Creativity Brewing

I can’t breathe. I buried my face into my mother’s shoulder. Her warmth gave me comfort, but the sounds outside the doors of my church chilled my blood. I could hear the chanting of the angry mob. I could smell the gasoline being thrown onto the building. A place of refuge against the horrors of hatred now became the crematory of the innocent. Smoke blackened the night sky, and the fires devoured all that was holy. My eyes watered. My flesh burned. I watched the figures of white cloaks lurk beyond the window, drinking in the sight of my brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers each succumbing to a death of hungry flames and unbridled hatred. Is this a dream? I can’t breathe. I grasped at the chains digging into my skin. My stomach lurched in rhythm to the mighty waves outside the ship. Death wafted all around me as my brothers lay in their own waste, one upon the other like a heap of rubbage. The strong hands of our captors hauled out the dead at my feet, mumbling under their breath a

The sounds of the fracas were muffled against the panic swelling in her mind. The swarming mob surrounding her blurred into one motion as the captain punched in the code to the garbage chute. The space crew cornered her, pressing her into the small room, emptied clean since the last vacuum-drop. Despite the fact every noise on the space ship sounded like she was floating out there in the void, she could hear the jabs of their insults and the searing pain of their ridicule. She was the pariah of the ship. Somehow, her efforts for the sake of humanity were misconstrued as being crimes against humanity. And as such, her punishment was anything but lenient. The outrage snaked throughout the entire spacecraft, especially the Medical Bay. The chute doors closed in front of her, officially silencing the fray of the outcry that continued to rise opposite the glass panes. She placed a hand against the window, bracing herself as the sounds of a piercing alert reverberated against the b

I walked through the halls of the hundred-year-old house, a living photograph of an era long since passed. I breathed in the dusty air, smelling the aroma of a century of life. Gran had lived in this house for all of her life, being born in a bedroom upstairs. I stepped into that very same room, coated in a film of neglect and dust. For the past several years, only the bottom level was inhabited.  Now, all life had been erased from its frames. I closed the door to a forgotten time and continued inspecting the house. The moving truck revved its engine and pulled out of the drive. I stared through the reading nook’s window tinted by the scum of time. Boxes filled the lawn, awaiting a clean house before finding their new home. I’d thought it would be an easy task, taking over the house. Gran instructed in her will that I take care of the estate: a gift for my future. But it now seemed like a burden, even with the half a million dollars appended to the stipulation of caring f

Many people are curious how I became an indie author. Some ask because they want to join in on the fun; others are simply curious why I chose to self-publish rather than go the traditional route. Before I really begin, let me define what it means to be an indie author. There are two categories that people generally fall into. An indie author is someone 1. who publishes through an independent publisher (small publishing house as opposed to mainstream houses like Penguin or MacMillan), and 2. who self-publishes through services like Amazon KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) or Ingram Spark. I fall into the second category where I have self-published through KDP. It is a very easy process and anyone can do it! (Caveat: due to the easy access, there are thousands upon thousands of books. If you think your book is quality level, then in order to stand out from the rest I recommend spending hours and hours on your cover if you can’t afford to pay someone. Obviously proofread and edit you