Category: My Fiction

Samples of some of my personal writing from over the years: the good, the bad, and the I-just-love-it-even-though-I-can’t-use-it.

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The Rabbit (Deleted Scene)

I started writing this epic high fantasy series back in 2008. And today, that thing is still in the metaphorical drawer. It's not that the story isn't any good, but I've been having too much fun writing thrillers. I will turn may attention back to it one day, but not anytime soon.

However, when editing the thing back in the day, I removed a scene (the one that follows) because it didn't add value to the story. It doesn't matter how well written a scene is, if it doesn't add value, it has to go. The scene itself can not be recycled (rewritten into another story). The elements of the scene and the characters associated are so intertwined with the events that happen in the first book in my high fantasy series. While the backstory behind the scene has found its way into another book, this chapter will never see the light of day again, except on this blog. It's a beloved scene, one that makes me cry every time I read it. Perhaps others who read it will understand why I love the scene so much.

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Misinformed Fathers and Aftershocks…

She sat at the dining room table staring at the laptop. The nerves were shot and she wasn't getting much sleep, but one thing was helping with her mental sanity — her writing. Ironically, the anxiety brought on by the quaky earth fueled the tension of her story.

Her cell phone chimed. It was a message from her father. "Don't worry about clean up at work. It's in the street." Her jaw dropped. Without pause, she flicked over to her web browser and brought up the University of Canterbury website, searching for signs of what her father was talking about. Her heart raced out of control with worry for her colleagues. While she had been working from home when the quake hit, she had been in email communication with those in the lab. She was afraid that one of them had died and she didn't know.

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A New Excuse for Messy Bedrooms — Remembering February 22, 2011

"Clean your room. You know my rule."

The children bowed their heads, forlorn as a result of their mother's scowl. "Yes, mum. There must always be a clear path from the door to the bed."

It wasn't much to ask for as far as the mother was concerned. It really was just for a matter of safety. But the children went about their chores, knowing the consequences if they didn't. Their mother's wrath was not something anyone wanted to wage war with—and she knew it. Smiling to herself, she left her children to tidy the messes that they called bedrooms.

Sunday afternoon bounded along and it was time for inspection. The son had everything in its place: books on the shelves, desk clear, laundry in the hamper, and the bed made. He had even vacuumed. The daughter… Well… The mess had been carefully stowed away in the cupboards and stacked in unstable piles. The laundry was pushed under the bed and the covers were pulled back to give the false impression of a made bed. The mother shook her head in dismay.

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The lights go out, but it’s still the season of cheer

Winter was upon them and the chill leaked through the walls and windows. The young girl shivered, wrapping herself in the blankets that her mother had laid across her shoulders. The candlelight flickered across the table. She picked up the paintbrush, yellow on its tip. As carefully as she could, she painted the stuffed solider doll.

Every night that week, she had decorated another ornament for the tree that sat in the corner. Every night, it was only a candle that provided the light to see by. Every night, she beamed with pride with another creation hung.

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