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Here, the stories lean dark — but the fire never really goes out. We walk the edge of old forests and ruined halls with muddy boots, where the air tastes of rain on stone, ritual herbs, and candle smoke.

I write character-driven dark fantasy — worlds where magic hums low in the bones, leaves scars, and changes the people who carry it. Where history weighs heavy, and survival often comes at a cost.

I build worlds from fragments — burnt letters, old crests, whispered threats in the dark. Sometimes those worlds become short stories for my original characters I cosplay, the stories of my D&D characters told in prose.

You’ll find quiet rebellions and desperate bargains, blades drawn in silence, and moments of warmth lit against the cold.

Excerpt from: Whispers From the Treehouse

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Chapter One: The Rabbit in the Wheat

Jamison sat on the porch of his grandparents’ farmhouse, the wood warm beneath his feet from the rising sun. The rocking chair creaked softly as he leaned back, a chipped enamel mug of cocoa cradled in his hands. Steam rose from the mug, warming his hands as he cradled it. The morning air was thick with the scent of dew and wheat, and the quiet hum of cicadas filled the silence like a forgotten lullaby. On the farm, the constant hum or ringing of cell phones simply didn’t exist. No signal out in the country, bouncing off cell towers. No loud honking of horns, nobody rushing to get to work, or yelling at one another to get out of the way.

Just a quiet—silence and peace. Nothing but the sound of cicadas. He had been here for three weeks now. Three weeks of stillness. Three weeks of silence. Sometimes he felt lonely, isolated. Three weeks of early mornings and long, slow afternoons. Evenings spent at the pond fishing with his grandfather. He actually enjoyed spending time with his grandfather and listening to all of his crazy stories. Some stories were so outrageous, he swore his grandfather made them up. The farm moved at its own rhythm—unhurried, unbothered. Jamison didn’t mind the quiet most of the time. Not really. But there was something inside him that itched—it was like a question he hadn’t figured out how to ask yet. He felt suspended between two worlds: he was too old to be considered a child, yet he was too young to be considered anything else. The farm was peaceful, but it still wasn’t his home. Well, it didn’t feel like it anyway. His grandparents were kind folks, but distant in their own way—they were wrapped up in their routines and memories that didn’t quite include him. They weren’t used to having kids around anymore. Not after they had raised his dad and he had moved to the big city.

Jamison helped with the daily chores, feeding the chickens, stacking wood, and wandering throughout the fields and surrounding forest. But mostly, he just sat in the rocking chair on the porch thinking. And watched everything around him. And he waited. For what, he didn’t quite know.

Jamison set the mug down on the small table and reached into the canvas bag he kept in his backpack. The backpack had become a part of him. An extension of who he was. The chair creaked softly as he shifted. He pulled out what looked like a pen—a fat pen. It was larger than a regular writing pen, sleeker, and it had much more purpose than an ordinary pen. It was special. It held his insulin. It was a lifeline.

He took out his meter and the small lancing device he and his mom had nicknamed Lance the Lancet when he was ten years old—the same year he was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, during the COVID-19 pandemic. Those were scary times. It seemed like it was the longest week of his life. Each day, his mom had called the doctor's office, trying to get him seen. They were only taking patients at the time who had COVID-19. At least that was what the nurse had kept telling his mom.