I approached this novel as I would any other piece of fiction dealing with mythology: intrigue and fascination. And I wasn't let down. The best way to describe my feelings as I approached its final pages is that I was appalled; appalled at the reveals about Karna, appalled at the misconceptions that thrive on through … Continue reading The Good in the Bad
Robert Galbraith (for all intents and purposes) has done it again! I was moderately intrigued by The Cuckoo's Calling, but with The Silkworm, however, I was positively enthused. Not quite the Christie; their styles are drastically different, but you cannot deny the fact that The Silkworm is a far better successor to the Cormoran Strike … Continue reading Bombyx Brutal
Olla! So I've got some great news! Grammar Ghoul Press just came out with their Summer/Fall 2015 issue of The Ghouls' Review. It looks pretty awesome! And two of my pieces are in it! (Look for 'Kintsugi' and 'The Silent Candles'). Shout out to the people over at GGP. May they continue to shower us … Continue reading Being Published, Part Two
It's been a long time since I've read a novel that wasn't a part of a neverending series. I knew what was coming, and yet, it made for a warm and comfy read. Great for chilly weather, coffee breaks and bedtime reads.
Itchy stubble, blank canvases, they set off across the Atlantic. 'Til the big Devil found them. Wounded. Yet their sails now spoke of blood and chivalry.
My nose found it before my tongue. I shut my eyes and drank deeply, following it with a bite of rusk. I rolled over and landed with a thud. The morning I craved for existed countries away. In scorching hot steel tumblers.
Stu stormed into the testing facility to assess the damage. This was the fifth lab to be targeted by the Liberator. 'GET THE AUTHORITIES!' The infamous Baha Men single blared over the PA system. The Liberator was also notorious for his humour.
'We'll be on the beach again soon,' she croaked, through the tubes. I nodded, hardly looking up from The Gruffalo. So I waited. At the beach. Everyday. For fifty years. And realized not long ago, that I was the one running late.
'Morning,' I mumbled, and sat down at the counter. He set a plate of pancakes under my nose. He never asked. I never said. I pulled the bathrobe around me a little tighter. He ignored the two wine glasses in the sink.
The crash had left my face unrecognisable. Every morning, they'd find me balled up in the bathtub, weeping incessantly. I could never remember why. Eventually I'd find the mirror. They'd patched me up with skin grafts; a grotesque mutation.