Greetings! I write fantasy fiction of many shades (urban fantasy, high fantasy, historical fantasy) but have been known to dabble in other spec fic genres (science fiction, horror) and dip my toe in cross-genre work. The current novel-project is a classic high fantasy chosen one tale, though the “chosen one” turns out to be a rather elaborate con for the sake of political shenanigans. Unfortunately, the only “one” they could find to fit the bill is a 40-year-old quartermaster with more of a talent for numbers and the logistics of supply lines than swinging swords and killing mortal gods. I am also querying my previous novel, Dead God’s Bones, a high fantasy buddy cop story with blood-magic, memory-trading dragons, and serial killers. My short fiction tends to fluctuate, but lately, there’s been a lot of dead people—ghosts, zombies, vampires, and the like. I have a soft spot for dragons and immortals of any kind.

Current New Thing(s):

Our ancestors dared call Them gods. Worshiped at Their feet. Built shrines of piled stone and, later, towers in Their honor. Waged war and dedicated every drop of blood spilled on the snow to Their names.

Parasites. Every last one, parasites in the skins of winged giants, cloaked in shadow and the soft scent of ash. Parasites that sucked and fed and drew away the joy, the anger, the fear, even the deepest of despair, leaving only emptiness and hope in Their wake.

It’s a strange thing, hope. The barest sliver of it, and you’ll suffer any indignity, any grief, any pain, so long as there’s the shadow of a chance that, perhaps, it might get better.

It doesn’t make a difference that it never does…

— “Parasites
Frozen Wavelets, Issue 6 (Spring 2021)

 

According to her employers, Threnody Winters carried hope in her hands.

To her, it just looked like a sample canister. And after four interstellar jumps, six local space transfers, countless station layovers, and lines—oh, so many lines—she was starting to wish she could put the damn thing down.

She heaved her side-satchel onto the duraplastic table. The customs officer—a middle-aged person with short-cropped hair, red-brown skin, and station coveralls—popped the magnetic seals on the bag and started passing their hand-scanner through Threnody’s luggage.

The bag had started out crammed, the seals strained to bursting. A change of clothes, toiletries, an insta-shower box complete with shampoo compatible with most station hygiene units, data chips with preloaded books and an immersive city builder simulator (Watch Your Utopia Grow in Real-Time!), petty cash chits in every mainstream denomination for the vending bots, an expanding pocket tent, and lightweight bedding—everything one might need for a layover in a station port.

Now? Now she could probably leave it in a shuttle kiosk station and wouldn’t miss it. At least she didn’t have the tent anymore; that had been confiscated by the hostel on Ophi Station. She’d figured she’d lose it, but not before the halfway point in her journey.

So close. So close to delivering her burden. So close to completing this job. One last local space tug and then…

— “Oresa
Beyond the Stars: Infinite Expanse (August 2020)

Current Projects: 

The as of yet unnamed new book has slowed a bit while I construct more of the conlang for it. It’s tricky to write a polyglot character when you, the writer, are fluent in only one. Research! Research, research, research!

Dead God’s Bones, the high fantasy buddy-cop drama of the (still) monstrous word count, has made its first foray into the query trenches! Woo! Short (but not Twitter-short) pitch: Investigator Kossa must catch a serial killer and stop a magic-granting drug, all while keeping his secrets hidden. If he fails, he faces the treason charge he outran fifteen years ago, paid back with interest. And at this point, there’s quite a bit of interest.

Retired from querying: In Blood, a very noir-ish urban fantasy set in Chicago with blood-drinking, marrow-eating immortal draugr, shapeshifting werewolf-esque people, secret societies, humans with sucky superpowers, assassination plots, and political backstabbery. Not quite sure what I’m going to do with this one ultimately, but right now it’s sipping margaritas on a beach, working on its tan.

Conventions Scheduled: 

  • WindyCon 2021