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Rusty: Short Story
Rusty pushed past the last branch and stood in my personal space. His heavy breath masked the tranquillity, and it slightly annoyed me. This was the first time he’d come to my secret place, and I couldn’t help but worry he might spoil its magic.
“Oh man, thanks again for the invite,” Rusty said.
“That’s okay, but that’s the third time you’ve said that. Can’t you just enjoy the quiet?”
“But I love caving. I haven’t done it in ages, man. It’s been ages since I’ve actually been out anywhere.”
“You’ve never gone caving, Rusty. You’re not even appropriately dressed.”
“Why, what’s wrong with my drip?” he said, gesturing at his outfit.
“Drip? Rusty, you’re wearing five hundred dollar designer sneakers and a Hawaiian shirt.”
“What are you talking about, man? I look dope.”
Midnight Still Happens
Week four behind a coffee machine, and somewhere between the noise of a toddler disco and the quiet of midnight, a sci-fi trilogy is being written. New job, same midnight sessions — exhausting days don't stop the writing, they just change its shape.
Burn the Sky: Book 2 Redemption is have its final chapters edited, the next trilogy is taking shape, and the writing desk is seeing more late nights than it probably should. This one is about editing the past while building the future, the trap of chasing perfection, and why the version you almost published is the one nobody reads.
Writing Yourself into Fictional Characters
I had been writing parts of myself into the characters without fully meaning to. It wasn’t something I planned from the outset, but over time it became impossible to ignore. I remember one moment clearly—writing a quiet scene where Ash sat alone, wrestling with fear and doubt—and realising, almost with a jolt, that I wasn’t just writing him. I was writing me.