No, I’m not a cat (I promise).

Image by freeillustrated from Pixabay

Hello, fellow Medium writers! Excuse the mess. No matter when this is posted, I will probably still be gaining my legs when it comes to this platform. I hope you enjoy your time here in my little corner of Medium, where you can expect fiction of all kinds from all walks of genre and even length (if I get bold and crafty).

What can you expect from me over here? I write a lot of weird things. Whether it’s whimsical science fiction or turbulent dystopias or even quirky rom-coms — I dabble in…


Image by Tommy Takacs from Pixabay

With every step Kailin took, she could feel the crush of snow beneath her boots. A fog of air puffed out of her mouth with each breath she took. Even the fur cloak she wore did little to keep the chill from trying to creep into her bones. But the sun still filtered through the gaps in the tree branches, laden heavy with the last snowfall.

It had been many moons since Kailin had even seen sprouts of life dot the forest floor. The debris of fallen branches from past storms made walking boldly through the forest the kind…


Image by Layers from Pixabay

The first splash of color was always the hardest. Roy had been a hobbyist painter for what had become his longest love affair — twenty years and counting — but every time he faced a new blank canvas, there was a shyness to the way he would first begin to dribble paint across the white face before him. It was new, it was exciting, but there was also the undercurrent of worry: would this in fact be the painting that broke him?

No matter how he collected art books of the greats — Picasso, Rembrandt, Monet, and other names that…


Image by Sarah Tipton from Pixabay

The ferry ride to Catalina Island was rocky as I kept the urn close to my chest. The heavy metal containing my mother’s ashes was a pretty thing with swirls of blue and silver and white, mimicking the tides of the ocean and the seagulls that flew above. It was the last gift I had been able to give her; her mind had fled from her so fast over the past few years that any presents had only delighted her in the moment, more because of the novelty than the actual items themselves. …

Speculative Fiction

Image by Milada Vigerova from Pixabay

It was too easy to catch the boy in the corner of my eye. He was a regular; I could see that in the way he laughed at his bar mates’ jokes and easily joined in conversations that an outsider would have known were already claimed territory. Another night, perhaps I would have stepped into the banter, offered an inviting smile to the boy in question, and bought him another drink.

That’s what an ordinary girl might have done. Perhaps. But I wasn’t ordinary, even by — well, the typical standards. I preferred to watch and wait, biding…


Image by Scott Webb from Pixabay

The photograph tells a story all on its own. Two kids — they really were, he, at nineteen and she at eighteen— barely had time for the camera shot as they looked into each other’s eyes, their faces aglow with something much sweeter than joy. His hand was clasped in hers as if he wouldn’t even think of letting it go one day.

In the scrapbook Lila’s daughter Melissa had made her for an anniversary years ago, the wedding picture has its own page devoted to it — subtly accented by a gold dust background and the words “Love, Be…


Image by Yuri_B from Pixabay

Once upon a time — you know these words, as if they were vital to your life’s blood, as if they were a spell that would free you from a curse. But words are only words, or so we are taught. We don’t think on the power of our words, especially the old ones that can cut as if they are sharp knives. We think our words fall flat to the ground as soon as we utter them, but instead they fly on stealthy wings, as straight as arrows to their marks. And, oh yes, they have their marks.


Image by Peter H from Pixabay

Brigida Brandt was the icon to talk about in the little seaside town known as Windling Cove. Her would-be mansion sat looking over the cliffs cascading down to foamy blue waters, and many a teenager had been dared to jump from such a height to resurface in the sea below. It was said Brigida often watched the adolescent charades from her veranda and wore a faint smile on her thin lips.

When the Brandt patriarch, Friedrich, passed away, his will left it up to Brigida to do what she wanted with the place. As a childless older woman, many options…


Image by Arno Mitterbacher from Pixabay

Marianne Lefleur had not expected to become a widow at the age of thirty-five. Though her husband had not been world-famous in his work as a sommelier, he had been expected to rise through the ranks after gaining a few clients in the burgeoning wine business in the United States. He had even become a consultant to a few celebrities and their organizations’ events, thanks to connections he had made with other sommeliers after he and Marianne had traded France for California. …


Image by Mark Frost from Pixabay

To say Anne-Marie Buchamp was an overachiever was an understatement. Frankly, it was her father’s fault for leaving such huge shoes to fill with his solo quests by ocean or by foot in the desert. In the realm of archaeology, he was a legend — but Anne-Marie had learned that often that moniker came with a price: usually you had to be dead to gain it. As a proud Buchamp, however, she had excelled in her studies at the Academia of Florence while also achieving high marks in extracurriculars like fencing and martial arts. …

Jillian Spiridon

just another writer with too many cats

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