe some opinions or something, I’m really not sure. Nobody ever said this plan of mine was very well-defined.

Anyway, in the off-chance that…
A). I actually post some of my work here,
B). Someone other than myself ever sees this site,
and C). They actually leave a comment,
… I feel like I’m probably going to want to moderate the comments section.

So, please, since we’re all human beings, don’t be mean. Not to me, each other, or even yourselves. And while criticism of my work is fine and all, please be sure it is constructive criticism, meaning it contains suggestions for improvements and if fairly specific.

Also, maybe this should go without saying, but don’t plagiarize, okay? As with all original works, my indie/amateurish short stories (and etc) are all protected by the Copyright Act of Canada. So, yeah.

Thanks for reading and visiting!