Category Archives: Stories

What I love, and what I do best

Mini-Interview: Nameless

Author Olga Godim interviewed my character in ‘Breath Between Seconds’ for our upcoming release of Hero Lost: Mysteries of Death and Life, a fantasy anthology about lost heros!

Hero Lost: Mysteries of Death and Life

bubble_knightinterview3Our IWSG anthology, Hero Lost: Mysteries of Death and Life, includes 12 tales of heroes lost or fallen, struggling or bewildered, living in fantasy worlds or in our own. Some of them agreed to have a mini-interview on this blog.

My next guest is a nameless young woman, a lieutenant from Lesleigh Nahay’s story Breath Between Seconds.

Tell me about yourself—name, profession, home, family, the usual.

Why? Who would care about me?

How did you end up in this crazy adventure your story talks about?

Adventure? There is a war. Death and blood and battle for the last eight and a half years. It is my honor to defend my House in its endeavors to make us better and stronger. My House wishes to increase our holdings for the benefit of its people. The area in question lays vacant. Its inhabitants are gone. Dead. Why leave its…

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Uncover Me

You know what, if there was ever a more appropriate time for a book full of heroes, it is NOW. Because, despite the darkness of our newsfeed, the strongest stories that have come out about our new reality is the fact that everyday people are doing what they can to keep things right. They are standing up for all those currently being attacked, women and Mexicans yesterday, Muslims today, undoubtedly someone new tomorrow. And for that, they are heroes.

So, introducing, the cover for Hero Lost!


My co-authors and I are currently getting our marketing together for our May 2nd release (Woohoo!), and part of that is interviewing each other for future posts, as most of us are bloggers. I finally went through the email responses I’ve received over the last week, and these people- my people- are amazing, insightful, and brilliant. So far, our stories are of many different facets within What is Fantasy, with witches, dragons, quests, strange beings, regrets, Death, and technofantasy.

Stay tuned for the upcoming blog series Writers of Lost Heroes, and meet my fellow authors.

Breath Between Seconds


My short story, Breath Between Seconds, was accepted into a fantasy anthology via IWSG and Dancing Lemur Press!

I very almost didn’t participate. The theme is Lost Heroes. The picture above almost kinda conveys my take on it. When people think of fantasy, they think of Tolkien-esque, medieval style battles. Glory and victory and sacrifice and all that (loud, manly grunt followed by chest thumping. Grrrr).

But what of those who did the sacrifice part. Are they thinking about glory and victory? How do they welcome their death? In the end, do they agree with their decision?

And seriously, people, not all soldiers are male. Shame on you.

The other authors and I are contriving a strategic plot to promote the book. Stay tuned for some meet and greets, a release date, and a cover reveal!

Industrial Cap StopWatch

industry cap stopwatch

I had to stop working on my thesis and watch 60 Minutes. Graduation be damned, there was no choice to make. How could I miss a show regarding the new Industrial Revolution, where companies are scaling back on technology and using what would have been available in the early 1900’s? So very Steampunky, which is a large part of my doctoral thesis: Alternate Presents Made Possible With a Shift Of Common Advancements Starting in the Victorian Era. Hell, I’m conducting important research! Maybe I’ll even Steampunkify my graduation cap.

Home Bike Eye

home bike eye


I don’t know what it means, this scrap of paper I’d found taped to the door when I came home from school this afternoon. No one else was home. The thin strip looks like it had been pulled out of the trash as an after-thought. It’s got some tell-tale crumpling that had to have happened before the three cryptic images had been drawn on it.

It had been folded in half. On the outside is two partial words ‘Ingr-‘ and ‘Spa-‘. My dad’s handwriting, but it could be code, or another language. What if it’s a code, like he’s a sleeper spy, and he threw it out, and someone else found it, and they knew what it meant, and they drew a response? ’cause on the inside, what was covered by it being folded, are three simple drawings: a house, a person on a bike, and an eye.

I’ve spent the last hour trying to decipher it, trying to figure out if it was meant for my parents, my sister, or me. And whether it’s friendly, or a threat. What do these images mean?

On TV, crap like this is never what it seems. If everyone could understand it, we’d have no secrets, and secrets are important. Spies would be out of jobs without secrets. So, is the house a house, or a home? Dwelling? Abode? Mi casa su casa? Is the guy on a bike a biker, a cyclist? Marathon, or triathlon or whatever person? Born to ride? Eye. I. Aye (pirate code speech). Maybe ‘Eye of the needle/storm/beholder’? I sew want to ride to Mexico?

If my parents hadn’t grounded me- it was totally Jacob’s fault, by the way- I’d be able to Google all possible possibilities, including the partial words. And if my parents trusted me to not try to use the internet while I’m grounded (which, ok, honestly, they can’t. I’ll get on.) Anyway, since they don’t trust me, they got this stupid device that locks me out or tracks me when I’m on. Completely unfair. But if they hadn’t not trusted me and didn’t have that stupid device (which I’m going to find one day), then I’d have been able to Google before anyone got home and I’d solve this potential catastrophe long ago before they get home.

Maybe I should call the police. What if it’s: ‘A biker is watching your house’. Like, scary, big, tattooed dude from that show I’m not supposed to watch, who’s pissed off by something we didn’t know we’re not supposed to do. But then, why wouldn’t they have drawn a scary dude on a Harley? Maybe they’re crappy artists.

Maybe it’s a tornado warning and someone thinks we’re going to Wicked Witch ourselves through ‘The Eye of the Storm’ and send ourselves to Oz…….and the only reason I know about that bit is because mom got all sentimental and forced us through a weekend of her childhood movies (don’t tell her they were actually ok).

What if the sender is mom!

No, she likes to write things out on stickies and tape it to my door. And she writes in cursive even though I’ve told her that they don’t teach us that in school anymore so I can’t read it. Everything’s digital now-a-days.

Maybe it’s from mom! Maybe she finally accepted the handwriting communication barrier.

Nah. She doesn’t draw.

Maybe someone’s riding their bike here later? ‘I’m biking to your house’, and they forgot to add an image for their identity, or time. Or they assumed whoever it was intended for would just somehow know. Maybe it’s for my sister. Her girly friends do stupid stuff like this.

Maybe it’s opposite: ‘I want you to bike over to my house’.

Who leaves messages like this, anyway! It’s why we have phones- to text each other!

The back door opens and I jump. It’s my dad. I slap my hand over the scrap of paper.

He’s wiping his hands on his garage towel, and taking careful note of me. I hate it when he does this. He’s got like Superman senses. Or Spidey. Both, maybe. I smile, but I know I look guilty. I feel guilty, though I didn’t do anything this time. I could be saving their lives, for all he knows.

“What have you been doing? Didn’t you get my note? I’ve been waiting in the garage for an hour, and you’re just sitting here.”

“What?” I say. “What note?”

“You didn’t see it? I left a piece of paper on the door.”

“Wait, this paper?” I unslap my hands and pull the paper up so that it rests between our eyesight. If we were Superman and son, we could totally fry this thing. It would be so epic. Maybe I’m supposed to say raw now. It would be so raw.

My dad brightens, smiling. “You did get it! Why didn’t you come to the garage?”

I turn my wrist so that I can stare at the images again. “Why would I go to the garage? Where does it say garage?”

“I thought it’d be obvious: I’ll fix your bike when you get home.”

“That’s not what it says!” I yell. “It’s not even in that order.”

“Fine. ‘When you get home, bring your bike to me so I can look at it’.”

“That is absolutely not what this says! Why couldn’t you just write it on a sticky like mom?”

“’cause I thought you’d figure it out. Maybe your brain truly is rotting under the weight of technology.”

“It is not. It is far more advanced than kids from your generation when you were all my age. We no longer speak in hieroglyphs or tedious writing.”

“Haha, smartypants. You’re grounded. I can’t text you. I thought this was funny. No humor in you. Do you want your bike fixed or not?”

“No one says smartypants’ anymore either, dad.” I say, getting up from the chair and rolling my eyes. I cannot let give him any hint of humor. Or disappointment. I so thought he was a sleeper spy. Damn.

“Sorry. Should I draw you an emoji? Give me my note back.”

I back out of his reach. “No! It’s my note, isn’t it? Are we fixing my bike or what?”

Dad grabs a handful of my hair and gives my head a small shake. “Yea, come on. I’ll decide whether this means no more messages, or much more messages.”

I groan, but grin when I’m sure he doesn’t notice. “So what’s Ingr Spa?”


I hold up the note so he can see.

“Oh, well, I’d have to leave you another note to explain that.”